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From:

whattheydefend

This time his glance is a sideways one, accompanied by half a smile, and not nearly so intense. "Words of wisdom from one who knows, and I will heed you. But, Èowyn--"

He frowns suddenly, standing up and looking at her in earnest, for he can see that she is cold. "Has no one thought to give you a cloak? Forgive our carelessness there!" He unbuckles his own at once, and holds it out to her. "Here; if you will, borrow mine until I can find you one more suitable." His mouth twitches a little, and he adds, "I promise it is clean."

From:

freo

"Oh, no-- I am not cold," she hurries to insist stubbornly, immediately foiled by another visible shiver. She bites her teeth to suppress an oath. Béma take it, her body betrays her at a critical moment; for she's bursting with curiosity to know what Faramir was about to tell her before noting her chills. If only she had one of her warm woolen dresses for home, and not this flimsy, borrowed rail... Faramir offers her his own cloak without question, and she can hardly turn down such a considerate gesture. Nor does she want to, truly.

"Thank you," she murmurs with a hint of a smile at his quip, her cold fingers brushing his as she accepts the cloak and begins to settle it on her shoulders-- though the process is somewhat awkward due to her healing arm and slightly numb fingers.

From:

whattheydefend

He merely raises an eyebrow at her protest about not being cold, which is so immediately put to the lie by the way she shivers. But she accepts the offer, and when she has difficulty he reaches out silently to help fit the cloak in place over her shoulders. Her arm is free of its sling, but still limited in its range of movements.

But settle it does, and while he is reluctant to cease even this small amount of contact, he pulls his hand away once more as he examines her. "It is as well that you are tall," he says, still wearing that half-smile. "Merry, I think, would be completely engulfed."

From:

freo

Èowyn murmurs her thanks anew when Faramir takes up aiding her with the cloak, looking down as a hint of color tints her cheeks at their closeness-- except this causes Faramir's hand to accidentally glance across her jawline just as he pulls it away, and Èowyn battles a befuddling wave of some emotion that crashes over her at the fleeting, unintended touch.

But she breathes a laugh at his assessment, helpless against her amusement. It serves to banish her momentary confusion, though she has to intentionally ignore the scent that clings to the cloak, something distinctly masculine.

"Being taller than a hobbit does not seem like much of a feat, does it?" She arches a brow as if in challenge, but soon goes on more conversationally, a small smile lingering on her lips, "Most Eorlingas are tall, but the descendants of Thengel and Morwen Steelsheen especially so. I remember her distantly, my grandmother-- and tall she was, indeed."

From:

whattheydefend

A touch of fingers, and then another brush of his hand to her face. The color rises in both their cheeks at that, at this further evidence of how near they stand to one another. Which is one reason why he turns the conversation back to something harmless, lest he do or say something more foolish than merely speaking of halflings.

It succeeds, at least, and he chuckles at her reposte. "I know. She was a kinswoman of mine as well, though a more distant one, and there is a portrait of her in the Citadel. I have often admired it."

From:

freo

Of course. Morwen descended from the House of Dol Amroth and was thus kin to Faramir's mother's side of the family-- a detail that did not occur to Èowyn before now. The mention of a portrait, however, draws her more immediate attention over pondering the lines of relation.

"Is there?" She hesitates for a beat, biting her lip. "I would like to see it one day, if possible. My memory of grandmother is that of a child's."

From:

whattheydefend

"I would be most glad to show it to you, once the Warden frees us for such an excursion." With only the barest moment of hesitation, he offers her his arm again, to lead them gradually back towards the House. "About which I intend to speak to him later today, by the by; I have not forgotten your request of two days ago, and we have both recovered enough in strength that I hope he may give us a more favorable answer than he did before."

From:

freo

Èowyn offers no such hesitation as she takes his proffered arm, falling easily into step beside him. Hope surges within her breast at Faramir's revelation and straightens her posture slightly, catching her breath; anything to escape the confinement of the Houses, if only for a while! And to see her request fulfilled! She tries not to get her hopes up too much should the Warden dash them once more with his refusal, but she cannot stave off a slight twinge of anticipation.

"I dearly hope he'll be amenable this time. I feel as if I already know each plant, stone and bench in these gardens here too well!" She was impatient on best of days, and being penned in like a wild horse was grating-- though the care she received in the Houses was exemplary (maybe even too much so) and Faramir's company had much soothed her anxiousness to be elsewhere.

From:

whattheydefend

That light in her eyes almost stops his breath for a moment, and he looks back at the path they walk, though he laughs a little. "I, too. I have been to these Houses before, many times, but never had cause to stay so long myself. I think I could now walk every path blindfolded without ever setting foot on the grass."

Again, that sidelong, jesting smile. "Shall we try it, do you think, to pass the time? Perhaps with some paint on the soles of my boots, the better to judge my success."

From:

freo

She finds her curiosity so easily roused by these little tidbits of information he grants her in passing, and wonders whether it truly is more because she thinks Faramir himself interesting, or because her mind seeks anything to preoccupy itself with? Though she believes the answer to be the first option, she reminds herself she also fancied herself in love with Aragorn not so long ago. Glancing over, Èowyn returns his smile with a smirk of her own.

"Hm! And risk the Warden's -- to say naught of Dame Ioreth's -- displeasure, should you take a tumble and injure yourself anew?" she teases, rather unrepentant, making a small tsking sound as if to chide. "I think not. They might brand me a trouble-making Northerner for encouraging such lark, and then we should neither of us be rid of these Houses anytime soon."

From:

whattheydefend

He welcomes the teasing, even if it is at his expense, and laughs aloud. "Oh, I think they would know where to correctly place the blame. Though you are right that we had better not risk the Warden's ire, lest he forbid us the outing we hope for, or Dame Ioreth's, lest we be at risk of never hearing the end of it." It is not a truly unkind gibe, for Ioreth herself acknowledges her tendency to go on at length.

From:

freo

It is a good look on him, that sort of earnest laugh. Èowyn finds herself smiling just because of the sound of it.

"Indeed. I am doubly disinclined to upset the Goodwife for my part, as I believe Ioreth is coming to inspect my injury at midday." A time which was rapidly sneaking up on them, even as their trail brings them back to the Houses proper with each step. "I should be in poor position to escape her scolding, with her holding my arm hostage."

Perhaps she ought to ask the madame if there was any hope of acquiring a raiment made of sterner stuff than the gown she is wearing now, in preparation of this possible outing of theirs; or even so as not to catch a chill up on the walls where Faramir and her seem to end up so often on their walks.

From:

whattheydefend

"Then by all means let us maintain their good opinion." The Houses have come back into view, and Faramir is both glad and sorry to see them. This has been a most unexpected morning, and will require much thought--and yet he is reluctant to let it end.

But time passes all the same. He refuses to let her return his cloak, instead asking her to keep it until he can find her a better--and he already has an idea along that line. They share their midday meal with Merry, as seems to becoming habitual, for the hobbit too misses his friends and is in need of distraction. Thus they all comfort each other and are comforted themselves, in the guise of good natured company.

Afterwards Faramir excuses himself, for he has work that cannot be delayed even for his own recovery; Hurin of the Keys has charge of the city for the moment, but there are many matters requiring greater attention or approval, and they meet every day. This time, when Hurin leaves, he has an additional charge, and if it causes him no small amount of speculation...well, Faramir trusts he will keep it to himself.

Afterwards he meets with the Warden, who declares that he is healing well but should not take on too many of his burdens yet, to which Faramir smiles ruefully and shrugs, for in truth such responsibility is unavoidable. Who else may bear it, and how can he in honor turn his back on the needs of the city, or of Gondor? They are his, however unexpectedly they have come into his hands, and until the king reclaims them he will do his duty as best he may.

So he works, his quick mind going through figures and cargo movements and evacuation routes, and all the while in the back of his head is the thought of Eowyn's hand on his shoulder, the warmth of her fingers, the color of her eyes.

From:

freo

After such intense morning where so much was said, it does them both good, Èowyn thinks, to spend time with Merry, share a meal and talk of lighter topics. She's loathe to see Faramir go, she realizes, even if she understands his duties cannot be postponed. She watches him go perhaps for a moment too long, judging by the knowing smile on the hobbit's face when she finally turns back. She ignores it, drawing Merry into conversation about the Shire instead before it is time to see Ioreth about her arm.

Later on, she admits she finds herself hoping Faramir might return for another walk, before it is time to retire-- but he does not. Reminding herself he is the Steward now with more important things to attend to than one lonely woman, Èowyn goes to her quarters and spends a few candlemarks reading before turning in; a pastime she has not had the chance to indulge in since before Théoden's illness. Even if the books she finds in her room are rather frivolous poetry, she still enjoys them well enough.

She falls asleep remembering not her own misery or the looming threat of Mordor, but the intensity in Faramir's eyes as he looked into hers and the sound of his laughter. And for the first time since being awoken from the dark sleep of the Black Breath, Èowyn rises from bed the next morning with happy anticipation instead of dull resignation, remembering yesterday with a private smile as she waits for a maid to bring her breakfast and aid her in getting dressed.

From:

whattheydefend

Faramir is not idle in his absence. Neither is he laggard the next morning. He appears at Èowyn's door as the maid is clearing away the remnants of breakfast, knocking quietly despite the door being open. He bows his head courteously to the maid, who bobbles a curtesy back before leaving, and smiles warmly at Èowyn. "Good morrow, my lady. I see I come in good time."

Under his arm is a largeish parcel, well and carefully wrapped in protective cloth. He holds it out to her. "Here. I promised you a better cloak than mine, and thought of this one."

From:

freo

Èowyn isn't expecting a knock at the door once she's been made presentable and the maid is leaving with the breakfast tray. At the sight of Faramir there, her heart skips and then quickens its beats, galloping like a wild horse. She can't help but return his smile once they're alone. "Faramir. Good morrow to you."

But what is he doing in her quarters first thing in the morning? Not she is opposed... and when did she start thinking like that, she wonders? Her smile turns rather bewildered when he offers her the parcel he'd been carrying, Èowyn needing both arms to balance it. It's oddly heavy, but soft as well beneath the protective cloth. A better cloak?

"But... truly, you did not have to go through such trouble," she demurs, oddly embarrassed that she is so touched by his courtesy.

From:

whattheydefend

"It was no trouble," he assures her, still waiting in the open doorway and smiling. "I but remembered where it was kept and asked that it might be brought. Will you not open it?"

From:

freo

Still a little caught up in her own befuddlement over the impromptu gift, Èowyn can only give a small, helpless smile before gingerly starting to unravel the parcel. The plain, protective cloth falls away easily and suddenly, Èowyn is left holding an armful of the softest, midnight blue velvet that unfurls with dramatic flourish, spilling down to the floor from her grasp. She gasps sharply at the sight of it, the silver stars embroidered onto the mantle gleaming as if set there by the Lady Starkindler herself. Èowyn is struck speechless by its loveliness, the soft, luxurious weight of it.

It's altogether a queenly raiment, and she cannot wrap her head around the fact that Faramir is giving it to her.

"This is... lovely, and far too fine a thing. I--" she stammers, much to her chagrin. But surely, this is just a loan. He can't possibly mean to gift something this extravagant to her, a mere guest?

From:

whattheydefend

"Not more fine than the lady who holds it, he says quietly, looking at her and for once allowing his admiration to show, if only for a moment. "And surely the least Minas Tirith owes she who slew the Wraith. Also, it is rather more warm and in better condition than mine." He grins a little at that, to set her at ease.

From:

freo

She cradles the mantle in her arms, holding it to her chest and digging fingers lightly into its soft heft to keep them from trembling at the naked admiration that crosses his face, so quickly Èowyn wonders if perhaps she imagined it. Maybe it was merely a phantom reflection of the regard blossoming in her own chest, slowly but surely.

She breathes the faintest of laughs, barely more than a heavy exhalation, and looks down at the mantle in effort to hide the color on her cheeks. "I shall--" treasure it. "Take good care of it. Thank you."

From:

whattheydefend

Faramir thinks that a blush becomes her very well, though not so well as the cloak shall. "You are most welcome."

There is a moment's silence between them, then he seems to collect himself. "Ah, I come with another gift, which I think will be still more welcome. The Warden has granted us permission to travel up to the Citadel this morning, provided that we are most well-behaved--" Another grin. "--and return before midday, and promise to rest ourselves quietly in the afternoon. We may leave whenever you wish."

From:

freo

That brief moment of quiet awkwardness (on her side at least) is wiped away in an instant when Faramir reveals his second purpose in coming to see her this morning. Lifting her head, Èowyn's expression brightens with excitement and a broad smile illuminates her features -- for a moment, she looks her actual age, unburdened by all the unpleasantness of the past years that have bogged down her proud spirit. She barely hears the conditions the Warden has set down, focusing on the simple joy of their permission to go.

"Yes? Then let us go straight away!" she cries, oh-so keen to be away from the Houses if only for a little while. Quickly, she shrugs the mantle about her shoulders, managing a little better with it now in her eagerness to be on her way than she did yesterday with Faramir's cloak. "How does it look?" she asks once the blue mantle hugs her slender figure, gingerly working to close the clasp at her throat.

From:

whattheydefend

If Faramir had not already been aware of his own wishes, the way she lights up would have made them undeniable. For a moment she is radiant, to a degree that almost stops his heart with wonder. This is what Beren felt, he thinks distantly. This or something kin to it.

It is as well that she misses this reaction, busy as she is with unfolding the cloak and arranging it on her shoulders. He should move to help her, as he did yesterday, but reacts a bit too late. "Beautiful," he manages, his voice lower and more rough than usual. "It looks beautiful."

Almost painfully so. Sunlight teases sparkles from the fabric, and more from her hair, so that her whole figure seems to shine. Carefully he reaches out and takes the clasp, fastening it for her and nor daring to look at her face (or think of what expression he himself is wearing) as he does so.

From:

freo

Èowyn goes slightly dry-mouthed when he steps closer and takes over fastening the clasp, her ribs expanding as she draws in a slow, soundless breath between barely parted lips. She is not completely oblivious to those little signals between a man and a woman, even if not exactly experienced, either-- and lately not very inclined to know more, due to Wormtongue.

But this... this can hardly be compared. She thinks, by the roughening of Faramir's voice, that he is very pleased indeed by her appearance; and that in turn has another bevy of butterflies taking flight somewhere in the pit of her stomach. His reaction does not frighten or repulse her; if anything, it thrills her. Excites her, even-- and that is foreign ground to her, bringing with it confusion, also.

She murmurs another thanks once the clasp is secured, wetting her dry lips briefly with her tongue and managing a smile.

"Oh!" she issues suddenly, remembering something. Moving away, she fetches the cloak Faramir had loaned her yesterday. "You ought to find it in good condition, still," she says as she hands it back to him, a little teasingly to dissipate the sudden intensity between them. If perhaps there's a faintest hint of lavender clinging to the garment now, then... well.

From:

whattheydefend

She moves away before he can do something unforgivably foolish, for which he will be grateful later when his head is more clear. He lets out a small huff of a laugh at her jest as she returns his own cloak to him, and he immediately swings it over his own shoulders.

It smells like her. No; it smells like both of them, and that is a thought he pushes aside with utmost rapidity, or else he really will have no sense left with which to accomplish anything this day. And there is much he hopes to accomplish.

But he cannot resist teasing her a little in return, raising his eyebrow and smiling as he fastens the clasp of his own rather more worn green cloak. "How does it look?"

Edited Date: 2018-09-07 09:06 pm (UTC)