Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

[questionablewit]

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[whattheydefend]

"Do you not trust me not to get lost on the way?" He smiles, though it turns to a bit of a grimace as he stands. He is tired, even drained, and sitting cold and still for some uncertain amount of time has made him stiff as well. "More than once, I mean, since I have already achieved that distinction today."

[freo]

Èowyn frowns a little in concern and sympathy as she watches him wince, even if she says nothing of it this time. Once on her feet, she wastes little time claiming his arm.

"Should I be completely truthful then, my lord?" she asks with an edge of tease in her voice, but hardly gives him a chance to respond one way or another before doing so herself. "I do not. Least, I hope I will lessen the chance for you to get distracted all over again so soon."

Or something to that effect. In reality, it gives them a few moments longer to spend in each other's company.

[whattheydefend]

Faramir has been used to walking with a lady on his arm as a formal thing, even impersonal, but over these past few days walking so with Èowyn has come to feel second nature. To walk next to her without touching her at all would seem unnatural, or at least undesirable. And if she is doing it now because she fears for his health or doubts his destination, still he will not quibble with the results.

"How, when you are the greatest distraction in these halls?" He trips a little and catches himself, realizing that he has had more wine than was wise, if he is unsteady on his feet and not guarding his tongue as well as he should. Perhaps he will rue that in the morning; for now he grins at her, unrepentant and suddenly a little giddy from the nearness of her. He can still smell her hair, or thinks he can. "When I saw you standing at the doorway earlier, I thought you were Elbereth herself, or some star fallen to the earth."

[freo]

Èowyn instinctively puts out her other arm to steady Faramir when he stumbles slightly, though if he truly had tripped, there would have been little she could have done to prevent that especially with a broken arm. It's a momentary distraction from his candid, unguarded question, to which she smiles a bit wryly and tries to ignore the tiny flutter somewhere in the pit of her stomach.

But when he goes on, she cannot help her breath of laughter, amused now. "Huh! Wine makes your thoughts fanciful, or perhaps deceives your eyes."

Short tag because on phone

[whattheydefend]

"I am often fanciful," he admits, giving her a surprisingly sweet smile that makes him look younger than he is. "But usually better at guarding my tongue so that none know of it. The wine has much to answer for, it seems! Thank the Valar you are here to send me to bed and thus protect my dignity."

[freo]

"Worry not," she laughs again, helplessly endeared by this sillier side of him in the wake of such heavy conversation and dreadful revelations. Would that he always had cause to smile so sweetly! "I will guard this terrible secret of yours as if it were my own. Your dignity shall remain unspoilt."

[whattheydefend]

Her laughter is like music, and not merely in relief after such dark topics as they have shared this night, and he smiles all the more to hear it. "Then I will leave my dignity in your capable hands, lady."

He tries to speak more quietly, now that they are passing occupied rooms. Most of the patients are in larger areas, with multiple beds to a room; only those of higher rank have solitary chambers. His is not far off, and he is a little sorry it is no greater distance.

But now he can seek it out and hope to find sleep therein, whereas earlier he could not imagine ever sleeping again, nor even moving. And if he is lucky he will fall to sleep remembering Eowyn's laughter, and not imagining other sounds. Fanciful or not, Faramir thinks she brought light with her when she found him, and though he does not say as much aloud, his eyes and smile say enough.

[freo]

Èowyn merely smiles warmly, too keeping in mind they ought to not disturb the other patients-- nor draw attention to themselves right now. She's grateful for Faramir's elevated mood, even if it is only for a while, and aided by the wine. She does not think the matter over and done with, for how could it be? But if she could help distract him from his devastation even for a moment tonight, she's content. She has her own thoughts to turn over and realizations to make, come the next day.

She feels the same remorse when they reach the door to Faramir's quarters, but she silences it in favor of smiling again, if only a little as she slowly unhands him arm. "Well, my lord, we have arrived. I am afraid from here on you shall have to make do on your own, but I have every faith that you will prevail."

[whattheydefend]

"I am glad to know you trust me to walk the few feet from this doorway to my bed without going astray," he says wryly, looking at her sideways. "And I thank you for your escort, without which I might have ended in a fishpond by mistake."

When she removes her hand he catches it quickly in his, looks serious once more. He has already thanked her--he can never thank her enough--must do something to show her what her company this night meant to him, even if certain of his instincts in this moment are better ignored.

Slowly, he lifts her hand and kisses the back of it, as he did that morning--an Age ago, he feels, given all that has passed since. This time it is less a courtly gesture, less perfunctory, entirely heartfelt and reverent. "Sleep well, Èowyn," he says quietly, his lips brushing the back of her fingers as he lowers her hand. Only then does he release her and step back. "I will look for you in the morning, if I may." A brief, rueful smile flickers across his face. "Or more likely in the afternoon."

[freo]

Èowyn stifles a laugh at his wryness and wit-- fishpond, indeed! Determinedly, she does not imagine such a scene for fear of bursting into helpless peals of laughter. But her amusement flees swiftly when he captures her hand in his, his own expression now solemn. She's distantly aware that her lips have parted to draw in a deep, silent breath as he lifts her hand to his lips; same gesture as this morning, and yet so vastly different. Her skin seems to tingle under the warm press of his mouth that lingers reverently-- dare she say, longingly?

Then he steps back, and she feels momentarily adrift. Nodding her agreement belatedly, distracted and abashed both by the touch, Èowyn clears her throat slightly before smiling gamely. "I shall look forward to it, then," she says mercifully, instead of a teasing quip. Her smile softening, she bids, "Good night, Faramir."

Gathering the mantle closely about herself, she gives him one last look and a small smile before turning, resisting the urge to glance back as she makes her way to her own room. Once there, it takes her a long while to fall asleep again, but she slumbers until morning without disturbance; though her thoughts turn almost immediately to Faramir when she awakens a few hours after dawn. She breaks fast in her room and preoccupies herself with various tasks until afternoon tea-- consciously or no, knowing Faramir is unlikely to be up and about earlier.

She takes her tea in the garden atrium, the blue mantle drawn about her shoulders and a closed book lying on her lap, going ignored in favor of a cup of steaming tea; for once, her hair is not unbound but done up in neat coils at the back of her head. Her maid had been reluctant to put it up, but Èowyn had insisted. If anyone asked, she'd vehemently deny waiting for anyone, but she is most definitely doing just that.

[whattheydefend]

He watches her walk away, the way moonlight from hallway windows catches on the blue mantle, tangles in her hair, until she turns a corner and is gone. Only then does he seek out his room.

Try as he might, the weight of the day hits him again at once, for all that he resolutely thinks of other things. Faramir is an old hand at making himself sleep even when his mind would have it otherwise; it is a trick most soldiers learn. And he does sleep before very long, exhaustion and wine make that certain.

But he does not sleep well, and his dreams are dark. As a result he wakes earlier than he should, with a raging headache and an all-over ache that reminds him too pointedly he is recovering from poison and a weakening fever. He calls for water, food, and for the Warden of the House. All three arrive in haste, and the Warden makes his displeasure most clear. Faramir answers with mroe authority than good grace, though he explains the outline of the situation to the Warden, who is not unfamiliar with grief. But the Warden wins the argument by reminding Faramir that his actions affect others, and that Èowyn and Merry, themselves still healing, were much troubled by his absence; surely the Steward, however careless he might be with his own health, would not wish them to damage themselves with concern for him?

An unexpected shot, but one that hits dead in the back, Faramir thinks ruefully. Èowyn herself may or may not realize where his interest lies, but clearly it is obvious to others. He is too honest a man for subterfuge. After that he accepts his chiding more meekly, and agrees to return to bed after his meal and not rise again until the afternoon.

He sleeps better with the sun on his face, and remembers no dreams, but wakes disheartened all the same. It is mostly the thought of seeing Èowyn that causes him to leave his bed and dress, formally but with more care for warmth, and he walks more slowly than he has for the past several days, looks more pale.

But it is not hard to find someone to inform him where the Lady of Rohan is, and the smiling apprentice offers to bring the two of them hot tea and sustenance in some little time, and if there is a slight knowing edge to her smile, Faramir chooses to ignore it. Not good at subterfuge, indeed. Small wonder his father, whose subtlety of thought was deep and legendary, could not approve of him.

A passing thought that makes him wince, and Faramir forces it aside as he takes the last steps into the atrium. The crown of golden coils is easily spotted, and raises his eyebrows, for it is the first time she has done such during her time here. Formality, armor, or something else? "Good afternoon, my lady," he says quietly, approaching from behind and taking a seat near her, sinking into it with obvious relief. "You see that I still have not fallen into a fishpond. Though I make no promises for the rest of the afternoon."

Light words, lighter than he feels, but that is all the more reason to utter them.

[freo]

So lost in thought Èowyn is, staring out without seeing anything, that she startles the slightest bit at Faramir's greeting, quiet as it is. Internally scolding herself for her inattentiveness, she sets aside her half-empty cup on the small tray set up next to the bench and looks up just in time to see the strain on his face, clearly relieved to be off his feet. She's seen a similar look many a time before in riders coming out of a long campaign, consumed by soreness and an ache of the whole body. Concern pierces at her heart, even as his gently jesting words draw a small smile from her, following his lead for a moment and choosing a lighter response.

"Is there a fishpond to be found in these gardens? Perhaps it needs guards about it, not unlike the White Tree itself, to stave off such incident."

She is glad to see him dressed more warmly today, but at the same time worries about the need of it; he looks pale and worn down, yesterday's news no doubt weighing him down, setting back his recovery. But Èowyn expected no less, for all that seeing it with her own eyes now leaves her ill at ease. The urge to put forth some tangible form of sympathy is strong, and she does not stop herself from reaching out a hand to touch gently at his sleeve in wordless offering; there for him to take, if he wishes.

"How fare you?" she asks with quiet sincerity, though she already guesses at the answer.

[whattheydefend]

He smiles a little at her for the question, his eyes resting on her face with pleasure. "Not in these. As you must have guessed, or else we would have found it by now." They have surely wandered every inch of the gardens these past days, two or three times over. "There are in other areas of the city, however, and a large fountain on the seventh circle. Though I am not sure any still contain any fish."

Food supplies are not low, precisely, but all the city has been on siege rations for some time, and if none are hungry neither is anyone sated. Faramir suspects any ornamental fish will have been turned into dinner, if only by feral cats. Truthfully, he does not begrudge the loss.

"But there are no guards to be spared for water fishponds, so I will live yet in risk." Unless you should guard my steps again, he wants to say, but it crosses the line from jest into truth a little too far for this morning. Perhaps it is merely the strangeness of regrouping after such a painfully intimate interlude last night; perhaps it is how different she looks with her hair bound up. More regal, certainly, and elegant. But Faramir thinks wistfully that he rather prefers it down.

Then Èowyn leans over and touches his sleeve in obvious concern, and some of that awkward feeling of distance dissipates. He reaches over to grasp her hand, smiling at her again, and if it is a little pained...well.

He must consider for a moment before answering, and finally shrugs. "In truth, I hardly know," he admits, his voice low. "Better in some ways, worse in others..."

Faramir hesitates, then rubs his forehead with his free hand and even more quietly says, "My father's authority weighs more heavily now that I know how it came to me."

[freo]

Èowyn chuckles softly at his initial determination. "If anything is true, it is that." She thinks they might be able to name the placement of each stone, plant and a blade of grass to be found in these gardens. And truthfully, she has never really understood the point of fishponds to begin with, for they seem, well... wasteful? So really, it is no significant loss. "Then, perhaps our incarceration here is a blessing in disguise-- if only to keep you from straying into any ponds, fish or no fish."

It is a wan jest, though, soon giving way to a sigh as she gently squeezes his hand in hers.

"Oh, Faramir. I am truly sorry." There is such empathy in her voice, wishing she could do something more tangible to ease his torment and consternation, hating that pain that laces his smile and glints in his gaze. But she knows there is no such magic that she can wield to make the things that haunt Faramir go away. Perhaps nothing but time could. She's quiet for a beat. "I hope the Warden was not too wroth with you."

[whattheydefend]

It would be easier in some ways to sit and talk merely of fishponds and other nonsense, swapping pleasantries, but they are neither of them good at dissembling. The concern in her voice is so poignant that he wishes he had a better answer to make, for her sake as much as his own.

Still, Faramir manages a smile, for at least there is comfort in her company, and in knowing that she cares about his wellbeing. "No more than I deserved, for it is true I behaved foolishly yesterday, however understandable my reasoning." He shrugs again, this time accepting. "I have given him my promise of obedience, at least until the progress I have lost is regained. Though I fear I will not be able to hide in the Houses much longer. There is too much that needs doing in the city, and there is too little I can accomplish from here."

[freo]

It is expected news all around, but that hardly means Èowyn particularly approves of it, as evidenced by the frown of consternation that furrows her brows. She realizes he has a great responsibility to bear as the Steward, and the needs of the city cannot be postponed for much longer. She is concerned, however, that he will not have enough time to recover until such time comes knocking-- that Faramir will, in his diligence and dedication, work himself to the bone. As much as she understands the realities waiting for him, she still cannot help the sense of near indignation that bubbles up on his behalf. He's been through enough already, and now this?

She's been quiet for a moment too long, she realizes, lost in thought. Shaking off her preoccupation, Èowyn nods her head, albeit with a small sigh. Idly, she moves aside the long-since forgotten book from her lap that she hasn't, truly, even cracked open. "I understand that there are demands being made of your time and attention. I only hope they will not be at the expense of your health and well-being."

[whattheydefend]

He sighs and leans back in his chair, which forces him to release her hand. "There are a few days left." Before the Captains of the West reach the Black Gate, and the last battle. Before their fates are decided, for good or ill. "I have delegated all I may, and the city holds its breath, and comes to no harm for my absence. For the moment, we all wait. But after..."

Faramir does not grimace or look grim, only quietly accepting. After, when Frodo succeeds or fails, when it is known whether the king lives to reclaim his throne or not. Whatever combination of fates comes is out of his hands to affect. "After, whatever the outcome, I must see to all that needs doing, whether from the Citadel or a sickbed." He looks up at her, and smiles just a little. "But I promise you I will do my best not to neglect myself in the meanwhile. And--I hope you will continue to keep me company, and remind me if I am failing to keep my word."

[freo]

Èowyn returns her hand to her lap to join its twin when Faramir lets go of it, albeit a little reluctantly-- when did the gesture start feeling so natural, to hold his hand? Lips tightening for a moment at the thought of the wait they still have before them, she only nods minutely. His smile, even if small, draws out a tiny smile of her own-- but perhaps it's also his promise that pleases her. "I believe I can agree to that. If in return you will remember that I am here, should you want for assistance. Minas Tirith is not Meduseld, but surely there will be something I could do. And if the worst should come to pass..."

She falls silent, sighing a little through her nose as she looks out across the atrium, sparing a quick thought for Èomer. If the worst comes to pass; if the Company fails, Frodo is lost, and Mordor prevails, they will not have the numbers here for victory through arms. Even if the circles of the White City could hold back another siege, they would run out of supplies and provisions soon enough. "Well, I still have a hale sword-arm."

Strange how the thought that so beguiled her only a handful of days ago -- death in battle -- now tastes like ash in her mouth.

[whattheydefend]

Faramir's heart constricts a little, twisted by hope and compassion at the look on her face, the words she says. She does not speak as though she still longs for death on a battlefield, and if she has healed even that much, it is a joy and a relief to him. "I will remember. And whether worst or best should befall us, I will not fail to ask your assistance, whether for Gondor's need or my own, for I know you are both capable and trustworthy, whatever the need."

[freo]

"You are too kind," she murmurs with a tiniest of smiles, a little abashed by the praise even as it pleases her to hear it said-- they are not words she has been gifted with overly much in recent years. Yet there is a slight air of preoccupation about her today, her thoughts returning to the previous night again. Faramir was so earnest and open with her, trusting her completely; she knows she has not been as forthcoming about her own ails. Subtle indecision gnaws at her. Were she inclined to be truthful about the ugliness of her own tale before her desperation brought her to Gondor -- and it surprises her that she even considers such -- would that not be selfish, to burden someone who has already suffered so much with more ill stories?

[whattheydefend]

Èowyn's preoccupation does not escape him. Faramir considers her for a few moments, hten moves closer to sit next to her--but before he can speak there is the sound of footsteps approaching. Upon turning his head, he sees the apprentice he spoke with earlier approaching, carrying a laden tray.

She places the tray on the table in front of them. There are two small, steaming teapots and cups, and a plate of small buttered rolls. The apprentice bobs a small curtesy. "From the Warden, my lord, my lady. And you are to drink all of this tea, my lord, or else the Warden will know the reason why."

She looks at Faramir, attempting to be stern and not quite managing it; she cannot be more than ten, but is clearly taking her duty most seriously. Faramir holds back his smile and thanks her most courteously, assuring her of his compliance, and she gives him a bobs another courtesy and dashes off wearing a deeply satisfied expression.

He chuckles once she is gone, but obediently pours himself a cup and drinks, though his nose wrinkles a little with dislike. He has downed enough willowbark tea this past week to fill one of the fishponds he keeps jesting of. He sighs, grimacing a little at Èowyn. "I hope whatever he has given you holds more appeal." Another sip. "There is something on your mind, I think. Would it help you to share it?"

[freo]

Èowyn stifles a smile of her own at the girl's no-nonsense decree to Faramir from the Warden, bowing her head to hide her amusement. "I like her spirit," she puts in with a smirk once the apprentice has set down the tray and left them to their own devices once more, chuckling slightly at Faramir's distaste for his tea as she tends to her own teapot-- picking up a hint of chamomile in the scent of the brew. Hardly subtle, Èowyn thinks, a little discomfited the Warden seems to have such insights into her state of mind. But then, she has never been the most subtle creature herself.

She is quiet for a long moment at Faramir's question, pouring herself a fresh cup to replace the one she'd been nursing, long since gone cool.

"It might, as you have already proven to me that sharing can lighten one's load. I have not been so forthcoming with my own ills, for more went on in Edoras than Merry has, no doubt, already spoken to you of. He knows not the extent of it all, of the time before Gandalf and Lord Aragorn made it to the Golden Hall and saw the bewitchment of Théoden with their own eyes." She pauses with a tiniest sigh, her expression grim. "Only, it is an ugly sort of tale, and I am loathe to burden you with more of such things."

[whattheydefend]

Faramir nods his agreement, inwardly making a note to keep an eye on the girl. But that thought will keep. "Your confidence is no burden to me," he says simply. Now that he is sitting near her, he makes bold to take her hand in his again, stroking his thumb against the back of her hand. "On the contrary, I would be honored to know whatever you may tell me, however ugly the tale. The more so if it aids you in any way."

[freo]

"I cannot say if it will. But you have been honest with me, and I can do no less." It does not really make much sense to her, but Èowyn feels a deep conviction he should know it all-- especially in light of their deepening friendship. His touch is welcomed, and she curls her fingers around his instantly when he reaches for her hand. With her other, she brings her cup to her lips and takes a sip of tea before setting it back down on the tray, beginning her tale.

"I have told you already of the dark times that faced Rohan, of the king's enthrallment. Though its chief architect was the wizard Saruman, his will was done unto Théoden by someone closer to home-- the man who was supposed to be my uncle's adviser. Gríma Wormtongue, he was named. Aptly so." Her expression darkens for a moment, distaste crossing her face at the mere mention of the name. "Perhaps once he was a more decent man, or least benign. But for years now, he was the greatest threat in Rohan and to Rohan, though few could see it and even fewer could resist him. He had the King's ear and trust, and he abused it in Saruman's name. Working his foul influence together with Saruman's magic, they enthralled my uncle's mind. For Wormtongue, as pitiful a creature as he was, had the ability to ensnare with words."

She pauses, drawing in a deep, slow breath. "We did what we could to counter it; myself, Èomer and our cousin, Théodred. But Théoden sunk deeper into dotage, and we could not oust Wormtongue. For he had uncle's addled protection, and he claimed Saruman would shatter Théoden's mind and by doing so kill him if we intervened. Understanding of such magical matters is beyond me, and I know not if that was the truth. But we dared not test it. Then Théodred was wounded by Orcs of Isengard, rampaging unchecked across our land. My brother attempted to reason with uncle, to break through his thrall, but he was near insensate by the time. And when Èomer finally confronted Wormtongue in a fit of temper... he had my brother banished under pain of death."

She closes her eyes, remembering the pain of that day, her desperation of being left alone. "I told you on that day up on the wall that poison ran in me long ere running afoul with the Witch-king. I spoke the truth, for Wormtongue did not spare his fey whispers for my uncle alone. He poured his poison also in my ear for years. He made me doubt all things; myself and my own worth, the worth of my house and of our people. It shames me now to think of it, how I came to believe his lies. I think... he wished me brought down, my pride weakened, so he could press his advantage-- for his interest was ever personal. I know not what Saruman promised Wormtongue in return for betraying Théoden and Rohan, but I have my suspicion. For years, he haunted my steps, his leering eyes following me where I went. My skin crawled each time. He had the good sense at least to be cautious of my cousin and brother, but the day Théodred succumbed to his injury and my brother was banished... it was just me left, fighting two battles; to keep uncle clinging onto some sense of reality, and to rebuff Wormtongue's advances.

Do you know how unspeakable a thing it is, when the halls of your own home turn dark and hostile? I barred my door and slept with a knife under my pillow, yet I never felt at ease or safe. I could hear his footsteps, pausing behind my door at night. I was at the end of my rope that day, when Gandalf miraculously arrived and broke the spell enslaving uncle. I would have driven my knife into Wormtongue's gut, and damned the consequences."

She lets out a shuddering breath, shoulders slumping a little as if some invisible weight was pushed off them, her fingers tightening slightly around Faramir's.

"Lord Aragorn stayed uncle's hand, when he would have hewn off Wormtongue's head for his treachery when he awoke from his long thrall. I understand the reasoning, and yet I regret that he was stopped-- for I would have given anything to see Wormtongue pay for everything in blood. I still do."

A wan, sad excuse of a smile trembles across her lips for a brief moment. "Is that very evil of me to think so, do you think?"

[whattheydefend]

Some of this story Faramir had gathered or suspected, and he had known there must be more. A spirit as fierce and determined as Èowyn's could not have been sunken so low without great pressure being brought to bear. He listens in silence, holding her hand gently and watching her face.

When she tells of how Gríma spoke poison to her, tainting all she saw including her own self, he frowns. When he hears why, his hand tightens on hers, harder than he intends, and draws in a breath in a quick, angry hiss. Despicable, and worse than despicable--bad enough to give poor counsel to a king, but to prey on a person, to grind them down in order to force them to submit to your will, and to do it for such base purpose...

Faramir is almost as shocked by the rage that flares through him. He has a gentle heart, and for all his soldier's life he does not kill willingly. One reason he is an excellent archer is that if he must deal in death, he would do it as quickly and cleanly as possible, and not prolong the suffering of any creature. But if Gríma were before him, he would throttle him with his bare hands. This other human being he would slay without pity or mercy.

So when Èowyn smiles sadly and asks her question, it takes him a moment to answer, for words to push their way past the fury burning in his veins. For the first time in their acquaintance he looks dangerous, every inch the warrior he is.

Faramir closes his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to calm. "No." He swallows, opening his eyes and looking down at their joined hands, thinking past his anger. "Not evil to think. His crimes were many, and cruelly dealt, and while showing mercy is admirable you were left with no justice. It is small wonder you remain unsatisfied with the outcome." Or wounded by it. In truth he aches for her, and his anger cannot stand in the face of that.