Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

[questionablewit]

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Brilliant ideas and clueless flailing all welcome.
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Just throw stuff at me. It's all good.

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[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.

[freo]

It takes her aback, the steely, hard expression on Faramir's face-- Èowyn has never seen him display anger or even annoyance. He is so kind and gentle that to see him like this... it makes her feel a little conflicted. And yet, some primal part of her thrills at glimpsing this side of him, the warrior that hides within.

"I am. Unsatisfied by it," she says quietly after a long moment, slowly, an edge to her tone that speaks of dawning realization. "I had not understood how much until now, for there were more pressing concerns at the time. So much happened all at once..." She sighs. "Being merciful is noble and what we should strive for, and yet it feels like another instance where my wishes did not matter. Not that Lord Aragorn could have known them, or what I had endured when he interfered."

But still. Thinking of Aragorn now drives a keen flare of embarrassment and discomfort through her, recalling what happened next; awkward it feels too, the thought of telling about it to Faramir.

"Gríma slunked back to hide behind his wizard's skirts the moment he could. I was told that after the sack of Isengard, uncle tried to appeal to him one last time, to abandon Saruman. I confess the thought stings, that he would still attempt to reason with the Worm instead of writing him off like the wretch he was, after all he had done so willfully. Asylum? To him? Not ever!" Anger now flickers across her own expression, her temper hissing at her at the mere thought. No asylum and no mercy would Wormtongue ever receive from Èowyn of Rohan!

may we please have them still alive though? Scouring of the Shire is important

[whattheydefend]

He cannot sustain anger for long. Already it had begun to be outmatched by empathy on her behalf, but it tamps further at the mention of Aragorn: the slight hesitation before she says his name, the shadow of awkwardness in her eyes. A different uncertainty pierces him at that sight, though this one he hides. It is something he suspected already, and despite it he has reason to hope.

And this is not the time for such wonderings. Instead he listens, holding her hand quietly in his. He wonders if her uncle realized--if any realized--the extent to which she lived under siege in Gríma's court. Her brother perhaps, if he was banished on pain of death. "With what result?" he asks. "From your wording I take it your uncle failed, but I had not heard what became of Saruman after Isengard's fall, much less of his servant and spy."

y, it's why i left it vague. also bc i really need a re-read of the books tbh

[freo]

"I only know what Èomer told me briefly of the meeting after; that Saruman, hiding up in his tower together with Wormtongue, attempted to weasel his way into uncle's good graces once more, to parlay with him even as his foul plans to raze Rohan to the ground lay bare before all. Théoden was persuaded by honeyed lies no more, and cast aside Saruman's false offers of peace, much to his great wrath. Then Gandalf broke the other wizard's staff and cast him out of their order, and Saruman slunk back inside his tower, defeated-- or so it seemed. That was the long and short of it, as they left the two rogues to hide in Orthanc under the watching eyes of the Ents, whom had cleansed Isengard and taken over its guardianship."

Èowyn cannot speak of the wisdom of such a decision. Time would tell what became of it, and whether the choice proved wise or ill. She shakes her head, gazing down at their joined hands and saying with a mild edge of wistfulness in her voice for a moment, "Strange and dire days, that such creatures should come forth from old legends... At any rate. Perhaps the wizard shall take his ire upon the Worm, perhaps not. But should the wretch ever cross my path again, I know not if I would be so merciful as Lord Aragorn was. I cannot feel shame for such thought, either."

I reread them in bits online a looooot. So much research, heigh ho!

[whattheydefend]

"I have heard of the tree-herders, from Merry, and would give much to meet one. And yet...I wonder if that course was wise." He frowns, considering all this.

"You have great reason for your anger, and I know you are a person who hungers for justice. The line between justice and vengeance is dangerously easy to cross, so for that reason I am glad the decision did not lay on your shoulders, which had already borne so much. Vengeance is a poison more dangerous than the one that brought me low."

He strokes the side of her hand with his thumb, realized he's doing it, and stops. "But I wish you had been granted more closure than this. I am not sure I could be merciful in such circumstances either. Or even if I but knew of them."

so, so much, yes ;;

[freo]

"I admit, I have questioned it as well," Èowyn confesses softly. "And not merely because of my own bias, but also I wonder if leaving Saruman at large, under guard as though he may be now, was sound. But what is done, is done. Time will tell if that decision was wise or ill, I imagine."

There is much wisdom in Faramir's words, and his empathy and understanding goes a long way to soothe the impotent sense of injustice she feels done unto her. There are few to whom she could speak of such things in the first place, she realizes. His words are almost akin to an absolution of some sort.

"Thank you," she whispers, for he has helped more than may be obvious with his response alone. Has she been so neglected and rejected that any form of validation feels good now? She does not wish to think so, but cannot help but wonder. Indeed, she has of late looked back upon her own behavior and thought of it more critically, gone over every act and word said-- the true level of her own despair has never been more clear to her, after these days spent in the Houses. It has not been a particularly pleasant realization, but a necessary one, yes.

"There is some more to the tale of the time between that and my ride to war, though less foul than it is simply... foolish, it seems to me, and embarrassing as well-- now that I view it all with clearer eyes."

[whattheydefend]

He nods in silence. For good or ill, the fate of Saruman and Wormtongue is out of their hands. When she thanks him Faramir looks down at their joined hands, then turns his in hers, entwining their fingers. His expression is troubled. "You are welcome. As I said, I am willing to hear whatever you choose to tell me, and am honored by your confidence. But, Èowyn..."

He hesitates, but the question must be asked, if only for his own peace of mind in light of all she has said. "I hope--" He starts, then stops, thinking of last night's kiss on the forehead, and other kisses on her hand, and words both said and unsaid. He takes a deep breath. "Lady, if I have ever in any way encroached upon you, to any extent, I beg you would tell me so. Now or in the future."

[freo]

"What?" Èowyn asks with a moment's delay, bewildered. Not by the question, but the thought that any of Faramir's actions could be seen as encroaching in any way. Certainly not in a way comparable to Wormtongue's vileness. The mere idea is preposterous, and she draws in a quiet but sharp breath, squeezing his hand with hers as tight as she dares. "No. Béma, no. Faramir, I would never think that. You couldn't."

But soon, she thinks she must speak with complete honesty. Even so, she never once thinks of the kiss to her brow last night, nor any of the ones to her hand-- she can only think of one thing from the early days, and even that is negligible. "When we met, I was short with you. My discontentment was not of your making, but you spoke to me of my beauty that day the Warden brought me to see you, and I... grew wary that maybe that was all you saw. It was unjust of me to think so even for a moment, and you disabused me of such fool notion swiftly. You have never disrespected me in such manner, and I know you will not. Pray, be at peace."

[whattheydefend]

The confused, astonished look on her face is answer enough, even before she speaks. To Faramir's surprise, he finds himself blushing at her words. Many times now he has thought over those hasty, fumbling sentences he spoke that first day in his first astonished moments of discovery, and wondered if they were ill-done.

He laughs a little, partly from relief. "I had known you but a few minutes! There was little else I could speak on, that I knew of for certain about you." He squeezes her hand in return. almost as hard as she does his. "But thank you for saying so; you relieve my mind. I had hoped not, for I know you well enough now to believe you would not hesitate to condemn me if I had. But in light of all you have just told me I wished to be sure." His glance at her is almost shy, his half-smile regretful on her behalf. "You have had more than enough experience of having your wishes overlooked, I think."

[freo]

There is something rather endearing about his blushing response, making the corners of her lips curve into a tiniest of smiles for a moment and dispelling any further, gentle rebuke concerning the topic.

"A small lifetime's worth, it sometimes feels like," she agrees with a small sigh, but swiftly shakes her head a little as if to clear it from such self-pitying thought, for all that it strikes true to her. Now, it feels even more awkward to tell Faramir about her folly regarding Aragorn, but if she doesn't do this now, she is not certain she ever will.

"But, I said there was more to the tale. Once Théoden regained his mind and vitality, I thought I could at last shake off the yoke of being a nursemaid and a servant-- for I was a shieldmaiden, was I not? Moreover, I fancied myself in love with Lord Aragorn, but I see now it was never that. Admiration for a noble and puissant lord and liege, for certain. But more, through him I perceived the means to escape the cage I felt closing in around myself. Sharing in his power, I could be uplifted myself, far above the wretchedness of an inglorious life; Wormtongue's poison still flowing through my veins, though I realized it not, then. All saw my regard for Lord Aragorn and rejoiced in it, for he had become a hero to Rohan. But it was naught but folly. It shames me to even think it, now."

She frowns and her lips twist into a grimace, chagrined. "But he was yet another to reject my suit, both to join him battle and for more. He saw my plight more clearly than I, I think. It is but a shadow and a thought that you love. I cannot give you what you seek, he told me. True words, but at the time... they brought me lower still than I already was. Heartbroken. What was left? I could not fight, could not govern, could not choose my own fate, it seemed. It was the final drop into a vessel about to overflow, and so I rode to ruin with the Rohirrim in disguise, for my desperation blinded my to aught else. I saw no other glory left than that one final, fell deed in battle before death that would be remembered. If I could not control anything else, I could at least control this."

She exhales deeply as if released under some unseen weight finally with the whole story out in the open, shoulders lowering and chin dipping. Her free hand picks at the simple frock she's wearing under the mantle at the knee, as if ridding it of some invisible lint. She cannot look Faramir in the eyes yet. "And the rest, you know. There you have it; the whole sorry tale of Èowyn of Rohan as it unfolded."

[whattheydefend]

Faramir turns his attention away from his own actions and motivations and back to her story, for it clearly matters to her to have it all spoken between them--and he deeply glad in his heart that she wishes it so, that such openness between them seems not only desirable to her, but even required. Perhaps it is only an even trade for his confidences last night...but he hopes not.

I fancied myself in love...he but watches her steadily throughout all this recitation, and no trace of his own inward emotions show on his face. This is not about him, for all that it matters to him, and matters greatly. A hurt and a new hope at once.

And then...If I could not control anything else, I could at least control this. He winces inwardly for a new reason at those words, for they seem to him exactly the same thought his father must have had. He can only be grateful that Eowyn was prevented in achieving her desire, as Denethor was not. Perhaps some other day he will make that comparison to her, but right now the pain is still too near. And oh, he must tread carefully now, must choose his words carefully, for this is dangerous ground and it would be easy to misstep.

He squeezes her hand once more, lightly, also not meeting her eyes. "There is no shame in loving that which is worthy of love," he says quietly. "How could that be foolish? Even if you mistook your own wishes, I cannot see that as folly. As for the rest..." Faramir lets out a long breath. "Lady, you lived a long time in shadow, with wounds unseen and untended, through events that would have utterly broken a lesser spirit. The wonder to me is not that you despaired, but that you survived."

His thumb strokes along the side of her hand; and this time he does not stop it. "You may claim that survival was not of your doing, but I believe otherwise. If you were less than you are, you would have settled for a lesser death; and if death were truly all you sought, if you had no hope or care for yourself, I think the Black Breath would have killed you indeed, and there would have been no calling you back. But your will held, as it always has. Through poison and siege, through war and horror. And now you emerge on the other side of it all, stumbling from darkness back towards light; how could you be anything but amazed by it?"

He cannot meet her eyes either, for he knows his will hide nothing. "I can see no folly in you or your story, Èowyn of Rohan. I see only courage, and a heart too valiant to be vanquished even by bleakest despair."

[freo]

Èowyn does not know what she expects from him in response, but she waits upon his judgment on tenterhooks. When it comes, it astonishes her; she does not know why, as she should have expected something akin to what he says, but it does.

Is there no trespass or transgression he does not forgive her, that he does not consider a strength instead? Is there no end to his kindness? How does he still keep on building her up, lauding her so? For a moment, she cannot decide whether that is madness or some form of saintliness on his part, but Èowyn drinks it all in regardless like one dying of thirst, for she has spared little kindness for herself. Something breaks open within her at his absolution, and tears flood her eyes although she'd thought she'd spent them all by now, clinging to his hand with hers like to a lifeline.

Still, she does not meet his eyes, staring out across the atrium without seeing much of their surroundings; a low, ragged breath escapes her between parted lips, ending on a tiny, choked sound of what sounds like relief. She knows by now Faramir does not say something he does not truly believe-- it is one of the things she has most come to admire about him, among others. Where does he find this faith he has in her? It is staggering, and humbling. Wiping away an errant tear and blinking away the rest, she gropes for words of her own.

"You are kinder to me than I have been to myself." She sighs a little, the sound less dissonant now. "And, you have given me much to reflect on, once more. Thank you for hearing me out."

[whattheydefend]

When her grip tightens and shakes around his hand, he turns a little more towards her, and joins his other hand to the hold, so hers is enclosed between both of his. "That is not difficult," he says quietly. "For you judge yourself most harshly, and I think have shown yourself but little kindness."

Faramir hesitates a little again, for this all still seems tenuous ground to him, to be walked carefully. But there are tears in her eyes, this time for herself, and he cannot ignore that. Carefully he lifts one of his hands and wipes a few from her cheek. "I would you could see yourself as I see you."

[freo]

What can she say to that? It is true, so she remains silent, taking comfort in the touch of his hands. But then he lifts one to her face and her breath catches a little, softly. Her eyes close for a moment and she tips her head slightly into his hand, almost unconsciously. This time, she meets his gaze when she opens her eyes, solemn but not closed off.

Those words are far from innocuous; even Èowyn knows that, in light of their growing friendship-- though she equally knows it can no longer be defined as simply friendship. She wants to ask him just how does he see her. It surprises her, the urge of wanting to know, but at the same time realizing deep within her that such response -- truthful, coming from him, always truthful -- would reveal too much; more than she's able to handle right now, despite all the strides she's made toward healing already.

"Maybe one day I will," she whispers instead, so quietly it's almost inaudible.

[whattheydefend]

It is abruptly a more intense and intimate moment than he had intended, as she leans against his hand, as their gazes lock. He can feel the tenuousness of it, how easy it would be to say words there would be no going back from, for her to ask, for him to answer. He can almost see her wavering towards those words and then pulling back. For a breath, everything is poised as though on a knife's edge.

When she does speak, he just nods, removing his hand and returning it to rest on hers, looking down. Inwardly, he is chagrined. Blessed Valar, it is but minutes since he was chiding himself for pushing too far, for offering too much. And after such stories as she has been telling!

Instead he holds her hand, squeezes her fingers. That is more comfortable ground for them both now, and much less hazardous. "At the least, I would ask you remember what I said a few days ago, after another such discussion. That the victory is in the rebuilding afterwards. Whatever your own thoughts on your choices and actions, you still have allowed yourself but little time for healing. Grant yourself that small mercy first, before you pronounce judgement on your past self."

He laughs a little, ruefully. "And I shall attempt to do the same, since I clearly have not allowed myself enough time for healing either, as yesterday's misadventure shows."

[freo]

It is with some relief Èowyn also casts her eyes down once Faramir withdraws his hand-- but not without also some twinge of regret.

"I shall try to heed your advice," she promises at length, softly. That alone is more than she has felt capable of, since first waking from her sickbed. "Though I fear I am at odds with my own impatience, among others."

At his laugh, she glances at him sideways once more, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her mouth slightly upward, for a brief moment. "And well you should, also. Lest the Warden sees fit to confine you to your room." Gently, she squeezes his hand in return, her tone turning more earnest. "There are many who count upon you, my lord, and would see you better." Myself included, she wishes to add, but does not-- yet, there is a look in her eyes that's almost as good as if she had spoken the sentiment aloud.

[whattheydefend]

He turned the conversation back to his own expense as a distraction, and the goal is accomplished when she smiles and the tension between them eases further. Faramir would willingly fall into ever fishpond in the city in truth to have her smile thus. As she speaks of the Warden confining him to his rooms, he snorts agreement, for the Warden threatened exactly that. "Valar, no. Confined to these grounds is hard enough."

He glances at her at that addition, and sees an echo of her unspoken words in her eyes, and that eases him further. He smiles, though again it is rueful. "I know. I have letters from many of them in my room, but the Warden has forbidden me to tend to any such work save for an hour later this afternoon." He rubs his forehead, which still aches, though the dreadful tea is helping. "So perhaps I am safe and he cannot send me back to my room, for fear of my disobeying him in that manner instead!"

[freo]

Genuine mirth catches Èowyn off guard and a sudden laugh bursts out of her-- it's a rather unladylike sound, a short guffaw rather than anything else. But she finds it hard to be particularly self-conscious about it, a teasing light in her eyes as she grins at Faramir.

"You are an impossible patient, I see! Are you perhaps then banished into these gardens instead? To take your tea? Do not forget your solemn promise to the apprentice," she adds almost slyly. Impossible too it seems that she's so amused now, when only a moment ago she had been speaking of such ill things in sorrowful remembrance. How does he manage to do this, and with such ease?

[whattheydefend]

If a smile is good, a laugh is better, and Faramir's smile turns into a broad grin as he hears it, unladylike or not. He makes a mock-pitiful face at her in return as she reminds him, and releases her hand long enough to refill his mug and drink further.

"I see your own time spent with the healers is bearing fruit, since you do their chiding for them." He cannot help but make a face at the bitter taste. "Ugh. I am not certain that I would not prefer the headache."

[freo]

"Ah, but I shall only chide you once; I suspect Ioreth and the Warden would be less merciful. Pick your battles, my lord." She chuckles, smiling, but makes a sympathetic noise as well when he speaks of his headache.

"I daresay you may blame the wine for most of it." A beat, before a hint of teasing enters into her voice as she goes on, "There is an old wives tale about a remedy for overindulging in Rohan, made out of mixing raw eggs with warm mare's milk. Perhaps your tea fares slightly better in comparison?"

[whattheydefend]

"Not the wine so much as the foolishness of drinking on an empty stomach and in a weakened state. Which is no better, since the foolishness remains." He sighs, takes another sip.

"We have similar concoctions here. I tried them once or twice when I was younger and decided the pain was preferable to the remedy. Alas that I may not do the same now!" His mouth quirks a little with the hint of a smile as he glances at her. "Even so, your chiding or Ioreth's or the Warden's I might withstand, but not all three together. I applaud your tactics."

[freo]

"It is you now who judges themselves too harshly," Èowyn points out softly, with a small, gentle smile. Not so much foolishness as despair, she thinks, and she would know all about that.

"Èomer and Théodred also dared one another to try such brew once in their younger days, and it very memorably only made them more sick. Rather violently. I should not have laughed at their misery, but I confess I did."

She chuckles, remembering it. Simpler times, before the shadow and desolation. She remains silent for a while before speaking at length, innocently, "But if the last cup of tea happened to be spilled... into that bush, perhaps? Why, none could be blamed for that, surely. Accidents happen, after all." He has drunk enough that one more cup is unlikely to make any drastic difference, she judges.