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From:

whattheydefend

He would argue that he has many flaws, he is merely taking some pains not to display them to her. No doubt she will discover them all in time, whatever comes of this stay--though the truth is he has been in the habit of hiding his faults as best he may for years, and most particularly when in Minas Tirith. It did not avail him much, but at least it made things no worse. Or so he has always hoped. And much of the need is now gone, though it has been replaced by an authority which will render the habit just as necessary, perhaps.

Thoughts for another day; those wounds are still far too raw, and they are speaking of her for a time, which he is far happier doing. "I am surprised he has not already sought you out, truthfully, though it is possible the Warden has been limiting outside guests for you as he has for me, that we might heal the more thoroughly before returning to other cares. He was most relieved to know you yet lived, I deem, even though your brother had already informed him as such. You and I had not yet met, and I fear the incident had all but slipped my mind. I do not doubt he would come in an instant if you sent for him."

From:

freo

"No doubt the Warden has done just that," Éowyn says by way of agreement, her lips twisting into a brief mien of irritability just for a second. Yes, the Warden has his patients' best interests at heart, but she has felt quite fine and capable for a few days, now, and in no need of such mollycoddling. If anything, penning her up like this with nothing to preoccupy herself with is only making her more agitated. She knows not how she would have managed this convalescence without Faramir's company, and her own insinuation into the sick wards to help the healers in their work.

"I would rather go down myself, but I foresee another battle with the Warden on my hands at that idea." She pinches her lips a little in momentary indecision. Perhaps discretion is the better part of valor, here. "So I will do as you say, and send for Éothain later today." It will be good to hear his thoughts, and not merely on horses.

From:

whattheydefend

Faramir hears the irritation in her voice, and manages to not react beyond the faint raise of an eyebrow, for he would argue with Éowyn's assessment of herself. Her own strength belies her, for while she has grown in stamina every day, she is still more weak than he judges she should be. The Black Breath is not lightly overthrown. Her arm too still heals, for all that it is taken from its sling.

No, he does not begrudge the Warden his caution, on either of their parts. Though it is perhaps as well that he does not say so. And it is true the lady needs more to occupy her quick, restless mind, even if her body needs recovering. This seems a good compromise. One he suspects will be welcome to Éothain as well, promoted beyond his usual authority.

Though Faramir does wonder how the Rider will judge Éowyn for her desertion of her appointed duty. The impression he'd had was that the man was too much awed by Éowyn's feats on the battlefield, which carry great weight with her warlike folk, to judge her for desertion even if it had been his place to do it. But he wonders about the outcome of the meeting all the same. If Eowyn was troubled by meeting with the injured Riders, how much more with this? But it is a meeting that must happen sooner or later, and it would comfort her to know of Windfola's fate.

"I hope he will have news for you," he says simply. "And perhaps work for you to do. I do not doubt there is much that needs to be done, though I hope those I have delegated responsibility to have used their powers wisely. If he speaks of aught they lack, will you tell me? I would not have the Riders of the Mark neglected; Gondor owes your country a very great debt, more than could be repaid."

From:

freo

It is a good thing Faramir keeps his silence on the matter, indeed, even if he is correct. For he very much is, but Éowyn does not see things that way; impatient and proud to the last. And discontent. Near constantly that, for all that she has gotten slightly less dour these past few days, and can find no fault in the company or the standard of care she has received in these Houses. It is none of those things that bothers her, but something far more intangible. And though she wonders the same thing as Faramir regarding Èothain's reaction to her dereliction of duty, she knows she cannot outrun the issue forever. Her own need for news outweighs her uncertainty in this.

"Of course I will," she agrees with a nod, a little belatedly from her ruminations. "Pray, do not trouble yourself overly. I am certain the Rohirrim have been housed and cared for with due honor and diligence."

Anything else seems dubious to her, but soon she would see. They walk on for a good while longer in the gardens together, at times in comfortable silence and at others speaking of less serious things, until going their separate ways to tend to their business. Èowyn sends for Èothain and meets with the Rider, spending a good while in conversation with him. How good it feels to speak in her own tongue for a change! But alas, that -- along with Èothain's happy agreement to share with her what work he possibly could without risking the Warden's wrath -- is at large the best news he could deliver her. But at least she could reassure Faramir the Rohirrim were indeed lacking no such thing that could be arranged by their hosts.

Suppertime comes along a while later with a maid toting a laden tray, and Èowyn finds herself with no appetite to speak of. Much to the displeasure of the maid who returns to find the stew in the bowl merely picked at. Éowyn ignores her clucking and asks her instead to help take down her hair, rubbing at the back of her head with some relief once her hair hangs down her back again. She remembers now why she rarely wears her hair up; the aching scalp is not worth it. The walls of her room seem to close in on her again, so she dons the starry mantle over her gown and leaves her quarters, restlessness mingling with other less than favorable emotions. It is a while yet before folk begin to seek their beds; there would be time enough to roam for a bit in search of calm. Perhaps even for a cup of that blasted tea.

From:

whattheydefend

It is a pleasant, quiet afternoon, one that no doubt the Warden would approve. Having said so much to each other they now find it easier to merely be silent at times, for they are comfortable enough with each other's presence to not find that silence a weight or an awkward tension. That is a welcome thing, and one that Faramir thinks would not have been the case even a few days ago.

But Eowyn is still a little restless, impatient to meet with her countryman, and Faramir is all too aware of how much work awaits him, for all that he is limited in what he can do. She goes to meet with Èothain, he with Hurin of the Keys, who is acting his part in the ordering of the city during his incapacitation.

It is a long, difficult meeting. To Hurin, Faramir intends to tell the truth of his father's death. But it does not surprise him to learn that the man already knows, having heard it from the servants, and having held that knowledge until he judged Faramir more ready to hear. It saves him a painful repetition of the story, though it makes the meeting no less difficult. Hurin, entirely loyal to the city and to the line of Stewards, was not blind to the difficulties between father and son, and has known Faramir since boyhood. They both have much to grieve.

And much to arrange. The House of the Stewards is burned, beyond any repair; but the area must be cleaned. Hurin strongly advises Faramir to leave it in his hands, and to attend to different matters in the city. Reuctantly, but knowing this is wisdom, he agrees.

They talk together for much longer than the hour the Warden had allotted them, putting together plans for all eventualities. The city's defense, its further evacuation, its recovery...when whatever blow they await falls, whether it is the smashing of a hammer or the breaking of a chain, they will need to act quickly, which means plans must be ready to be acted on in advance, not thrown together at the last moments.

Faramir does not remember eating his supper, though an empty plate at the end of the meeting is evidence that he did. When he finally parts from Hurin he goes for a walk, but avoids the people of the House, choosing instead fresh air and solitude. It is dark, but what is the dark to a Ranger of Ithilien? Even with the moon covered, it is nothing to cross the garden paths until he reaches the wall overlooking the city. There he stands for some time, looking down at the torches and firelight and shadows.

From:

freo

It is darker outside than Èowyn had expected once she makes it to the gardens, and she tugs and folds the mantle more closely and securely about her frame, fighting off a shiver as a gust of wind blows through the gardens. Even the pale face of the moon is hidden by thick, dark clouds that seem to obscure much, hanging heavily across the skies. And yet, there is a foreboding glow in the East, over the mountains; for once, Èowyn does not gaze over, knowing they near now the pivotal moment that will decide the ultimate fate of Middle-earth.

For a moment, she considers turning back. But she soon realizes there is something comforting too in this darkness, and she is not ready to relinquish that feeling. Once her eyes adjust to it properly, taking to the familiar trails becomes even easier, enjoying the moment alone with her thoughts. She is not expecting to run into anybody else on such a gloomy night, but upon nearing the particular wall, she spies a familiar figure silhouetted against the faint light from the torches and lanterns of the city below. Unmistakable, for there is none other in these Houses who would cut such a shape.

She does not for a moment think Faramir cannot hear her, so to leave now without acknowledging him would be rude. But she is not reluctant to approach, in the first place. She tugs the mantle closer about her body with a small shiver, stepping beside him to share in the view with a tiny puff of an exhale. "It grows so cold now. And dark." Darker, it seems to her than any normal night-- is it the looming shadow of Mordor stretching further, or her own imagination?

From:

whattheydefend

He does hear her approach, of course, though it takes a few minutes to recognize his fellow night wanderer as Èowyn; he assumes at first is is someone sent to fetch him back from the wall. But there is a trick to her footstep, to her breathing, that he recognizes, and knowing she will be coming to join him he does not turn until she is next to him.

"It is night," he points out, not without amusement; but he sighs a little almost at once, looking back over the city. "But you are right. I have been told that last night was darker yet, all the sky covered with some foul miasma of the Enemy. I fear I did not remark it at the time, being...otherwise distracted. But this--"

He looks out at the dark horizon, gestures towards it with a nod of his head. "This is drear indeed, but I would judge no worse than the last visage of winter. Or such is my hope." He sighs a little and rubs his forehead, which aches. His eyebrows ache, which ought to be impossible. "Perhaps I blind myself; I know not."

Faramir looks at her with a sudden, near-sheepish smile. "Pay me no mind, lady; I am tired, that is all. How went your meeting?"

From:

freo

Were Éowyn less troubled, she would have possibly rewarded his jesting remark with a smile. But she is not, and he goes on without much of a pause, regardless. She can't help another shiver at his response, wondering -- a little uncharacteristically, maybe -- if it is some ill omen of what's to come. The thought only adds to the churn of emotion within her.

Faramir rubs his forehead and draws suddenly her attention to the the fact that he looks weary indeed, even in this darkness that hides half of his features. A brief frown crosses her own face; he does not get enough rest. Is that any wonder, though? She accepts his change of topic with a slight nod, though the prick of concern lingers on.

"It was good to see Éothain and speak awhile in my own tongue. He assured me the Rohirrim are all housed and cared for most well and had no complaint or lack to bring forth." She falls silent for a moment. "Alas, he could tell me no horse matching Windfola's description had yet been recovered, but they are still receiving some stray ones daily. Éothain promised to send word straight away should they find him."

All she can do now is hope for the best. Those were not all the things they spoke about, of course, but some of them she feels a little raw over, still processing them herself.

From:

whattheydefend

It is uncharacteristic of Faramir, too, to wonder about ill omens. He believes in dreams, and in his own perception; he knows he sees farther than most men. But at the moment he knows he is too weary to trust his own thoughts, which tend darker than would normally be his wont.

He nods at her words, and reaches to rest his hand on hers on the wall for a moment--a gesture that would have required caution a scant few days ago, but which now happens without thought. "I am sorry he has not been found, though at least now you know he will be sought." Inwardly he vows to check with the Gondorian stablemasters also, just in case; it is unlikely Windfola would have made his way there by accident, for Rohirric horses are distinctive, but it will do no harm to ask.

He tilts his head, gauging her expression. "But something more weighs on your mind, does it not? Would you speak of it, or wait a whiles?"

From:

freo

Éowyn's fingers tremble slightly beneath his, and she draws in a slow, deep breath between slightly parted lips as if to fortify some inner resolve or another, nodding in silence her acknowledgement of his words. He is correct; at least, there is now that. A small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

At Faramir's question, she falters a little uncertainly, seeming lost for a moment.

"I do not know what to say, when I barely know what to think and how to feel of it," she finally gets out at length, sighing minutely. As hard as she tries to corral her thoughts into some order to begin unraveling it all, she finds she gets nowhere fast with it. Quietly, she asks, "May we talk of it later?"

From:

whattheydefend

"Of course," he answers at once, squeezing her fingers. "As and when you will, if you will."

He looks at her for a minute, then says, "I could offer distraction, perhaps. My singing voice is not worth the hearing, but surely I can find some activity that would suit. Do you play chess?"

From:

freo

The glance Éowyn gives him is grateful, before gazing down at their hands with a tiny nod. A faintest expression of amusement crosses her face when he disparages his singing voice, and she looks back up at him at the question.

"Do I play? That depends on your point of view, I suppose. I know the rules well enough, but have little skill for the finer points of the game." Her lips curve a little, wry and self-deprecating. Perhaps it has less to do with skill than it has with her lack of patience for strategies, is the implication. "We may play, if you wish to risk it."

From:

whattheydefend

"I am sure you underestimate yourself. Though if you would not find it diverting, we might do something else? Draughts, or some other thing." His face suddenly looks a little impish, and he chuckles. "Or I know a number of games of chance, if you prefer, and then all skill is irrelevant. Though it is as well we have little to bet with here, as I would not wish the King of Rohan to accuse me of demeaning his sister by gambling with her."

From:

freo

"I should not be so certain of that. Speaking of my brother, he might tell you a cautionary tale of how I threw my Rook at his head in a fit of temper upon losing to him for the fourth time in a row. He might still bear a small mark on his forehead. Granted, I was thirteen at the time, so I hope I am better at managing my disappointment today."

She issues a small chuckle of her own, glancing over with a smile and an arched brow. "But perhaps it would be safer if you taught me one of these games of luck. What my brother does not know cannot harm him."

From:

whattheydefend

"Now I am torn between wariness and curiosity!" Faramir laughs. "I would still be curious to try, someday if not now. I have found that you can learn a great deal about a person by playing chess with them."

A statement which suggests, with accuracy, that he is a very good player indeed, and his forehead would be in serious danger at the end of the match. For of course he would not go easy on her, nor let her win; that would be insulting, to say nothing of dishonest.

He turns and offers her his arm, a gesture by now automatic. There are times when he walks lately when it feels strange not to have her arm resting on his, or her nearby to hear his thoughts. A realization that does not surprise him, but which he is aware complicates matters. Even so, he welcomes the option now. "But in the interest of sparing my poor head--or more accurately, sparing me from the curse of yet more willowbark tea--let us try our hands at dice or cards instead. Then we may curse them instead of one another, when we lose."

From:

freo

It is a suggestion which Éowyn does not fail to pick up on, humming slightly in acknowledgement. She is not certain what he could learn about her by playing with her that he doesn't already know; that she is too impatient, even a little aggressive. But, she is not opposed to playing, sometime. She thinks she is well past the days when she might have hurled the pieces in frustration...

"You truly do not enjoy that tea," Éowyn says a little wryly with a soft laugh as she takes his arm, similarly not thinking much of the gesture anymore. If the brew is what daunts him the most about the prospect...! "But motivations aside, your idea has wisdom to it. Now, where shall we secure what we need to play?"

From:

whattheydefend

"I deeply, passionately, and fervently do not," Faramir agrees at once, an expression of distaste crossing his face, playing up his dislike a little to amuse her. Though it does not require much acting on his part. "I fully admit all its virtuous qualities and efficacy in healing. But it tastes like dirt. Bitter dirt." He sighs. "No doubt our return will cause another pot of it to appear; I am only surprised the Warden has not sent someone to chase me down with some before now. At first when I heard someone approach me, I thought that might be the reason. I was most glad to find it was you instead!"

His sly grin makes the words more a jest than a compliment, for all their truth.

"As for cards and dice, I have both. One of my fellow Rangers left them for me, in case I needed amusement. Where shall we play?"

The atrium will be too cold at this time of night. But the dining areas would be free enough, or either of their own chambers.

From:

freo

Faramir succeeds in his endeavor, pulling a chuckle out of her. "I know what I must do should I ever wish to disappoint you, then," she jests back, before adding maybe a little too truthfully, "Not that I would wish for such a thing."

The question merits a moment of pause, as Éowyn mentally goes through their options. "Perhaps we run a slightly smaller risk of being beset by the Warden's minions-- and their dreaded tea--" she smiles a bit crookedly at that, "--if we remove ourselves to either of our quarters?" Another tiny pause. "Mine? They would not look for you there, I think."

Little does she realize.

From:

whattheydefend

He hesitates, if only for a moment. It is not exactly beyond the bounds of propriety, in the circumstances. But she is sister to the king of Rohan, a noble lady of great reputation, and the hour is growing late. The fact that neither of them is in any fit physical state for impropiety would not weigh highly with the court--or, he suspects, with her brother.

The question of whether or not either of them--if she--would wish to, he ruthlessly crushes in his mind. By every last one of the Valar, this is not the time. And if later he will kick himself and think wistfully of impossible might-have-been scenarios, well, that will be later and he will keep them entirely to himself.

"On the contrary, if they could not find me, I suspect you would be one of the first they would think to ask. The more so as you have been assisting them and might be persuaded to join them in coercing me in to downing the stuff." That would be the reason, of course, and not that they have spent the better part of the past several days in each other's company. Which the Warden has noticed, making a point of commenting to Faramir that the lady Eowyn's health has noticeably improved in that interim, and offering his thanks. Faramir knows he has been damnably transparent to perhaps everyone except the lady herself, and that exception solely because she is not yet willing to let herself see the truth of things.

Unless she does and is merely taking pity on him, but that possibility is one he tries not to dwell on. He waves a hand, a gesture of accepting the inevitable. "We may as well leave the door open so they may find me as they will. I have no wish to be subjected to another lecture about the importance of listening to one's healers; the one this morning was more than enough. I should at least leave it another day before forcing our poor Warden to repeat it."

And with the door open, no one can accuse them of anything untoward.

From:

freo

Éowyn feels a tiny stab of chagrin at catching on to the issue so late, followed closely by a small flare of frustration. These unwritten rules of propriety! She thinks it all a little foolish, this prevalent assumption that a man and a woman alone in any space must always be up to something untoward. Or at the very least, planning something of the sort. None would think twice of two women or two men -- friends, just like herself and Faramir -- in the same situation. But it is what it is, foolish and annoying or not; she certainly does not wish any trouble on Faramir over something so silly.

Whether or not there could be some truth to such assumptions -- were they both not still convalescing -- she refuses to even entertain. For several reasons.

"As you say," she merely agrees with a small nod of acknowledgement, keeping her thoughts to herself. With a hint of humor edging her tone, she goes on, "Then, I suppose there is nothing to it. You shall have to prepare yourself for the risk of possibly having to drink more of that tea in the near future..."

From:

whattheydefend

In truth Faramir thinks it all a little foolish as well, but he knows the dangers of rumor too well to disregard them. And some rumors are likely already flying through the city. He is the Steward, and she slew the Witch-king. Whether they like it or not, anything they do is of note, and being enclosed here is only some protection--and that protection mostly in that few of the rumors will be repeated in his ears, or hers.

He makes a mental note to ask Húrin about that, on the morrow. For now..."Is there a plant in your chamber in need of watering?" he asks hopefully. "Or if the window looks East, perhaps that might be made useful..."

From:

freo

Éowyn cannot help her laugh at that; as short as it is, it is all pure amusement. "Perhaps there might be one or two such plants."

She glances over with a look that is caught between teasing and conspiratorial. "But surely, my lord, you are not planning on any such underhanded means of ridding yourself of the brew? I seem to recall your reluctance earlier when I first suggested something akin to an accident."

From:

whattheydefend

"I suggested no such matter," Faramir says, the picture of innocence. "I merely enquired as to the state of your room. After all, it was I who offered it to you, and it is incumbent on me to make sure you are well contented with it and its contents."

From:

freo

"Ah. You are considerate indeed, my lord, to take such interest," she returns surprisingly evenly, pinching her lips together for a moment in effort to stem a smile of amusement that threatens to tug the corners of her mouth up, her gaze cast on the path ahead.

From:

whattheydefend

"Thank you," he says solemnly. "As Steward of Gondor, it is of course my responsibility to ensure that all houseplants are watered regularly, and that the windows open and close as they should. Anything else would reflect poorly on the honor of my city."

He looks and sounds far more lighthearted than he did when she found him by the walls, his shoulders less slumped and tense, and his eyes merry.