faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

Want to tag someone? Tag someone. Put the character you want in the subject line.
Leave a starter, or leave a prompt and I'll start.
Brilliant ideas and clueless flailing all welcome.
AUs and cross-canon, drama and comedy and shipping.
Just throw stuff at me. It's all good.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

From:

freo

"All of them? Your pardon, my lord, but one might think that as the Steward, you had more pressing duties than that." Éowyn arches a brow, her tone edged with a hint of fond teasing now. "Or, perhaps the state of my houseplants and windows specifically is an issue of some diplomatic import?"

There's a tiny smirk of amusement on her lips now. She has not failed to notice the lifting of his spirits, feeling similarly less gloomy herself since meeting up with him once more.

From:

whattheydefend

"What could be more important than seeing to the comfort of the city's most distinguished guests of honour?" He grins at her, unabashed. "And I did say it was important to Gondor to be sure its allies from Rohan were treated well."

He stops, for his rooms lie to the right, and hers to the left. With a little reluctance, he lets go her arm. "Here, lady; I will to my room and fetch our gaming tools, and meet you in but a few minutes."

From:

freo

Any sassy response she may have had about her comfort not being all that dependent on houseplants dissipates at being subjected to that endearing grin, almost boyish in its earnestness. She only manages a soft laugh instead, shaking her head a bit helplessly. "You did indeed say so..."

She halts as well, nodding a little in acknowledgement as they slowly let the contact of their arms sever. "Of course. Join me in my quarters when you may."

It is naught but a polite invitation already agreed upon, but Éowyn turns quickly with one last, quick smile to hide the warmth of a faint blush on her cheeks, those foolish thoughts about propriety from earlier coming back to haunt her-- if only for a moment. She casts them out of her mind briskly, making her way into her room and leaving the door open, grateful for the moment alone just to make sure her quarters are in a proper shape to receive a guest. Not that she has any possessions of her own to be messy with, but still.

From:

whattheydefend

He does not leave her waiting long. What little delay there is, is due to his taking care to be discreet, just in case. He is no elf, but he knows these halls well, and it is no great matter for a ranger to move silently when he wishes, even out of the woods.

And if his heart beats just a little more quickly when he knocks at the open door to her bedchamber, that is only his own foolishness, and not to be regarded. It is hardly an invasion of her privacy. For one thing, he is not uninvited; for another she has but little of her own here, and the room is spare. One of the better ones, for she is a distinguished guest of the city, and so is appointed a larger room with better fittings, a small bookshelf, a small table and chairs as well as the bed. His is much the same, but rather more cluttered.

Still, he waits for her to invite him in after he knocks, for it is her room for the moment. He does lean against the doorframe. "A great advantage of your room over mine," he says quietly, smiling ruefully, "is that mine is rather covered with books and maps, and other assorted things. I am not sure I would have a seat to offer you."

From:

freo

Éowyn is in the process of carefully shrugging the starry mantle from her shoulders when Faramir knocks, mindful of her arm. She chuckles quietly at his remark, distracting herself from how handsome he looks standing there by draping the garment across the foot of the bed.

"Well then, you are welcome to avail yourself to one of mine. Please." She motions with her good hand at the table and chairs, indicating that he ought to take a seat. "Perhaps in return you might lend me a book that is not poetry, for that seems to be more or less all my shelf here is stocked with."

From:

whattheydefend

"A good portion of mine are poetry too, I'm afraid," he confesses, taking the offered seat and sighing a little. "A few books on tactics, and now far too many on infrastructure, in which I am gaining a rapid education. The rest are histories of various sorts. If any of those are to your liking, you are welcome to them." He looks up at her, head tilted just a little to the side. "Do you dislike poetry, then?"

From:

freo

"No. Well, not all poetry. But..." Éowyn trails off, her gaze roaming the walls as she thinks, biting her lip in thought. "I suppose I do not always understand it all. And I dislike having to labor so to unearth the true meaning behind the words and turns of phrases. I much prefer plainer speak."

Even as she says that, the words feel somehow hollow; a pretense of some sort. They make her feel a sudden, uncomfortable knot somewhere behind her breastbone. Hypocritical-- that's the word. A frown crosses her features briefly before she banishes it for a more neutral expression, moving to take a seat opposite of Faramir.

"So, what shall we play, then?" she asks a bit more lightly, changing the subject.

From:

whattheydefend

He watches her quietly, noting the frown, but does not contest this explanation. Instead he holds up the cards, shuffles them, and proceeds to teach her a fairly simple game that may be played even with only two players. They have nothing to bet, but he can keep the score in his head even if she cannot.

It is a child's game, in truth, and more than a little silly. But silly was the goal, or part of it. And it lets him tell her a few more stories of his own childhood, including the time he and Boromir played and bet with their assortment of hard-boiled sweets from Boromir's birthday, and both lost because they ate all their winnings at once and were sick half the night as a result.

From:

freo

The game he teaches her is simple and silly, indeed, but Éowyn hardly minds. It is actually a pleasant diversion from everything else, and they play several hands, each taking turns winning and losing. She enjoys the artlessness of spending time with him like this; he is not the Steward of Gondor and she is not the sister of the King of Mark. They are simply Faramir and Éowyn, playing a game intended for children and speaking easily of fond memories, laughing and smiling.

And if at times their gazes meet and hold over the table for longer than necessary, well.

Time passes almost too swiftly and the hour grows late; late enough, eventually, that even the open door won't save them from ill gossip, the passing servants having already given them curious enough glances from the hallway. Reluctantly, Éowyn bids Faramir good night, eyes soft when he takes her hand and brushes his lips against her knuckles in farewell. Against all odds, she goes to bed that night feeling... content.

Such contentment is torn from her the next day, faced with the hard reality that morning in the gardens. The sun is hidden and dull grayness blankets the world, so very dreary. It has grown cold-- and silent, so eerily silent. A hard, chilling wind had risen from the North and kept hammering the City, merciless. The starry mantle about Éowyn's frame is normally warm, but now she shivers under its luxurious weight as she stands by the wall, gazing out into the hard wind and toward the faraway land where their fate would be decided. She feels it in her gut; today the world stands on a brink, on a knife's edge.

She feels Faramir's presence beside her rather than sees or hears it, eyes peeled above the mountains where the sky is clear and hard and foul. Would that this day were like the others earlier, where they stood together by this wall and walked about the gardens, and spoke of things they have not confessed to any other. But it is not. There is no postponing fate any longer, for good or for ill. Éowyn finds she is unexpectedly frightened by the prospect.

"Must they not now come thither, the Black Gate? It has been seven days since he rode away." Her brother, or lord Aragorn-- it is uncertain as to whom she talks about specifically.

From:

whattheydefend

They meet in the morning without it being planned; by now it is natural to them both to seek each other's company. Faramir looks stronger than he did the previous day, the restful evening and a night of untroubled sleep having done him obvious good. He too went to bed, if not content, at least more lighthearted than he has been.

But the morning dawns ominous, cold and grey, with an ill wind blowing. Worse than all is the sense that a stroke long prepared is about to fall. It is not only Faramir who feels it--all do, and Éowyn not least. They keep close to each other for comfort as much as company. Merry chooses to keep inside by a fire rather than join them, and indeed many of the residents of the House seek the fireside, hoping the warmth and companionship will be a bulwark against unnamed fears.

But they two go to the wall, as they so often do, and this time Faramir does not look down at his city, but East. There have been no tidings of the armies of the West, as he has told all who have asked him. They are all in the dark.

He only hopes they may not be so in truth. On this day all things feel tenuous, and he feels more keenly how easily all things might break--his newfound, infinitely precious bond with the White Lady of Rohan included. So he stands close by her, and whenever he is not looking East, his eyes rest on her.

"Seven days," Faramir answers. "But think not ill of me, if I say to you: they have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know. Joy to see you; but pain, because now the fear and doubt of this evil time are grown dark indeed. Éowyn..."

He hesitates, because he has waited and knows he should wait longer, for several reasons. And yet if all is about to fall, to darken...he would have her know. He places his hand on the wall next to hers, so that their fingers just touch. "Éowyn...I would not have this world end now. Nor lose so soon what I have found."

From:

freo

Éowyn closes her eyes at his words and the minute touch of their fingers, a roil of emotion churning within her; the joy he speaks of but also cold dread and uncertainty. For if the world is to end here... can she face it with such gentle confessions in mind, with regrets of what may have perhaps been? And yet, what if the world does not come to ruin? What then? Torn such, she trembles, but not from the chill this time, the sound of her name falling from his lips still echoing in her ears.

"Lose what you have found, lord? I know not what in these dark days you have found that you could not lose." But though her face is grave, her gaze is kind when she opens her eyes and glances at Faramir. She does know-- she knows of what he speaks. "But come, my friend. Let us not speak of it. Let us not speak at all!"

She draws in a shuddering breath, another shiver coursing through her and that unnamed fear tightening its hold on her heart. It feels akin to a dream; a nightmare fading already from memory upon waking. "I stand upon some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me, I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I wait for some stroke of doom."

From:

whattheydefend

Her eyes are kind, and he sees acknowledgement there. That is no small matter, for she has deliberately turned away from even that much these past days, whenever he has strayed too near the coundary of friendship that he now skirts and longs to cross.

But he sees also uncertainty, and he knows not if it is because of the strangeness of the day, of the moment, or because she does not know how to answer him. Hope and doubt smite him in turn, each succeeding the other. "Yes, we wait for the stroke of doom," he says quietly, and looks back towards the horizon with her.

Everything becomes abruptly still. It is not his imagination: the wind dies, all sound hushes, and all suddenly darkens in truth, as Shadowed as it has been in his nightmares. His heart almost stops in his chest, and even his half-confession of a moment before and her less than half an answer are forgotten in the great silence of the moment. There is no hint of sound, not birdsong nor speech, and it seems to him they both have stopped breathing. No thing living or unliving moves.

But no, one thing does: he seizes her hand, or perhaps she seizes his, and they stand handfast side by side as they wait in awe and terror. It could be any amount of time that they and the world stand frozen, minutes, hours, an Age.

And then above the distant mountains a great darkness rises, greater even than the one which has fallen over the earth, one that contains fire and lightning. It reaches to the sky as though it will fall over them and engulf all things, and a great tremor runs from its heart in all directions, shaking the ground beneath their feet. As though the tremor is was a great heartbeat the spell is abruptly broken, and things move and breathe again, and Faramir finds himself trembling. "It reminds me of Númenor," someone says, and with astonishment he realizes it was himself who said it. He would have thought he had no words, had forgotten them and all language entirely.

From:

freo

Éowyn sucks in a sharp breath, then holds it without even realizing she does so-- poised and steeling herself for whatever comes next. The hush that falls over them and the whole land is complete, seeming to still even the very beat of their hearts. She squeezes Faramir's hand tightly in hers as the darkness rises and surges, similarly without even noticing she does so.

And then, long at last; it is akin to a great sigh that follows the tremor that runs through the whole land, all of the City, the ground beneath their feet trembling. She gasps, lungs burning as she draws in breath again, her frame quivering the same as Faramir's.

"Of Númenor?" Éowyn prods after a beat, voice quiet and uncertain; questioning as she tries to understand what is happening, eyes still peeled on the horizon.

From:

whattheydefend

"Yes," he says, his gaze too still locked on the far mountains, as though he might therefore discern what titanic event can have occurred there. That something has is unquestionable. The blow has fallen. But what blow, against whom? "Of the land of Westernesse that foundered and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. I often dream of it."

From:

freo

A cold shiver runs through her at the answer and unbeknownst to her, she shifts closer to him, her arm pressing flush against his and fingers of their clasped hands still entwined.

"Then you think that the Darkness is coming?" She swallows dryly, a hint of a shake in her voice. In that moment, she does not fail to recall that Faramir sees further and keener than most Men, fearing his words now in light of his gift. "Darkness unescapable?"

From:

whattheydefend

"No."

He looks at her then, and his expression is one of slowly growing wonder. "No, it was but a picture in the mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days."

He squeezes her hand, marvelling anew at the feel of her fingers entangled with his. Although they have often held hands thus it suddenly feels a new thing, miraculous. "But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny."

He laughs a little in sudden amazement. "Éowyn, Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure!" He bends and kisses her forehead, lifting their joined hands up against his heart.

In that moment a great wind arises, but unlike the torrents of this morning this one feels clean, a wind to sweep away an old season and herald in a new. And then the Sun bursts forth, bathing all things in golden light, and far off in the distance the river Anduin is a shining ribbon on the plains. Everything feels reborn.

From all over the city comes the sound of singing, and Faramir's heart too sings, but he keeps his lips pressed to Éowyn's brow, wonder-struck.

From:

freo

From fright and doubt, Éowyn's heart slowly turns to hope and marvel as Faramir goes on, unprepared when he suddenly stoops to press his lips to her brow in a gentle kiss after his exclamation; on a soft intake of breath, she closes her eyes and trembles anew, only not out of fear or chill. The great wind that rises and blows across all land tugs at their hair and clothing, and the Sun shows her brilliant face again, bringing light and warmth-- Éowyn feels it, but it cannot compete with the sensation of Faramir's lips, still pressed tenderly against her forehead, sending her pulse skittering.

Distantly at first, then growing in strength, come singing from the City below, the voices of men lifted in joy that wells in their hearts, though for what reason they could not name. Shock gives way to quiet joy also in Éowyn's breast. They are still standing here as before, hale, with the clear skies above them and the warmth of the Sun beaming down upon them. Could it be...?

And out of the East approaches a dark figure on wings, but no evil thing; for it is a great Eagle, wheeling over the City as it cries;

Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor,
for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,
and the Dark Tower is thrown down.

Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,
for your watch hath not been in vain,
and the Black Gate is broken,
and your King hath passed through,
and he is victorious.

Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,
for your King shall come again,
and he shall dwell among you
all the days of your life.

And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed,
and he shall plant it in the high places,
and the City shall be blessed.

Sing all ye people!

Silent tears run down Éowyn's cheeks even as she smiles, caught up in the marvel of it all. Below, the people cheer, their singing growing ever stronger, ever more joyful. "It is over," she whispers, still having a hard time believing it is true. She cannot help but huff a tiny laugh, breathless and full of wonderment. "Frodo did it."

From:

whattheydefend

"Frodo did it," Faramir echoes, his voice just as low and marveling. They have not spoken of Frodo save obliquely, in Faramir's case from fear that doing so might endanger him, that a spy of the Enemy might somehow learn of this most desperate, most secret plan, so wholly unexpected and impossible. He suspected she knew, and she must have suspected the same of him, but any attempt to draw near the subject he has steered away for that reason.

But now he laughs, a loud, ringing sound of triumph, and he picks Éowyn up by the waist and lifts her, swinging her around in wild delight. "Frodo and Sam did it! All is won, all is blessed, all!"

He would kiss her then, in this feeling of raucous, overwhelming relief, this sense that all dark is banished forever, he would kiss her and accept any consequences that came from it. But there is another shout from nearby, and they turn to see Merry running towards them, whooping and throwing a cushion in the air. Everyone who was in the Houses and able to is coming outside, to see the sun and join in the singing.

From:

freo

Éowyn gasps in surprise when Faramir suddenly snatches her by the waist and lifts her, instinctively wrapping her arms -- trying to mind the broken one -- about his neck and shoulders for support. Surprise gives way to her own laughter only a beat later, not only for the wonderment of this victory over Mordor, this new beginning, but also in reaction to Faramir's utter joy. She smiles warmly at him once he returns her to her feet, gratified to see him so happy; he deserves to wear such expression of joy and contentment always. They are still holding each other, she realizes, when Merry's voice rings out and breaks the spell. Éowyn laughs softly and kneels, accepting and gladly returning an enthusiastic hug from the hobbit-- Merry's more moderate nature set aside in favor of elation.

The gardens fill up with folk in the hobbit's wake, healers and patients alike, all caught up in the mood of revelry that begins to well up, singing and wondering; the end of the war. For so long they have all fought, it seems, that to finally have their Enemy fall feels now akin to a dream. There are tears on many a face, of joy and relief, or in remembrance of those claimed by this war. Éowyn wipes lingering moisture off her own face, smiling and exchanging words and agreements over myriad of is it not a wonder, my lady? thrown her way-- many are similarly eager to claim Faramir's attention. And so it goes for what seems like the longest time, until finally there is a call to luncheon-- a somewhat finer feast as what could be arranged on short notice to celebrate.

From:

whattheydefend

Faramir's unbounded delight is only increased by seeing Éowyn, for the first time since he has known her, with a warm, bright, lingering smile. There are times throughout the coming hours when she has tears in his eyes, as do most. Faramir, sometimes to his surprise, does not, not even of gladness or relief, but he considers none of these tears an evil. They have all borne so much, and it is a great weight that has been lifted.

What he is, without really being aware of it, is a blur of motion. He moves from one person to another, all energy now, his exhaustion entirely forgotten. He still keeps close to Eowyn but it as though he is on a tether, circling around but always returning. Whenever someone calls one or the other of them away it is not long before the drift back to each other's side. He need not even think of it, for it happens as automatically as breathing, and often their hands find each other, clasping and holding in silent joy.

When they are called to lunch there is more and better food than there has been, for the city has been on siege rations, and someone has decided that this victory means it is safe to be more extravagent. This can only have been Hurin, Faramir knows, and expects the man to show up within the hour at the latest--actually he is surprised not to have been called for already, and his mind is a whirl of plans, arrangements, so much to organize...someone asks him when he will take up his authority in the city. "Tomorrow," he answers at once, not needing to think about it. It must be tomorrow. He glances at the Warden, eyebrow raised as though daring the man to challenge this.

But the Warden can see the change that the day's tidings have wrought in his patient, and gives his blessing. Later he will caution Faramir to check in with him every few days, to make sure that his recovery is total, and so that he might make sure his Steward is resting enough and not letting his work overload him.

He is sitting next to Éowyn during all this, with Merry on her other side, and their corner all abuzz with talk of the king's return. There is some anxiety, for though the Eagle spoke of the King's success and survival nothing more is known, no one has any news of the fates of any other loved ones, and it is not long before that lack of certainty begins to grate. Merry claims much of Eowyn's with worry over his cousin and friends. Faramir's thoughts too turn more grave, for even though the battle is won, he knows one of the first things to happen will be that the wounded will be sent here, to Houses already stretched and overburdened...he will need to meet more professionally with the Warden, to discover what is needed...

As predicted Hurin arrives before the meal is finished, looking for his Steward and anxious to make arrangements. Faramir gives his apologies to all, briefly and surreptitiously taking Éowyn's hand under the table once more and squeezing it before he gets up, smiling at her reassuringly but with a mind half-absent.

He remains closeted with Hurin for many hours, and more than a few clerks are summoned to his chambers and sent running with instructions and orders to deliver.

It is evening before he has the leisure to look for Éowyn once more. There are still sounds of celebration all through the city, singing and merriment and sometimes the ringing of bells, and he smiles as he hears it, begruding the time it takes to find the White Lady of Rohan less than he otherwise might.

From:

freo

The minutes, hours-- however long that follows pass by as if in waking dream, Éowyn still having some trouble comprehending it all. She did not wish for doom, at least these past few days, but a large part of her had been prepared for the possibility. And now? Now, she hardly knows what to think. Not all is joy for their victory, for uncertainty still weighs on her. The world has not been undone and the folk with it, and now the time will come to rebuild and begin anew. But she is still no more certain of her own place in this new order of things than she had been days prior in the tumult of war.

Unbidden, her gaze finds Faramir in the crowd, watching his noble profile as he speaks with those vying for a moment of his time; recalling keenly the feel of his lips against her brow. I would not have this world end now. Nor lose so soon what I have found. She's almost glad Ioreth interrupts that line of thought, pulling all of Éowyn's attention onto her downright dramatic elation.

At lunch, Merry's anxiety compounds her own, though she does her best to be a supportive friend. All she can truly think of just then is, what of Éomer? What of her brother? If he was slain in battle... what would that mean; beyond a wound in her soul that would never heal? The thought of being the last of the house of Eorl nearly puts her off her lunch entirely, what little she can eat from her churning emotions to begin with. She mustn't think that. Not even as a dark possibility.

She forces a smallest of smiles in return to his before Faramir leaves, the warmth of his hand lingering on hers.

The rest of the day passes by slowly. Much as Éowyn wishes she could join in the revelry in full, her heart's unease won't let her. Thankfully even now, there is work to be done; she assists however she can in getting the infirmary ready for the wounded the Houses are bound to receive in the days to come, not shirking even the most menial of tasks. It all helps to keep her busy. Eventually, there is no more to be done for her, and after supper and getting the bandages of her arm changed, she takes to the gardens once more, empty of excess folk now. It is peaceful, the sounds of elation and joy carrying with the light wind.

There is suddenly an awareness within her she could not, she realizes, ever mistake for anything but Faramir's presence, even before she hears soft footfalls. She turns her head a little where she's seated on a bench to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye.

"Barely half a day has gone by since the tidings came-- and you are busy already, my lord Steward." A tiny smile is on her lips, her tone non-accusatory. She understands better than most the demands of his station.