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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.

From:

whattheydefend

Faramir too smiles as he approaches, his expression amused rather than rueful. "I am indeed," he agrees, taking a seat next to her on the stone bench. "And like to remain so. Gondor has not seen a coronation in generations; we scarely know how to begin. I fear if I start listing all the things that must be done, the list alone would fill all the hours between now and dawn!"

He sighs a little and leans back, looking up at the stars overhead. "And yet I welcome it. And the duties of the Steward may not be mine for so very long, after all, once the king is on his throne."

He has never sounded so lighthearted, and looks less careworn than he ever has, the lines on his face smoothed out by joy and relief.

From:

freo

Éowyn gives him a sideways glance, her expression hinting at some sympathy. Stewardship of the city is a responsibility Faramir never asked for, never expected would fall upon him; it is clear to her his feelings on it are conflicting, especially in light of just how this duty came to be his. She thinks he may be the one person most looking forward to Lord Aragorn claiming the throne.

He looks younger, all of the sudden, the cares that have weighed so heavily on his shoulders lifted for now. Younger-- and beautiful, the fading light of dusk playing upon his features. She turns her gaze away, to track from the familiar garden paths up to the first stars beginning to twinkle down at them, dotted across Elbereth's canvas.

"How do you think your folk shall receive the new king? Rightful heir or no, he is an unknown ranger to Minas Tirith, whereas all know and respect you." She cannot imagine it will be a completely unopposed transition, even if most would welcome the return of the king to Gondor.

From:

whattheydefend

He grimaces very faintly, shrugging. "It will be a mix, I believe. Most will be ready and willing to welcome him, for he is as a figure out of legend to them, the more as he will seem to have been the architect of Sauron's destruction, even should the full truth be known. There are many among the nobles who will be less quick to accept, but I think they will have little choice--and in truth I intend to allow them very little leeway to contest it. The more so as the only means by which they might legitimately protest would be in retaining me as the Steward, and I will make it very clear I am not to be thus used."

There is no question where Faramir's loyalty lies, in this. There never was. He stretches his legs out in front of him, crossing one atop the other. The fact that he will not be easily led alone will cause consternation, for there are many in Gondor's councils who have seen only the face he showed there, quiet and unassuming and obedient to the will of his father, the precedent of his brother. None who ever served him in the field would be thus ignorant, but finding that Faramir has a will of his own, and that it is as adamantine as Denethor's ever was in some respects, will take no few people by surprise. He does not look forward to those inevitable clashes, but they must be done.

He sighs a little, closing his eyes. "A further complication is that Aragorn is not unknown in Minas Tirith after all, I have been informed. Long ago he was here under another name, and served my grandfather--and won a decisive victory and great reknown in so doing. That will both aid and hinder him, I suspect, between those who remember and laud his accomplishments from the time and those who will deem actions done under an assumed name to be suspicious. I forsee a great deal of political manuevering ahead. At least it will be to a worthy end."

And so very, very preferable to the alternatives, where he might now be leading a complete evacuation of the city, striving to get the few survivors as far away as possible, that the race of Men might live a while longer...even if only a while.

He turns his head and looks at her. "But you look troubled, Éowyn. Do you fear for your brother? For I am sure he lives. It is true I have no proof of it, but still I am certain."

From:

freo

Faramir's response is much as Éowyn had imagined and anticipated. His insistence garners a small smile from her. She does not doubt Faramir's strength of will or character, and those foolish enough to do so would learn the error of their ways soon. But when he continues, Éowyn is taken aback slightly by surprise; she recalls well her own astonishment over learning Aragorn's true age, the gift of his Numenorean heritage.

"He spoke little of it; having served for a while in the Mark also, under my grandfather. I had not realized he made his way here as well, though it makes sense." She can well see how that might be an issue now, how such could be perceived in two ways by Gondor's nobles and councilors-- she too shares Faramir's concern about prolonged negotiations and political machinations.

This talk had distracted her some from her own worries, but now they come back to the forefront of her mind at the well-meant question.

"Yes," she admits frankly, sighing slightly. "And everyone else, but chiefly my brother. For I do not much care to think on what will happen if he has fallen like my uncle. Not easily would he succumb, but..." But this was no ordinary circumstance, no regular foe. "I hope very much that your intuition proves correct."

From:

whattheydefend

"You will know for certain soon enough." He reaches for her hand, as they have done so often this day--these past few days. "Two days I would give it, at the most, before we will have riders reaching us with tidings from the Captains. It will take much longer for the armies as a whole to return, but news at least we will have soon. I have already sent messengers with fresh horses to intercept them, that word might be passed between us more swiftly. And from what I have heard of Éomer King, he will not only have survived, but made his foes pay dearly for being so foolish as to stand before him!"

From:

freo

Her fingers curve lightly about his when he takes her hand, barely even registering the entire gesture-- so natural it has become of late, especially. She breathes a soft chuckle at Faramir's characterization of Éomer, smiling slightly at the accuracy of it.

"Two days," she repeats on a huffed exhale, adding a little wistfully. "So close, yet so far away!"

From:

whattheydefend

He strokes the back of her hand with his thumb, an unconscious, soothing gesture. "It will pass quickly. The more so if you intend to continue assisting the healers--they have much to prepare, and I do not doubt will be in great need of extra hands, for any number of purposes."

He turns his head and looks at her. "This will be my last night in these Houses. The Warden has given me leave to depart." He hesitates a little. "For all that I strained at the bit during the first few days, I now find I am reluctant to go. For many reasons." He laughs a little, that faint rueful note returning. "My own dismay at how much work lies ahead of me not least!"

From:

freo

"Yes," she says quietly by way of agreement; to all of his points, really. She sits still when Faramir goes on, trying to keep her expression even. I now find I am reluctant to go. Perhaps she might guess as to one of those reasons, though the thought serves to add to her disquiet and uncertainty. But, it does not matter now. The city and its folk need their Steward.

"There is much work to be done, for certain-- I think even the Warden had to concede to the fact." She pauses, glancing at him before adding with a hint of wry amusement, "Though I daresay being freed from the Houses does not keep you safe from the dreaded willowbark tea. I should not be surprised if you find that intrepid apprentice behind your door soon enough with regards from the Warden."

From:

whattheydefend

He groans, frowning at the thought. "Neither would I be surprised, though still I will hope otherwise! At least there will be none to stand over me demanding I drink every drop of the wretched stuff."

A brief, suddenly wistful look flits across his face, and he looks at her again more seriously. "But I had meant to ask after yourself, Éowyn. Would you prefer to remove to the Citadel, to remain there as a most honoured guest, until your brother calls for you or returns himself? The Warden has not yet released you, it is true, and you have been finding work here, but..."

The sentence trails off, left unfinished. His hand is still holding hers, and he looks down at them, for once struggling to find words.

From:

freo

Ah.

Éowyn also avoids Faramir's gaze by glancing down at their hands in the wake of the question. She is not surprised her (quite intentional) attempt to steer the conversation onto lighter, less personal topics only works for so long. The question itself... well, it is anything but simple, and she can think of arguments on behalf and against it equally. It is a perfectly honorable, reasonable request. But the way he trails off, though, hesitant like she has never heard him before-- she thinks she knows his hopes. But she is not certain she can grant them in this instance, in this moment. She squeezes his hand gently.

"I thank you for the offer. As you know only too well--" Her lips curve into a briefest of wry smiles here, at her own expense. "I wanted little more than to be released from here upon our first meeting." She falls silent, for a moment. "But as you say, the Warden has not given his agreement. And... I could make myself useful aiding the healers in the meanwhile, however I may. Perhaps this ought to be my place, for the time being."

From:

whattheydefend

Faramir nods briefly, his expression resigned, but accepts this. He had not spoken to the Warden, but had hoped...they have done so well in each other's company, he thought it possible the Warden might agree.

Done so well in each other's company...what an understatement. He takes a deep breath, gathering his nerve. "Then be it so. And yet, Éowyn--" He is still looking at their hands, and rubs his thumb gently on her skin. "The stroke we awaited has fallen, and it was not one of doom but of great joy and gladness. I spoke earlier of the fear and doubt of these dark times, but I spoke too of another joy--that of seeing you. Now that all darkness is banished I would speak further."

From:

freo

Éowyn stills, a sensation akin to cold fingertips brushing down her spine at the realization of what he speaks; what he wishes to ask, perhaps. She knows what it is, and suddenly her heart begins to hammer. Is all darkness banished? What of her healing-- has she found it, despite no longer desiring to throw away her life on a field of battle? What of Éomer's fate, still without confirmation beyond Faramir's belief and her own hope? These and many more questions collide in her mind, and sudden doubt throws her thoughts into tumult, a painful knot lodging itself behind her breastbone, tightening her throat and constricting her breath a little.

The last thing on this earth she wishes to do is to hurt Faramir. But she does not think she can bear to hear him out yet, or at the very least offer him any answers or assurances.

"Please, Faramir," she whispers, closing her eyes and squeezing his hand, hoping to somehow lessen the disappointment her response must be. "I know what it is you wish to speak of, I think-- I will not stop you if you truly wish to say your piece, but I beg of you; please do not pursue any answers when I know not whether I have any to give you. Not yet."

From:

whattheydefend

Faramir is silent for a long time after she speaks, his eyes now fixed not on their hands but on a place on the stone bench next to where those hands rest. His breathing stays steady and quiet, his expression unreadable, should she look. He does not look at her face.

But their hands are still clasped, and there is some comfort to be found from that, the pressure and warmth of her fingers.

"As you wish," he says finally, his voice low. He squeezes her fingers in return briefly before releasing them--releasing her--and standing. He walks a few steps forward, looking East. The stars are bright in the night sky.

He looks out for a few more minutes, then half-turns back towards her, though his gaze remains fixed upwards. "There is to be a...a ceremony, of sorts, tomorrow morning. For my investiture as Steward." An event that, she will already know, is not one he will find comfortable. To say the least. "There will not be many attending, for I have no desire for it to be a spectacle, particularly not with the king to return to his throne so soon. This is a mere formality."

And the more firmly he tells himself that, the easier it will be to stand there and accept his father's ring, and the rod that has been made to replace the one that burned. Or so Faramir hopes. He looks at her sidelong. "Even so, it would...mean much to me, if you could attend. If you will."

From:

freo

The silence that follows her entreaty speaks louder than any words could, and Éowyn dares not look up and see his expression, fearful of what she may find there beyond disappointment, perhaps. When he finally speaks up, after what seems like a small eternity, his polite acknowledgement feels worse somehow than outright offense would. But worse still is the way he lets go of her hand and rises.

For one chilling moment, Éowyn thinks he is going to walk away. She cannot even say she would have blamed him.

She clasps her own hands in her lap, fingers feeling chilled without the warmth of Faramir's around them, not knowing what to say-- if there is anything to say. But at least Faramir has not gone and left her behind like all others have, she thinks with a prickle of relief. And wondering, too, if it is selfish to feel so.

Éowyn finally looks up when he speaks once more, tracing his profile with her eyes as he explains and feeling intensely grateful he is not so fickle a man as to withdraw his friendship over her previous response. She releases a soft breath, knowing how painful the subject is to Faramir; how much he wishes this duty had never fallen on him.

"Of course," she says quietly, needing no second thoughts with this. "If you wish it, I will come."

From:

whattheydefend

Faramir sighs a little, as though a weight is lifted. "Thank you." It is not what he wanted, but...it will do. It will be enough. He will make it be enough.

He steps back, reaches down to her lap and takes her hands, holding them both in his. "Please do not look so distraught, Éowyn! It was no wish of mine to..." He trails off, for once unable to find words, then takes a breath, tries again. "Forgive me. And be assured that whatever happens, whatever answers you find or do not find, you will always have my friendship and support to hand, whenever you have need of them. On my word as a man of Gondor."

She will have more than that, for as long as he breathes; Faramir knows it as surely as his own name. But if she is not ready for him to speak of it--if she is never ready--he should not. Her words before pained him. To himself he cannot deny that, and perhaps it shows in his eyes, for all that he smiles gently for her. But that is own fault, for letting the day's joys run away with him. He does not blame her in the least.

Even so, the moment is too difficult to sustain for long. He squeezes her fingers. "I must go. Tomorrow will be very long, especially with such a beginning." He grimaces a little, and if the casualness of the expression takes more effort than it normally would...well, he is trying. "I will need to depart at first light, I fear, though the ceremony will not be until mid-morning. May I send a messenger to you, when it is time?"

Edited Date: 2018-11-27 10:50 am (UTC)

From:

freo

"Please, do not apologize," Éowyn says softly, shaking her head a little. A tinge of regret creeps into her tone as she squeezes his hands gently and adds, "I did not wish to hurt you."

That had never been her intention, though it was likely inevitable; and she can see it in his gaze that it is so, for all that he smiles. And oh, how that smile pains her in turn, to see him put on a brave face for her benefit. She hates the thought of being another person who has hurt him, after everything else he has already endured. And although his reasoning to depart is sound, she knows it is also cover to extricate himself from the situation. Éowyn cannot blame him for it.

"I understand." More than she is saying, she understands, but still she has to break eye contact, glancing down for a moment before steeling herself, managing a wan smile when she looks up again. "Try to find some rest-- I will stay here in the garden a moment longer. Send word for me tomorrow when you wish me to come, and I will join you."

From:

whattheydefend

"I know it." And he should not have put her in a position where hurting him was unavoidable, should not have...Éowyn's own attempt at a smile, the way she must steel herself before managing it, these things hurt him as much or more than her words of earlier. He should not have said even so much as he has, not yet and not today of all days, when all the world was moved towards joy and rebirth. It could not have been done fairly, and it is well she knows her own self enough to not be thus lulled or pressured into agreeing to anything she is not already certain of. Faramir is no stranger to guilt, but this...

Forgive me, Éowyn.

While retreat is not the greater part of valor, it is sometimes the best--the only--tactic to hand. Before he makes more of a muddle of this, before the friendship they have built is too bruised for healing. Before he says anything there truly would be no going back from.

Faramir lifts her hands and bends to kiss them, once on the back of each, a gesture that neither lingers nor is perfunctory. There is a need in him to show, to see, that some sort of connection and affection remains intact between them, even if its nature is so abruptly tenuous. Though he could not say that there is no measure of self-indulgence in the gesture beyond that wish. "Then I will take my leave of you, Éowyn, until the morrow." Temporary, this is temporary, it is not some sort of farewell, though it has a horrible feel of being one.

But no, it is a farewell of sorts. For whatever comes after this, they will not both be dwelling in the same House, not free to meet as they have been these past days. Faramir already feels the lack of it, and when he releases her hands he feels the lack of them also, and all things are a little colder. "I will see you in the morning."

From:

freo

Éowyn feels it also, this sense of farewell; though surely that is a useless fear. She had always known he could not stay in the Houses forever, so why does this feel so miserable a result? She presses her lips together for a moment to keep them from trembling in the wake of the press of his mouth against the backs of her hands.

"Yes, you will," she affirms softly once she's gathered her wits once more, smiling slightly-- and a bit sadly, feeling bereft in ways she can't explain once Faramir lets go of her hands. "Sleep well, Faramir."

She bids him thus though she has a suspicion they shall both rest fitfully tonight -- if indeed they will find rest at all. Once Faramir is gone, she sits in the garden for a long while by herself, trying to wrap her mind around what happened; and to untangle her own complicated emotions, contemplating the future also.

Just as Éowyn had expected, sleep does not come easily that night, and the following morning she keeps getting distracted by thoughts of how Faramir fares-- how he must be feeling, on the cusp of this ceremony she knows he has no real desire for. As she breaks fast, she privately rues the fact that she has not a finer dress than the simple white frock supplied by the Houses, and makes inquiries from her maid who promises to look into it. A few hours later, a simple but pretty gown of palest powder blue is delivered to her-- gifted, no doubt, by some kind lady of the City. Beggars cannot be choosers, Éowyn decides. The dress is a little too tight about the shoulders, but otherwise serviceable. At least it is something different for the occasion than her convalescent frock.

The timing could not have been better either, as the messenger Faramir has sent arrives soon after. Éowyn dons the starry mantle, her golden hair brushed into a gleam and left unbound to tumble down her back.

Éowyn realizes abruptly that she is somewhat nervous to meet Faramir again after last night, but determinedly tamps down on such unease. She is to support him, not to dwell on anything else. Yet, as she follows the messenger escorting her out of the Houses, she cannot help the anxious churning in the pit of her stomach.

From:

whattheydefend

Éowyn is right: Faramir does not sleep well. For a long, long time he does not sleep at all, and instead sits in a chair by his window, looking out at the stars and thinking. The day certainly gave him much to think about.

Late into the night there remain the sounds of celebration all through the city, singing and shouting and bells ringing. They comfort him, for all that he is more quiet in his mood. It was a joyous day, however it ended. The great Enemy is at last, beyond all expectation, finally defeated, for good and all, and the rightful King is to return to claim his country at last. Times of peace approach, after centuries of war.

It is an irony, Faramir knows, to have been granted what he longed for all his life, what was formerly his heart's desire, and to find that abruptly it is not enough.

It will be enough. He will make it be enough. The vision he described to Frodo may now become a reality, and surely that life's work will content him. In time.

But it is a long, long while before he sleeps.

He wakes before dawn, and is in motion as soon as he wakes, for there is much to arrange. His own move back to the Citadel is the first place to begin. As the servants arrive to pack up his belongings (many of which have found their way here in the past days, particularly books and maps), he goes on ahead.

He hesitates outside his own doorway, abruptly remembering a late conversation in a dark hour. For a moment he can almost see her standing there, moonlight gleaming in her hair, smiling as she says she does not trust him to find his way to his own room.

Faramir swallows hard, and moves more quickly after that.

Hours later he stands in the Throne Room, waiting as various witnesses arrive. As he said, there are few; some of the nobility of the City, too old to go to war and unwilling to evacuate with the women and children and elderly. Húrin, of course, who has acted for him these past days. A few other people of import, who he will now work with most closely. Elfhelm of Rohan, as a gesture of respect towards their allies, and so he may bear witness for Éomer.

And then Éowyn, who walks in clad in a blue dress he has not seen, and Faramir wonders where it came from, and how it is that it hadn't occurred to him earlier how little clothing she must have here, he should arrange to aid her in that...a clash of thoughts, a deliberate cacophany of relatively unimportant things, to overwrite the deeper and more dangerous ones: that she is so very beautiful, that she looks ill at ease, that she is wearing his mother's mantle, that he--

He clamps down on that last thought before it can even form. Fortunately there is a distraction, for a murmur goes around the room at the White Lady of Rohan's arrival. She is known throughout the city, for all that she has been little seen, and a source of great curiosity. Likely there are even rumors of their friendship--though he hopes that the curiosity is more for she who slew the Witch-king of Angmar.

There is no chance for him to speak to her, for as she is guided to a place Húrin clears his throat and begins to speak, and the ceremony begins.

It is not long. To make it longer or more ceremonious would be to imprint it with the feel of a coronation, and that the Stewards have ever avoided, for they are but caretakers of the throne. Faramir wears the same formal black and silver livery he has ever worn, though it is a pristine set, and there is a little more ornamentation to it. He wonders, as he listens to Húrin list the ancestors who stood here before him, what Boromir would have felt, had it been he standing here instead, as should have been.

Faramir holds out his hand to receive the Ring of the Steward, and if the set of his face and the line of his shoulders is tense as it is slipped onto his finger, he at least keeps his hand from shaking. He receives the Rod, painted white in honor of the Tree, and tries not to notice how new-made it is. He makes his vows, swears to uphold them in honor and in trust, until the King returns--and how they smile then, he and Húrin both, at the fact that unlike all those who have undertook this ritual before now, they will see the day in truth.

Then Faramir turns to face the applause of those witnessing, and looks them all over in turn, attempting a gracious smile. It is a performance, and it is nearly over. This is temporary. Until the King returns.

But he wishes he were back in the Houses of Healing, walking with Éowyn, and not here. A fact that strikes him all the more forcefully as the audience moves to make small talk with one another, and each takes their turn to speak to and congratulate him, and his new life and new duties begin in full. The idyll is truly done, whatever comes from this day forth.

When at last he stands before Éowyn, it is impossible not to be aware of the very great contrast between this meeting and their last. Instead of quiet and private, with the easy intimacy that has grown between them, this is loud and public and so very, very formal. "Lady Éowyn," he says, bending to kiss her hand, as he has done with every lady here. "Thank you for coming."

He does at least squeeze her fingers a little as he says it, and there is a weight to the way he says the words, an acknowledgement that the gratitude is more personal and less formulaic. She alone of all those present, save perhaps only for Húrin, knows just how difficult this is for him, and how little desired.

From:

freo

Éowyn recalls keenly, all of the sudden, her last visit here to the Citadel with Faramir, arranged with kindness and courtesy to see to the state of her uncle and to peruse the painting of her grandmother, among others. How vastly different that had been in comparison to this! Ceremony and formality seem to cling now to the very air of the Citadel, and she steels herself upon entering the Throne Room, ushered in politely by an attendant. She hears the quiet murmur of the crowd at her entrance, feels their eyes on her-- she cannot say for certain which is the reason for their curiosity. She wonders as well, with a twinge of nerves, whether any here recognize the mantle she wears.

She only has time to meet Faramir's gaze across the room briefly before taking her place beside Elfhelm, murmuring her greeting to the Marshall. The ceremony begins, and her attention is solely on Faramir, same as the rest of the witnesses-- only she does not watch with calculation and expectation, not even with joy; but chiefly with concern. She wonders, does nobody else see the tension about his shoulders? Though, she also notes how fine he looks in his ornamented livery, so noble and handsome. She tucks the thought closely away. It is not a lengthy process, and soon enough over; Éowyn claps her hands carefully with the rest of the witnesses, mindful of her broken arm, smiling a little wistfully. She can see what a strain this is to Faramir, knowing he'd rather be anywhere but here.

It is foolish, especially in light of last night's conversation and her ultimate response to him, but it pricks at her regardless to watch him pay attention to the other noble ladies, despite knowing it is mere duty and performance. That, too, is a thought she tucks away firmly. She is distracted anyway from such ruminations when in the interim a few older nobles claim her attention for a few moments, wishing to make the acquaintance of the Lady of the Shield-arm-- she's still not certain how to feel about this, but politely accepts their sentiments anyway.

She draws in a breath when Faramir is finally there, a strained look in his eyes that pierces her heart.

"Lord Steward," she returns politely, hating the formality between them but at the same time being painfully aware of all the eyes on them, listening and scrutinizing. She lowers her chin respectfully, bends at the knees a little-- but squeezes his fingers in hers firmly, returning his covert gesture; the only thing she can do, right here and now, to convey any sentiment more personal. "On behalf of my brother the King as well as my own, I extend cordial congratulations."

The words feel hollow on her lips, no matter how appropriate; ill-fitting in the face of their friendship, and the more personal knowledge she has of Faramir's feelings on his new appointment.

From:

whattheydefend

"I thank you, Lady of Rohan, and accept them most humbly, on my own behalf and on behalf of Gondor." The contrast between this staid, formulaic exchange of words and their former conversations is almost painful, for so many reasons, and Faramir feels abruptly very alone, despite the press of people around him. Only that slight answering squeeze of her fingers is a comfort. Only that feels real, in all this pagentry.

They make the obligatory small talk. He asks after her comfort in the Houses, as though he has not spent the past week there with her, by her side at every possible waking moment, but now he asks as Steward to honored guest, and besides they are overheard. It is easier to move on to the return of Aragorn and the armies of the West. "We have not yet had more news of note," he says, and now he does sound openly regretful. "It was too much to hope for, so soon. But we should know by tomorrow at the latest that your brother lives, and much else besides. I will have word sent to you as soon as I hear, of course."

That Eomer lives, he says; not 'if'.

From:

freo

"Thank you. I would be much obliged for any tidings," she says softly, in earnest; some of their old familiarity bleeding through the courtly, impersonal facade they are forced to put up here. Faramir's choice of words hardly escapes her notice, something warm and more grateful still than those simple words she spoke just now flickering in her gaze.

She wishes to say more, but it is all too revealing; too personal to be overheard by this crowd that observes them greedily and curiously, even though they pretend they do not. She will not allow them such glimpses into something so private. Frustratingly, that only leaves them with more small talk and platitudes that neither of them truly wants to deal with-- but the point is moot regardless when Faramir is soon forced to move along.

From:

whattheydefend

The warmth in her gaze is a greater comfort than the press of her fingers was. Perhaps much of it is for her brother's sake rather than his, and yet...she is here. His smile becomes a shade softer and less formal in answer.

Small talk is all the rest they can manage, alas, little as either of them likes it. It is at least small talk about the city's future, and Eowyn has no need to ask his opinion of the returning King, for she already knows it. But all too soon he is called apart. The grimace that crosses his face is so brief that hopefully only she sees it. "I will hope to pay a visit to you and Master Meriadoc in the Houses sometime within the next few days, to ensure that your recovery continues apace," he concludes. "For you are guests of high honour both, and surely deserve no less. Would you be willing to receive me?"

A ludicrous, absurd way of framing a much simpler question, though one that will make sense and hopefully reveal less to any who overhear them. There is nothing strange in the Steward of Gondor paying his respects to the two who defeated the Witch-King of Angmar, after all, particularly as one is kin to the King of Rohan. That is only courteous.

It still feels absurd, and falls far short of all the things he means to ask her.

Edited Date: 2018-12-05 06:20 pm (UTC)

From:

freo

Sometime within the next few days. Such an imprecise promise, when they have spent most of their available time within each other's company this past week. But Éowyn knows his time is no longer his alone; it belongs now to the City and its people. She understands that, better than most might.

But understanding does not make the prospect of losing his company much easier to bear. It is soothed some by the knowledge that Faramir himself does not relish the situation any more.

She inclines her head slightly in gratitude and acknowledgement. "You are most courteous, my lord. Of course, I should be honoured to receive you." Which is true, certainly, if not the whole truth of the matter.