Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

[questionablewit]

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Comments

more satisfying that way. :3

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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'.

[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.

[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.

[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.

I'm so addicted to this thread. Timeskip time? Two days, with a letter from Eomer in the middle?

[whattheydefend]

"Thank you." The words are quieter and more genuine than the rest of their conversation, for all that their deeper relevance is silent. He has so many things to thank her for--being here today, for not holding his misstep of the previous night against him, for her friendship and trust. For everything she has been and is to him.

But he can say none of it aloud, and those two, wholly inadequate words must serve.

Someone touches his arm, and Faramir bows his head to Éowyn, murmuring a polite farewell before he is forced to turn away. His eyes linger on her, shoring up the sight of her against future privation. This is another farewell, and he likes it as little as the last.

He has enough experience of diplomacy to keep his attention on whomever he is speaking with, and not stare elsewhere. If his eyes drift back to her whenever he has a moment's respite, right up until she departs, he at least attempts to disguise the fact. Whether he succeeds, he does not know.

yess, let's get to some more good stuff ;)

[freo]

She smiles at his thanks, small but earnest, nodding a little. Just for a moment, she forgets about everybody else around them-- a fleeting thing, for another moment later Faramir is already getting ushered to move along. The occasion holds less and less appeal to Éowyn after that, though courtesy forbids her to leave so soon. She stays and endures more small talk with Minas Tirith's nobles. Unbeknownst to her, she does the same thing as Faramir; seeks him out with her gaze whenever she has the chance to do so unobserved. Eventually though she claims weariness and departs, loathe as she is to do so-- knowing when she does, she cannot know when she will next see Faramir.

The Houses feel empty without him, though she knows it is a foolish notion. She dines with Merry, who entertains her with stories from the Shire-- happy, light-heated tales to distract from the lingering anxiety of not knowing how their respective kin and friends fare. Tidings arrive, long at last, the following morning; glad news at that. Éomer is well, the Company having set up camp in Cormallen. Later on in the day, Éowyn bids wistful farewell to an enthusiastic Merry who sets out to join his friends and cousin there, the letter she had penned to Éomer entrusted to the hobbit for delivery.

She feels wretched for denying Éomer's request to join him in Cormallen, but she cannot. Though she rejoices in the fact that her brother is hale and victory has been achieved against dire odds, doubt and consternation begin to fill her mind once more, to dampen her spirit. She seeks out the healers as much as she may, losing herself in whatever work is available; and yet for all her activity, her appetite is next to none and the healthier countenance she had started to regain while in convalescence begins to deteriorate, replaced by a more sallow look. So much so that the Warden takes notice of it.

When not asleep or working at the sickbay, she roams the gardens aimlessly by herself, feeling hollow in ways she cannot even define. And through it all, she misses Faramir, who is busy with his newfound duties as the Steward.

She finds herself by the same wall Faramir had guided her to several days ago; he had spoken to her of rebuilding then, of hope. It is a bright, warm spring day, and yet she herself feels dull and chilled in the midst of the hopeful celebration that still grips the city. Though she hears soft footfalls somewhere behind her, she ignores them, thinking it is another apprentice with tea or perhaps even the Warden himself, frowning in gentle reproach at her lackluster mien.

\o/

[whattheydefend]

The days are full and long. Faramir throws himself into his work, as he has ever done, fulfilling his duties with attention and thoroughness. There is much to do, as he foresaw. Although the Enemy is overthrown, still the remnants of his forces wander; making the roads safe and open is paramount. Those who evacuated Minas Tirith return and rebuild, and need supplies, food, for the city has lived on siege rations for weeks, and wood is running scarce.

In addition to all the civil matters is the return of the King, his coronation, those who wonder what upheaval will be caused to Minas Tirith's rule by the throne being filled by a ranger from the North, and in addition to all that there is news flying forth between the city and the camp at the Cormallen, and to all the various lands of Gondor. The lords thereof all flock to the city, those who did not ride with the armies, and all of them are most intent to speak their minds to their new Steward.

Faramir's headaches are nearly as painful as they were in the Houses of Healing, and he begins to understand his father's frequently short temper a little better. It is not a comparison that pleases him.

As he hopes, the day after his investiture word arrives from the Armies of a West, including a letter for Éowyn from her brother. Faramir is beyond relieved that his faith there has proven justified. He has an idea how Éomer's death would have devastated his sister personally--and an idea too how dire a fate becoming Queen of Rohan would have seemed to her. He does not doubt she would have filled the role admirably, but at what cost to herself?

News there is also from Gandalf, for him and Merry; Pippin has been injured but will recover. More astonishing, Frodo and Sam are rescued, though they yet sleep and it took all of Lord Aragorn's skill to call them back. That news brings tears of gratitude to Faramir's eyes, for he had given those two valiant souls up for lost. Truly, Elessar is a worker of miracles, and Faramir does not doubt Gondor will flower under his care as it never has. It will be a privilege to be part of it.

And yet...and yet.

Faramir is so busy that he scarce has two minutes to think, let alone miss his soujourn in the Houses of Healing. Yet miss them he does; a constant undercurrent of longing that underwrites all his hours. Every day he thinks of a hundred things he wishes he might say to Éowyn, questions to ask, advice to seek, what opinions she would hold, what thoughts, what feelings. Every day feels empty for not having her in it.

He makes his promised visit, before Merry leaves; a short time spent with them both, and with Merry as joyful as his name and all of them with news to share, the hour passes pleasantly. Another visit he manages two days later, but without Merry to act as a buffer between them things are strained in a way they were not before. He feels too keenly all the things he has not said, perhaps, or the awkwardness of having almost said them and been stopped short.

And what does Éowyn feel? Faramir no longers knows. There is a new distance between them, and he cannot interpret it, not with certainty. She seems restless to him in a way that she has not since the first days of their meeting. Impatience to join her brother, perhaps.

Impatience, that her brother has written to summon her to the Fields at Cormallen, now more than once--but another has not. And how could any woman not look upon the lord Aragorn, in all his strength and wisdom and compassion, and not love him? Naught but a fancy, she claimed...but perhaps it was not, and she now knows it, and that is why she pulls away. A fear that is perhaps unworthy of him, but Faramir cannot help but wonder. If Aragorn did stretch out his hand for Éowyn to take, if he saw them wed, he would smile joyfully for them--but his heart would bleed for all his days.

It bleeds now, with missing her, whatever he does to distract himself. Over and over he tells himself that he will be content in time, but the more days pass, the less he believes it.

When the Warden of the Houses of Healing asks an audience with Faramir, it is of course granted, and Faramir is not at all surprised when the man frowns and chides him for working too hard and not sleeping enough. But after that the conversation does not go as he expects. Éowyn had seemed well enough, if a little more subdued and restless, when Faramir saw her last. But if the Warden is concerned...

It is not two hours before Faramir's quick feet take him back to the Houses, his work and duties and afternoon meetings set aside.

He pauses in the doorway to the gardens, looking at her and feeling his heart thud painfully in his chest. Even at a distance he can see the tension in her body as she stands by the walls, as grave and troubled as she was the first day he saw her. What has wrought this change in her during his absence?

Faramir does not know whether to hope or fear. But it does not matter. One way or another, this is a crisis point, as surely as the day the Great War ended, and he will face it as steadily as he faced that day, and accept whatever fate comes.

Quietly he joines her at the wall, a gentle wind blowing his hair back from his face, and he smiles a little at the feel of the warm sunlight. "I should be getting out of doors more often," he says, without preamble or greeting. "Before I turn as pale as my paperwork, or forget what the sun looks like."

[freo]

If Faramir does not know how Éowyn feels, he can hardly be blamed-- for she barely knows it herself, anymore.

The relief and elation that had buoyed her spirits some days prior in the wake of Mordor's fall seem dissipated like smoke in the wind, her old fears and uncertainties replaced with some variation of the theme. For days, the wait had tormented her; all things poised as if on knife's edge. But the world had not fallen into ruin and doom after all. That is well, she sees now, no longer vying for death, but...

But. What path is open to her, now? She has tasted glory and renown, and it has brought her no satisfaction. And she has abandoned her people, those who needed her the most, to achieve this. That remains unchanged. What of homecoming; how will those folk welcome her? How is her role to be like, in Éomer's court? Eventually he will marry, and the new queen shall take her place managing Meduseld. What will be left for her?

Her brother as written to her anew, beseeching her once more to reconsider joining him in Cormallen; but how can she? How can she stand amidst their joy when she feels so discontented, so restless, herself? How can she witness Aragorn's triumph and glory, and not immediately be reminded of her foolish, childish infatuation? Embarrassment prickles in the back of her mind at the mere thought. Nay, her battered pride cannot take it. It is better to stay here in Minas Tirith, though she misses her brother. Merry, too, for all that the hobbit has barely been gone a few days.

Too, she misses Faramir, so busy tending to the City and its folk. Of course, she could never blame him for doing his duty. But their previous meeting in the Houses had been only barely less formal than their brief conversation immediately after the investiture ceremony, and Éowyn cannot help but wonder if perhaps their closeness and solidarity had been created solely by the dire circumstances and the fear of the ending of the world. Perhaps, he had merely allowed his better judgment to be clouded by the day's triumph and joy, when he had begun to speak to her of things she could not bear to hear then, and he had at last come to his senses. Perhaps it was simply her and her inexplicable heart, clinging to yet another noble lord showing her kindness after such long darkness. She does not know what to do, about anything.

Try as she might to keep herself busy, she feels so very lonely and hopeless again-- not unlike during those dark times living under Gríma's menace. It is all a veritable maelstrom of discontent, swelling and gathering and settling within her chest; a dull, hollow ache behind her breastbone. Éowyn knows the healers look upon her with pity once more and it irks her, causing her to snap at urgings to eat and drink her tea. As if that will make any difference. She tenses when she hears someone approach, hardly in the mood for more lectures.

But it is not some poor apprentice, Ioreth nor the Warden. It is Faramir, and her heart skips a beat before beginning to gallop wildly. Why is he here? She does not know, but his presence is nearly a tangible thing, his soothing voice burrowing under her skin.

Éowyn does not tear her gaze from the horizon, but the tension about her mouth and eyes softens, chin dipping just a little. "Is that why you have come all this way?" she asks softly at length. "To see the sun?"

[whattheydefend]

"No."

His hand is resting next to hers on the wall. As he used to, he moves it the needed few inches to cover hers. The sense of rightness is profound and immediate, the feeling that something needed has clicked into place, and that gives him courage. Hs strokes the side of her hand, calloused thumb against soft skin. "Éowyn, why do you tarry here, and do not go to the rejoicing in Cormallen beyond Cair Andros, where your brother awaits you?"

It is not that the Warden would not release her, Faramir knows. For that purpose, he would, and has said as much to them both. Faramir hopes he knows the true reason. But does she?

[freo]

She draws in a soft breath when he touches her, her hand trembling a little beneath his as his thumb strokes gently along the side of it. She feels it also, that connection she thought for a moment earlier was a mere figment, the ache in her chest easing a little.

As always, he goes to the heart of the matter, asking the question she is not sure she can answer precisely. Gaze drawn to their hands, her lips begin to shape out an answer, but fail in their task at first. For a short moment, she remains speechless. Another beat later, what comes out is a simple, quiet, "Do you not know?"

[whattheydefend]

He is silent for another while, and also looks at their joined hands. "Two reasons there may be," he says finally. "But which is true, I do not know."

[freo]

"I do not wish to play at riddles, Faramir," she responds evenly-- sounding a little weary, even, and thus keeping the words from coming across as a chide. A barest hint of pleading also creeps into her tone as she adds, "Speak plainer."

And there; this, she may no longer forestall or feign to misunderstand. Not when it is finally her choice to hear him out and lay the truth -- whatever it may be -- bare before them.

[whattheydefend]

His breath catches a little. He came determined to speak, unless she once more pleaded with him to refrain, but to be commanded to break this stalemate between them is unexpected.

"Then if you will have it so, lady," he says quietly, still holding her hand, still thumbing her skin, still looking at their fingers. "You do not go, because only your brother called for you, and to look on the Lord Aragorn, Elendil’s heir, in his triumph would now bring you no joy." Not necessarily because of any promptings in her heart, for he understands matters are more complicated than that. Faramir well knows how it feels to hear yourself praised while your honor is shredded at your feet.

He takes a deep breath. No more retreats; let them have truth, if nothing else, and let that truth be spoken aloud. It is clear neither of them can move on--towards whatever end--with so much knowingly unsaid. "Or because I do not go, and you desire still to be near me. And maybe for both these reasons, and you yourself cannot choose between them. Éowyn..." He turns towards her, looking at her eyes for the first time since his arrival. "Éowyn, do you not love me, or will you not?"

[freo]

Éowyn swallows thickly as he lays out her dilemma so concisely. And maybe for both these reasons, and you yourself cannot choose between them. How could he pinpoint even that so precisely, when she had only just begun to understand some of it herself? She cannot hold eye contact with him for long once that question passes from Faramir's lips, her heart thudding in her chest.

"I wished to be loved by another," she says softly after a moment of silence, her mouth gone dry. Once, at least, that was so. "But I desire no man's pity."

[whattheydefend]

"That I know," Faramir says quietly, remembering all she told him. "You desired to have the love of the Lord Aragorn. Because he was high and puissant, and you wished to have renown and glory and to be lifted far above the mean things that crawl on the earth. And as a great captain may to a young soldier he seemed to you admirable. For so he is, a lord among men, the greatest that now is. But when he gave you only understanding and pity, then you desired to have nothing, unless a brave death in battle. Look at me, Éowyn!"

There is an urgency in the request, for she is still turned away from him, and he needs her to see. He is not Aragorn, and she is changed since the days when she felt thus. All things have changed since then.

When she does turn and looks at him, long and steadily, Faramir reaches up with his free hand and brushes it feather-light along her cheek. "Do not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart, Éowyn!" The words are soft, but fervent. "But I do not offer you my pity. For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten; and you are a lady beautiful, I deem, beyond even the words of the Elven-tongue to tell. And I love you."

So it is said. After so much time spent holding them back, it is a relief to say the words aloud. Faramir lowers his hand from her face but keeps the other clasped in hers, for so long as she will allow it. "Once, I pitied your sorrow. But now, were you sorrowless, without fear or any lack, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you. Éowyn, do you not love me?"

[freo]

Éowyn closes her eyes. How can he see so clearly, with such clarity, into things-- into her? In some ways, it is difficult for her to hear, but everything he says is true. She draws in a breath between parted lips, and turns her head to look at him when he urges her to, unwavering. She was the one who asked for the truth, and cannot falter now as he is giving it to her. Still, her eyelids flutter just a little at that ghostly brush of his hand against her cheek.

When he renews his query from before, a quiver runs through her from head to toe.

No, he is not Aragorn. He is Faramir-- Faramir who took the time to truly know her, who never condemned her, who gave her friendship and understanding rather than pity or disdain. Faramir who displayed such vulnerability before her that night in the dining hall and let her console him in return. Faramir who loves her, unselfishly and earnestly, without seeking to change or diminish her. Her heart gallops wildly, and suddenly she understands-- knows that she feels the same.

"I stand in Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun," she begins, softly at first but growing in confidence with each word. "and behold! the Shadow has departed. I will be a shieldmaiden no longer, nor vie with the great Riders, nor take joy only in the songs of slaying."

Not only. Abandoning the way of the blade entirely is not something she thinks she can do, but she sees now there are other paths for her to take; other roles she may take and make her own, heedless of what others may expect of her. It is a heady, liberating thought. Glancing out across the vast, sun-bathed horizon, she nods slightly to herself as conviction takes steady root within her.

"I will be a healer, and love all things that grow and are not barren." She looks askance back at Faramir, chin dipped a little; her voice whisper-soft and earnest. "No longer do I desire to be a queen."

[whattheydefend]

The sudden, naked hope on his face--in his heart--is almost painful in its sincerity and joy. Faramir's smile is at first tentative, but grows as he looks upon her, until finally he laughs. "That is well," he says, as quietly. "For I am not a king! And yet--"

Now he takes both her hands in his, stepping closer to her. "Yet I will wed with the White Lady of Rohan, if it be her will." The words are softly spoken, almost reverent, as he speaks the dearest wish of his heart. He knew it many days ago, though it is only during this time of separation that he has been learning just how deeply he longed for it, how fundamental she now is to him. "And if she will, then let us cross the River and in happier days let us dwell in fair Ithilien and there make a garden. All things will grow with joy there, if the White Lady comes."

[freo]

She draws in another soft breath when he steps closer and grasps her hands gently in his, unable to turn her gaze from his; his touch and presence healing something within her heart long since broken. And the words he speaks to her...! How deeply she wishes the very thing he describes, her expression softening for a moment with affection for him.

"Then must I leave my own people, man of Gondor?" she asks, but there is lightness to her tone now, a near teasing edge to the words. For in truth, the thought of settling somewhere new with him sounds most appealing to her. "And would you have your proud folk say to you: 'There goes a lord who tamed a wild shieldmaiden of the North! Was there no woman of the race of Numenor to choose?'"

[whattheydefend]

She is more beautiful than the sun with that light in her eyes, the hint of laughter in her voice, and she is looking at him with an open, joyous affection that sings through him. "I would," Faramir answers at once, and swift as thought he moves to kiss her.

His arm wraps around her waist to pull her in close as he bends his head, cradling her cheek in his hand. Not a feather-light touch this time, not tentative or hesitant--his mouth is warm on hers, her skin is soft under his fingers, he can feel the curves of her pressed against him, may inhale her breath, all the details he could not have imagined, though he tried despite himself. This is real, all real, no dream or wistful thought or forlorn hope, and his head spins with amazement as much as elation.

They stand on the walls above Minas Tirith for all the city to see, and Faramir cares nothing for it. All he knows is Éowyn, there in his arms, and the sun shining glory all around them, and that is all he needs.

[freo]

It had been a jest, but the way Faramir replies as if to a legitimate question; without hesitation or falsehood, completely earnestly, arrests Éowyn like nothing else. (No, this is certainly not a man who pities her!)

Well-- nothing else, except his kiss. She inhales a soft gasp of astonishment and wonder when he takes her in his arms all of the sudden, every move gentle but firm. A sense of sweet acceptance overtakes her; all she can do in those short moments before his mouth presses against hers is to watch it happen, heart fluttering wildly those few seconds right before. The rest of the world ceases to exist, though they stand in plain sight and many do indeed see them locked thus in an intimate embrace.

Èowyn thinks of none of that, not with Faramir holding her; kissing her. She responds a beat belatedly from her own wonderment, a little clumsily but sincerely, sighing into the contact. The ache in her chest eases, and for the first time in ages she feels like she belongs. Her own hands have somehow ended up at his waist, pressing gently against him to hold on as they kiss; seemingly forever. She's breathless from it and elation once the contact breaks, catching her breath and looking at Faramir with soft awe-- and smiling beatifically.

[whattheydefend]

It is a moment that seems to last forever, and though it can only be a minute or two, by the time their kiss breaks all things have changed. Eowyn holds him even as he holds her, and her smile is joyful, such as he has never seen her wear, such as he has longed to see. Faramir caresses her cheek, marvelling at this transformation and marvelling more still that it can have anything to do with himself.

"Then will you leave your people, proud lady of Rohan, to wed a soldier from the South?" he asks, still quietly, as though speaking too loudly might break this enchantment. "You who are a daughter of kings and a warrior of whom songs will be sung, will you come with me to softer, greener lands, and there make your home?"

sorry for the lack of icons, her account expired :(

[freo]

Éowyn closes her eyes briefly when he caresses her cheek, casting him with a clear, steady look when she opens them again, serious as she listens. She allows the silence to rest between them for a moment after he says his piece, before she smiles; a small smile, but gentle and earnest.

"I will." Her voice is as quiet as his. "I will wed you, Faramir of Gondor, and come with you wherever you will go, to this green land-- and dwell there with you in bliss for the rest of our days." A hint of wetness gleams in her eyes as her smile widens a little, lifting her own hand to his cheek in turn. "Does my answer please you?"