faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

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From:

whattheydefend

[Faramir has never known how to reach the Library. He goes to sleep and wakes there, or steps through a doorway and finds himself somewhere entirely different from where he meant to be. By now he accepts it as a thing entirely out of his control, for all that he mislikes the fact, and rarely more than now. Bad enough that he cannot go to her; worse that he cannot even go to the place where they might meet. It is as though they are seperated by two worlds, as if one were not enough.]

Melda--

While I am ever glad to know you are safe and whole, I think there is much you have not said, and that worries me much. Can you not tell me what has happened to upset you so? It must have been extraordinary to disturb a heart as valiant as yours.

[Faramir is skilled at reading between the lines. The Prince is called by full title, not by name, and it is no great jump of logic to know that he is the heart of whatever ails her. Hamlet has not been spoken of between them in great depth, for Faramir could well perceive the tangle of complicated, unresolved emotions there, and judged himself not impartial enough to aid Ophelia in untangling them. And even before they met she was distincing herself from Hamlet, by her father's wishes, and seemed...not entirely unhappy to be doing so, if saddened by the necessity.]

I am returned to Ithilien, and much on the move. I think there will not often be leisure for conversations such as we have sometimes managed in this book. But I will look for your letters every day, and think of you every minute. As I already do.

I would we were together in the garden, surrounded by nasturtiums. Whenever I close my eyes, the calm of that place and your presence enfolds me. Victory in battle--they were too late to help my brother, but I hope they will aid us, in the various battle we wage, I on the field and you in the court. But the only complete victory would be to be reunited with you.

Take utmost care, Ophelia, and do not neglect yourself even as you try to ease those around you. And know that I am ever and always,

your Faramir

From:

importuned

[Of course, even worlds apart, Faramir knows when her heart is aching. Of course, even when she's forced her hand to be smooth and even, he's guessed at the turmoil in her heart.

For a long while, Ophelia simply scans over the familiar scrawl newly covering the pages. What a strange relief it is, to feel affection after this recent shattering.]

Elskede--

I would far rather you think of the nasturtiums than worry after my troubles, but I expect your heart is too kind not to fret--and in truth, I would not cure you of your gentleness for all the world.

It is but a little thing, in the end. My lord the Prince has used me more harshly than he was wont to. [She has to pause there for a long moment, free hand pressed to her lips and eyes squeezed shut against the sharpness of each word cutting into her heart.] I had hoped speaking with him again would ease both our minds, but it seems all I was good for was stoking his hurts.

But do not think of me here and unhappy. Think of me as you saw me last, in the true surfeit of happiness that comes with your nearness. What aches me now is nothing you cannot soothe.

I do truly remain,

your Ophelia

From:

whattheydefend

[His heart aches as he reads her missive. That she is much more wounded and unhappy than she lets on is clear, and unsurprising; he knows how deep Ophelia's emotions run, however quietly she reveals them on the surface. And he can guess too how much power Hamlet has to injure her.

There is a quiet, restrained anger that burns in him when he thinks of Hamlet. He should feel pity, and does, and yet...and yet. Perhaps it would be different if he might meet the man, but as it is...

As it is, he wishes Ophelia were away from Elsinore.

He sits for a while, calming himself before answering her letter, and when he addresses her it is deliberate that he uses her term of endearment rather than one of his own.]

Elskede--

Do not dismiss your own hurt, Ophelia, in seeking to ease my worry. I do not doubt that whatever harshness you received was unwarranted, and I grieve for the pain you must feel as a result of it. I would I could give you advice, but knowing so little of Hamlet's mind, there seems nothing to be done but to hope you may avoid him, and thus spare yourself--and him, it seems--further pain.

I wish it were otherwise. I know it grieves you to see him hurting.

[He hesitates. What he feels is not envy, not exactly--though it would self-deception to not admit a degree of that, however slight. It is more anger mixed with a cool suspicion. There was a time when Hamlet recognized Ophelia's worth, when--Faramir suspects--the prince even loved her, or seemed to. What madness or necessity now makes him cruel?

There is too much unknown, and he likes it not at all.]

You tell me not to think of you unhappy, but I could not abandon you thus; what friend could do so? So I will worry, and hope the days to come are more kind to you and yours, and wish I were there in truth to soothe away any hurts you have.

But be assured I do remember you happy as well, the light of your smile and the warmth of your fingers. And your kisses, sweeter than honey.

Tye-meláne, Ophelia. I pray you keep safe.

Ever yours,
Faramir

From:

importuned

[There's little time, in the coming days, to steal a moment for herself beyond the heartbeats just before sleep. There's an odd, frenetic flurry to the castle, as the world continues to tilt and sway under the scattered plans to brighten the prince of the Danes back from his brush with madness.

Gertrude needs her to be strong. Gertrude needs her to be bright and steady and eager to help. Gertrude still needs her to be in love with the man who had ripped her from his own heart.

There's little time to write to Faramir--only a few stolen seconds when she wakes to read over the lines of his letter as she steels herself for the trials ahead.

The players, thankfully, provide wonderful distraction for the entire court. At last, Ophelia finds herself hurrying alone through the halls of Elsinore; and then, at longer last, instead tripping along through the rows of books she knows to belong to the Library.

Shamefully, to her own mind, her first thought isn't to seek out Faramir. His life had ever been in far more danger than her own, and by rights she ought to seek for news, or at least begin to properly reply to his last missive.

Instead, at the end of the row, Ophelia's body allows itself to drop into a heap of skirts, folding herself in as best as she can before the first sobs take hold of her.]

From:

whattheydefend

[There is little time in the coming days for Faramir either, none for further writing. The letters he writes late into the night are to his father, or factors spread throughout Ithilien and southern Gondor, or to fellow soldiers who need placing. With his brother gone, his duties are increased. There is no time for rereading Ophelia's letters, much less answering them.

He has no need to reread them; he knows them by heart. Even so when there is a spare moment, however brief, he opens the little book and looks at her writing, and is both comforted and troubled by the elegant lines of penmanship. For she does not write again.

It is after a long, hard day of riding that he and his men reach Henneth Annûn, to rest and resupply for a day before going forth on their next sortie. He sees everyone stowed before seeing his own bed, deep within the caves behind the waterfall. Tomorrow will see plans made, news shared, maps studied. Tomorrow.

But something further troubles him. The sound of the waterfall is ever-present, either a loud roar if one is close or a dull rush in the background if one is further back in the caverns, but even so...he would swear he can hear a woman crying.

Faramir goes in search, of course, and there is hope and fear both warring in him at the thought that it might be real, might be a sound meant to call him. He has never found his way to the Library deliberately, but following that faint sound takes him through caves he knows he has never seen, that do not exist, until the stone walls turn into lines, into shelves, and by that point he is almost running, the sound of helpless sobbing filling his ears. He knows that voice, knew it even when it was a mere whisper nearly drowned by the cascade of rushing water. If he were near death, still it would pull him into movement.

So it is with no surprise that he finds Ophelia, sprawled in a pile of limbs and skirts and despair, on the floor between the shelves. He rushes forward to her, kneeling on the floor next to her and enfolding her in his arms at once, automatically making small soothing noises under his breath. There is real heartbreak in that weeping, and it tears at him almost as much as it does her.]

Elskede, Melda, Ophelia...shh, I am here, I am with you, you are safe here...

[He kisses the top of her head, holding her all the closer, his own relief at seeing her eclipsed by her misery. What can have happened?]

From:

importuned

[She knows these arms. She knows this voice. She knows that there is nothing but absolute safety in being swept in safe against this chest with these arms and this soft voice murmuring against her hair.

But for a garbled, unhappy moment, Ophelia can't stop herself from pushing.

It's only a weak little shove, the sort of jolt that comes from an instinct rather than a plan. It takes barely a second for her fingers to twist from pressed flat to clinging to whatever fabric she can catch hold of. Her shoulder droop back into themselves, her spine relaxes from its brief rigidity, and her face burrows in properly against the hollow of Faramir's neck.

No words can find purchase in her throat. Every last inch of it has still to be ripped through with the incoherence of her exhausted sobbing. It will take a few long moments before she can find her breath again, searching against Faramir's throat for a steady rhythm for her own aching lungs to follow.]

From:

whattheydefend

[he releases her at once when she pushes against him, only to reach for her once more when she clutches at his shirt. He had enough time in Henneth Annûn to change out of his armor, at least, or she would find little cloth to grip.

For a time they simply remain there, him kneeling beside her and keeping her enfolded, as though with his own body he can be a barrier between Ophelia and whatever hurts her, while she shakes with violent, choked sobs. He says nothing further, merely holds her as her body is wracked with misery.

After a few minutes, as this eventually begins to subside, he shifts his hold and lifts her up entirely, with ease; he is an archer, and most of his strength is in his arms and back. Carrying one woman takes little effort.

He looks around carefully as he walks, his footsteps near silent for all the burden he bears, and between the stacks spies an armchair, one of the main that are placed around the Library for errant readers. It will do, since there are no others present. His first thougtht is to place her in it, but her grip on him is still strong enough that he reconsiders--and in truth he has no wish to release her, even to a short distance.

So instead Faramir sits himself down, with Ophelia in his lap, still enfolded, still protected. He strokes gently at her hair until she quiets further, waiting with an air that says more clearly than words that he will wait for as long as necessary. As long as she needs.]

From:

importuned

[Ophelia has always been a little thing. It's never been much effort for her brother to sweep her onto his shoulders or Hamlet to-- well. This isn't at all like that.

Gripping tighter as Faramir pulls her up in his arms is, at any rate, entirely instinct. Her mind only catches up with the shifting as they move down the aisle. It helps, strangely enough, with her efforts to stem the tide, body beginning to bite down on the tears as she attempts to be still rather than a shaking bundle to bear.

The sobs are replaced with a quiet spattering of tears. The keening is replaced by ragged gulps of breath, hiccoughing and wet. Slowly, slowly, the painful grip on Faramir's shirt begins to ease, until her arms fall nearly limp.

Her handkerchief is surely tucked somewhere on her person, but as she shifts slightly, it's easier to simply pull up the long hem of her own sleeve to begin delicately pressing away the tear stains on her cheeks.]

...forgive me.

[After the cacophony of sobbing, her own voice feels small and far away to her own ear.]

From:

whattheydefend

There is naught to forgive.

[A quiet, courtly phrase, but clearly meant. He continues holding her, stroking at her hair, guessing what he can of what has passed. He is perceptive, is Faramir, and some of the pieces presented are obvious to interpret: she is well dressed, even by her usual standards, enough that she must have been attending some sort of formal event. Her hair was up but has fallen partly loose in her flight, and his own ministrations have loosened it further; he has gathered a few jeweled pins, to return to her later. The sheer violence of her grief, so great and so fervent, can have only one source. The only question is what Hamlet has done. More than harsh words, this time, it is certain.]

Would you speak of it?

From:

importuned

[The softness feels almost strange. The gentleness of his touch is familiar, but almost distant now, as if from some ancient time beyond the last few days.

But if she forces herself to shift, Ophelia can fill herself with an awareness of exactly where she is. The arms encircling her are Faramir's. The fingers smoothing through her hair are Faramir's. The voice in her ears and the forehead she can shift to press her own against are Faramir's.

She can trust this. She can relearn this.]

I would not... dwell on it. [Finished with carefully wiping at the tears, her fingers shift to catch a shaky hold at Faramir's cheek. She knows him. She knows she's safe here.] I would... not e'en think on his touch again.

From:

whattheydefend

[Faramir goes very, very still, as a possible intepretation of those words occurs to him. He badly wants to ask if that fear is truth--but he will not. It would change nothing. He has no way into her world to avenge such an injury, and even if he did, she needs him here, now. That is that is important, whatever happened. He is needed here and now.

Slowly, with effort, he forces himself to relax abruptly tense muscles. His hold on her stays gentle throughout, unconfining; this embrace is not a cage, and not for worlds would he have it become so. He cannot ask questions, given her wishes, much as he burns to know the answers. Instead he sighs, the last bit of tension seeping out of him, and covers her hand on his cheek with his own.]

I am here.

[For whatever she needs, whatever he may do to aid her. She need only command him.]

From:

importuned

[Faramir is here. His fingers are warm and familiar over her own, large and calloused and gentle where they rest against her hand. His arms, which had hauled her up as if she were nothing, are there as a bastion against the encroachment of even her own thoughts.

Slowly, her breath finds his.] ...you are.

[And he would be, Ophelia knows, no matter what she told him of the last few weeks. He would hold her this gently, with this much open kindness, no matter how her honour and her heart had been used.

Her fingers tug gently, urging his forehead down where her own can be pressed into place against it. Her eyes squeeze shut, attention focused on the utter certainty that Faramir would still be there when she opened them again.

Not just there, but utterly himself.]

I can scarce imagine how I have deserved that blessing.

From:

whattheydefend

[If he was regretting the necessity of not questioning her about what has happened, her reaction banishes it. She kisses his mouth, then his forehead, shaky gestures meant for her own comfort as much as anything else, a further way of proving that he is here, that she is safe. He welcomes them, and one of his arms tightens a little around her back.]

I think it is I who am blessed, not least by your trust.

[Quiet words, but heartfelt. He reaches up and strokes her hair again, his eyes also closed. Her breath is more even now, no longer interrupted by echoes of sobs or hitches of breath. His hand slides around to her face, caresses her cheek. Such a storm of weeping is painful, he knows, and will have left her eyes and face aching.]

Should we find you some water, perhaps? Or remain here a while yet?

From:

importuned

[Warm water would feel comforting on her cheeks. Cool water would feel wonderful in her throat. Fresh air in this quiet, sun-kissed place would undoubtedly soothe the battered edges of her heart.]

...where you lead, melda.

[It takes a beat for her limbs to willingly follow her thoughts. Her fingers can't quite be made to leave their hold of him, skimming from his cheeks to his shoulders as she moves to find her feet again, scrambling for his arms and hands before they can begin on their way.

She does not wish to dwell. She does not wish to linger in this space where her hurt has been writ large across them both.

But she does not think she can stand without his arm to cling to.]

From:

whattheydefend

[He is tempted for a moment to simply carry her once more. He stands and lets her cling as needed, until she is less shaky on her feet, then gives her one hand to hold while wrapping his other arm around her shoulder. His strength is still there if she needs it, a support and a prop. For a moment the hold is another embrace, and he bends his head and kisses her hair lightly before turning a little so they may move.

They walk slowly. She moves as though recovering from some trauma, and he is careful to adjust his long stride to her smaller steps. They present an odd sight, no doubt, both turned a little towards each other, a small v moving forward.

But the library is kind, and gives them a path untroubled by other patrons. Faramir leads them outside at once. Ophelia is always happiest in a garden.

It was night in Ithilien, and it is night here, but a gentle, warm night, the sort that falls on shoulders like a blanket. There is just enough breeze to stir the grass and flowers. And not far, Faramir knows, there is a fountain. That is what they need.]

From:

importuned

[It takes a few paces to find her own proper stride. The certainty of Faramir beside her, solid and warm and still nearly surrounding her with his presence, continues to draw a steadiness she's been lacking properly back into her core.

By the time they reach the fresh bright air of the garden, Ophelia is walking without leaning--holding on without struggling for her own feet. She doesn't quite feel entirely herself again (it will take time, she knows, for the strange new edges of her home to be dulled, so their bite will be an ache rather than a searing pain), but the tears feel much farther off now.

(This, she knows, is proper love, steady and deep and true. This is a love that gives, that nourishes, that pulls the pieces of her back together rather than growing into the cracks so that her seams begin to burst.)

Her voice still feels small, but there's an edge of determination back in it.] Your... men are well?

[Just a moment's normalcy will help solidify this calm. Just a few seconds of pretending that they've simply stolen another quiet night together from the hell they've both been living.]

From:

whattheydefend

[Faramir welcomes the mildness of the night for his own sake as well as hers. It is colder, in Ithilien, the tail end of winter, and the wind still has a bite to it. But here the air is kind, the breeze warm, as though spring or even summe knew their need before they did.

With all his heart, Faramir loves the Library. As much as he loves and reveres Minas Tirith itself, and that is no small thing.]

They are. We had just finished a journey of two days, from our city to the wilds of Ithilien. A day of rest and preparation we shall all have, before our next engagement with the Enemy.

[So this idyll is well-timed, for all that neither of them chose the timing, and for all that when he returns none will know he ever left. He smiles down at her.]

It is kind of you to ask after them, although you know them not.

[And shows her understanding, for the welfare of those he commands is of the utmost importance to their Captain. Her care for them is a reflection of her feelings for Faramir, and he appreciates it.]

From:

importuned

[It's a small blessing that the meeting is well-timed. It's a small blessing to know she isn't another weight thrown around Faramir's neck just now, weighing down his already laden shoulders.]

I know them through your care. [Not in names, not in faces, but in the care they etched into the corners of Faramir's expression when he stood in thought or mentioned his home.] And I owe them your life.

[Ophelia can only hope they'll forgive her for needing to distract herself with thoughts of them.]

From:

whattheydefend

[Small blessings are blessings nonetheless, worth noticing and cherishing, perhaps all the more for the risk of their being taken for granted. It is easy to see the large miracles, but it is the smaller gifts that fill days and lift hearts, that keep one foot moving in front of another. Every word Ophelia says is a gift, every breath. They are also a path back from whatever event has pained her, and he would be grateful for that alone. So he smiles, his hold on her shoulders tightening a little in encouragement.]

Several times over, I fear. Though they might claim otherwise! I may not be highly regarded by my father, but it is heartening to me to know that those I lead follow willingly.

[His troubles with his father, she knows, from long letters and longer conversations, many of them here in this garden. The Steward's constant, unwavering preference for his older son, Faramir never begrudged; how could he, when he regarded Boromir with the same love and respect? But to be treatedly so harshly now Boromir is gone, that is harder than anything that came before; to be denied permission to grieve with the one who is also left most bereft. The more so as they do not know how Boromir came to pass away from the world. They have only a horn's call on the wind, a dream, and the two broken halves of that same horn. Those, and questions.

But that is no subject for the moment; it would distract Ophelia for certain, but only grieve her, for her heart is kind. Faramir sets the thoughts aside, as he has had to do so often for the past days, in order to focus on the task at hand.

The fountain is easily reached, and he guides her to sit on its edge, joining her there. There is a cup resting on the stone--how does the Library know? If Faramir ever meets the spirits in charge of this place, he will have so many questions for them. But for now it matters not, and he is more than willing to simply accept the small gifts offered them. A cup of cool water, a warm breeze, and each other's company.

Not such small gifts, in truth. Not when they are so much needed by them both.]

Here, drink. Shall I tell you somewhat of my men?

[He distracts her for a few minutes with names and stories, not the tedious and grim realities of a soldier's life, but the brighter moments. A foolish bet made during a game of cards with his lieutenant, the chaos caused when a large and unexpected frog appeared in someone's bedroll. Silly tales, brief and easily told, to give her some picture of those he works with. To give her time to recover herself.]

From:

importuned

[The edge of the fountain is familiar. It's a good place to sit, after all, in the near-endless summer of this place, surrounded by the loveliness of the gardens. The water is cool in her throat. It helps with the hurt in her voice and, somehow, the faint threat of new welling tears.

And Faramir's gentle voice, warm over the telling of happy days among men he trusted, is the surest sign of her absolute safety.

Ophelia allows herself to melt slowly into the half-fantasy of the distraction, asking for names to be repeated, tracing absent maps along the fountain beside her skirts, laughing softly at the joy of the moments Faramir honoured her by sharing. If she were truly only his, this is exactly how they would spend their evenings, she's certain. If her lot could be completely thrown with his, she would repeat these names and the stories she would cling to in their dull days apart.

Her smile feels far more settled on her lips as she finally sets down the cup again.]

-thank you.

From:

whattheydefend

[She looks more calm, feels more calm, and he smiles his relief at her for a moment.]

You are welcome.

[Carefully he reaches up a hand and brushes hair back from her face, his motions gentle and slow, for he does not know what she has suffered and has not forgotten that first, instinctive moment when she shied away from him. Impossible to forget that.

Impossible not to be concerned about what might have caused such fear and grief. He tries to hide it, but he is an honest man, and worry is still there in his eyes for all that he does not voice it.]

From:

importuned

[His touch is easy to lean into now. The sigh in Ophelia's throat is utterly contented as she briefly allows her eyes to slip shut for a heartbeat.

This still feels right. This still feels safe and wonderful. This hasn't been tainted by the heavy hurts weighing on her heart.

The certainty helps keep her smile in place as she sits up properly again.] You make me... whole, Faramir.

[No matter what the rest of the world threw at her, apparently--which is a wonderful and terrible thing to learn.]

From:

whattheydefend

[She rests her cheek against the palm of his hand, her body language now expressing only trust. Faramir swallows hard as he takes in the sight, and the soft feel of her skin against his hand.]

If that is so, I am glad. And honored.

[He swallows again, slowly leans forward and places a gentle kiss on her forehead, unwilling to risk anything further without permission. But he rests his cheek against her head, after, his own eyes closing.]

And you--with you, I am at rest. As I am nowhere else.

From:

importuned

[There is often a bittersweet edge to their time together, as the little lingering bits of practicality Polonius's children cannot avoid whisper in the recesses of her mind. Tonight, blessedly, the melancholy falls silent.

When she closes her eyes and feels the solid presence of Faramir beside her, cheek against her hair, all Ophelia can feel is the absolute joy of true comfort.]

If that is so, I am... elated. E'en now.

[Even with a new ache in her soul. Even with a life she must return to that grows harder to bear every day.]

From:

whattheydefend

I would have you always feel so.

[Faramir feels the bittersweetness more than ever. Usually he is more able to separate there and here while at the Library, to appreciate these times as the gift and respite they are. But now, with her pain still so near to mind, it is more difficult. His eyes remain closed, and he turns his face again so it rests against her hair, the scent of her filling his senses.]

I would have you always with me, could I but make it so. For as long as we both might live, and beyond it.