Another Year, Another Open RP Post

[duckshaveears]

Currently offering: Crowley, angel!Crowley, Haleth. Will update this if that changes. If you want one of those three, have at it.

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Wake the Snake for confoundthemighty

[duckshaveears]

Crowley went to bed in not the best of moods.

Things could be worse, mind. Armageddon had come and gone, for a value of 'come and gone' that equalled 'had sort of happened except not really and it's all just bloody ineffabble again innit'. He was free from Hell's shackles and Aziraphale was free from Heaven's mindfuckery and humanity was free to go on being blessedly, damnably, fantastically human, and the world turned on.

But the world turning on meant all the usual irritants, wars and plagues and famines. This year was apparently plague, and while it was no 14th century (thank Somebody for that) it wasn't exactly a walk in the park either. Not least because they weren't supposed to go walking in parks. Not in company, anyway, and what was the point of a walk in the park on your own with no one to talk to but ducks? So if Aziraphale was going to stand firm about not meeting at all until things eased up, Crowley might as well be asleep. Not like there was much else to do lately.

And if while curled up between dark sheets and a comfortable mattress (or the walls, occassionally, or the ceiling) (which were also dark) he sometimes let himself dream of good wine and better conversation, or of watching an angelic tongue licking cake crumbs off of angelic lips, or of another body curled up against his and sighing in relaxed contentment, well. That was no one's business but his own.

Months passed, and Crowley slept.

This turned out way longer than I anticipated, whoops!

[confoundthemighty]

For the first time in his long existence, Aziraphale found himself in the exact same position as most of humanity.

The world failed to end, and for a little while Aziraphale felt frankly dazzled by the possibilities ahead of him. Heaven left him alone, and he was still fully himself, wings and homely miracles and all, not a page out of place in his bookshop. There were so many things he could do with no one watching, with no fear of retribution. There were books he could read in a comfortable armchair by daylight rather than furtively with all the doors locked.[1] There were human hobbies he could devote space and time to without shame. There were chances now, his to discover, his to take.

Then came lockdown.

Everything stopped. No theatre, no cinema, no customers to chase away. No restaurants, no crowds. The plague[2] emptied streets and schools and all manner of communal spaces. Though it buoyed Aziraphale’s heart to see how human beings offered one another remote support, it was undeniably a blow to anyone with even the slightest desire for a non-solitary existence, and the angel was not immune.

Aziraphale baked. He read. He went through his closet, making a conscientious effort to change his clothes every day, the way humans did—first his more modern wear, then the older pieces he still owned. He taught himself the rudiments of skills no other angel had ever thought to investigate, like origami and BASIC.[3] He set up a projector in the back of the bookshop and watched a handful of films with cocoa and popcorn.

(And at times, alone in the silence, he would let himself listen to the ever-present whispers of human thought, would send out miracles to try and lessen the building miasma of despair. He couldn’t fix it all, and knew he would both burn himself out and probably incur the wrath of Heaven trying, but he could give little sparks of light to humanity the way they gave them to one another, so he did.)

It felt increasingly empty, though. The plague raged; the quiet persisted. Summer withered on the vine; autumn rotted on the branch. Aziraphale’s human hobbies were less satisfying by the day. Even his furtive good deeds felt less fulfilling. He ate less often—he didn’t need to, after all.

There was a brittle chill in the air by the time Aziraphale allowed himself to look at the truth face-on: I am desperately lonely, and I said no to the person who could have changed that.

Strangely enough, without Armageddon looming over him—without any sense of what, from here on out, constituted the inevitable—Aziraphale found that his nerves managed to metabolize into a spike of frantic courage within less than twelve hours of this revelation. Just enough courage to try Crowley by phone, mind, but his heart raced all the same as he listened to the line buzz.




[1] While Heaven didn’t officially have any book-banning policies, Aziraphale’s former superiors and coworkers had made it clear they strongly disapproved of certain authors and subject matter. Romance novels and cookbooks were the primary recipients of such disapproval, though he had heard disparaging remarks aimed at titles ranging from The Picture of Dorian Gray to the Dungeons and Dragons Monster Manual.

[2] It is tempting to pin the origin of the disease on Pestilence, who despite handing off their crown to Pollution had had a very active retirement as an anti-vaccination lecturer. However, as much as they would like to take credit for it, this one was an accident of nature.

[3] Aziraphale’s first program was as follows:
10 PRINT “LET THERE BE TEXT”
5 CLS
20 GOTO 10
He was extremely proud of it.

They always do. That BASIC code is a thing of delight.

[duckshaveears]

To say Crowley slept deeply was inaccurate. The difficulty of waking him depended whether he was having an enjoyable afternoon nap, a solid night's rest, a lazy doze, hangover recovery, or something more akin to winter hibernation. His current state was definitely closest to the latter, given that his corporation had been turned down to its lowest survival setting for a solid half a year or more.

It's not surprising, therefore, that it took him a little while to wake up.

His arm was moving for the phone before his brain had even registered it was ringing, with that unconscious, ineffectual, flailing, thwacking motion all too familiar to anyone who has ever set a morning alarm. [1] This accomplishing nothing, the phone kept ringing. It took several more tries before his hand (a little more awake than the rest of him, which wasn't saying much) managed to catch hold of the phone and pull it under the covers with him.

"Nghwhahrg?" his mouth said, completely without assistance from his brain.

[1] Crowley had not invented those alarm clocks that start moving as soon as they go off, requiring the hearer to get physically out of bed and chase them, but he had put a note on the soul who had (who was clearly earmarked for Hell) stating that when they arrived Below they should be assigned to the Department of Diabolical Ideas.

[lendedahand]

[So they’re in Kirkwall, for reasons. And it seems as though there’s been a bit of a murder spree going on... because Kirkwall, and of course they’re the first ones to discover a body because... their luck.

This odd unfortunate fellow seemed to be without a head, and in nothing but his smallclothes. Regular Tuesday in Kirkwall really, not the somewhat odder part was the fact that he had a tattoo of a crudely drawn fish, and someone had thrown cheese over the corpse.]

Well... He’s certainly not getting ahead in life.

[...]

I’m sorry, there’s so much to work with here. I’m not even sure where to start.

I honestly haven't tagged with Hawke for over two years, so apologies for the rust!

[questionablewit]

[Sometimes Hawke wonders if these things just happen in Kirkwall, or if these things just happen to her, or if it's some bizarre combination of the two. Adding in the fact that these things often just happen to the Inquisitor and that all three factors are in play today, and really it would've been more of a surprise for them not to run across a headless corpse today.

The cheese, though, is a surprise.]

Can you say something smells fishy if it's just a drawing of a fish? No, this would be something looking sketchy, wouldn't it...

[She kneels by the corpse, head tilted as she examines it.]

What kind of cheese would you say this is, anyway?

This is for fun! Hawke could turn into a chicken and if it was fun I wouldn't care

[lendedahand]

Sharp.

[He spits out almost immediately, but then goes into a strained silence as though he was fighting to hold something back. Lasts all of 3 seconds before he blurts it out finishing off with a snort of laughter.]

It must have been grating on him.

[grumpycatanthir]

Doriath... is a disaster. It was always going to be one, of course, but no one ever listens to Caranthir, what does he know.

(He knows this was a stupid plan is what, if only because it will utterly ruin his carefully negotiated trade routes)

He's not at all surprised that the resistance is more fierce than Celegorm and Curufin were espousing. The Oath may drive them, but it's not supposed to make them idiots. It doesn't mean he doesn't fight as furiously as ever - he needs the Silmaril back as much as any of them, after all - but it does mean that maybe he's not as careful as he should be.

The sword thrust doesn't even hurt, at first. There's a moment when he simply blinks down and thinks oH.

He really hates stomach wounds. They take so long to kill you. He's very grateful for the angry Sinda who cuts his throat, not that he'll be saying that, or anything else, anytime soon. He's a little sorry that this will hurt his brothers, but it's not as if anyone will really notice he's gone, anyway.

(Not until their budget starts to shrink)

The Halls are a nice surprise - he'd rather been expecting the Void. What's even more surprising is who's waiting for him.

.............

He's in trouble, isn't he.

I'd forgotten this! Shall we do it too?

[takesnoshit]

A son of Feanor in the Halls is an unusual sight; their Doom should land them in a very different location. Perhaps the only thing more unusual is the sight that greets Caranthir upon his arrival: a small, mortal woman, her features plain but strong. Against all reason, she looks the age she was when they first met, rather than the age she was when she died hundreds of years ago. There is a gold ring on her left hand, and she wears clothing of familiar design.

Haleth leans against a pillar, her arms crossed over her chest. "You're early," she chides.

=D SURE

[grumpycatanthir]

"There were... extenuating circumstances."

He crosses his arms back and stares, not one to grovel, but wondering in the back of his mind if he should.

"You don't look like Lord Namo." He adds.

It is goat time again, best time of day

[salutosinedelectat]

[ From here.]

Well. How curiously specific.

[ You don't have to look at him to hear the grin.]

indeed it is! though this feels more like canon them?

[duckshaveears]

Don't rub it in.

[This is it, this is how Crowley dies. Not holy water or smiting but sheer mortification. There's reasons they don't talk about this stuff!]

I Don't Actually Like You (Except I kinda do)

[grumpycatanthir]

The Haladin have, after much politicking, finally settled in their new lands. At last, they can turn their thoughts from survival to prospering. There is no reason for the Lord of Thargelion to worry, or to visit or... well. To be anywhere in his cousin's lands, to be honest.

Except that he is.

By himself, even.

Persumably, the scouts suggest, he HAD an escort, that he has, for some reason, left behind.

One where they're married and reunited, one where they circle each other like wary cats...;)

[takesnoshit]

Lord Caranthir's approach doesn't go unnoticed. Haleth has an hour's advance warning, though little more. Some of the Haladin are clearly bewildered by this abrupt arrival, and more bewildered that he comes alone. None of the other Firstborn who have visited have acted thus, not even Finrod Felagund, more fond of the race of Men than most of his kin.

But Caranthir has never been like other Firstborn, or indeed like anyone else, in Haleth's experience.

When she is told of his imminent arrival she merely nods and orders that food and lodging be made ready for their guest, in case they are needed. Some worry that there is no time to prepare anything by which to show honour to a Prince of the Firstborn, and fret over their lack of preparation; she halts such concerns. The Caranthir she remembers had little interest in such entertainment.

As the Haladin rush off to make ready what they may, one sourly laments that the Prince and their own Chieftain have that in common. It is muttered under his breath, but Haleth hears. And smiles a little, for it is true. She and Lord Caranthir had been much alike, in some ways. It will be interesting to see if they are still so.

LOL okay (1) Married

[grumpycatanthir]

Caranthir might arrive alone, but there's an arrogance to him that belies his humble approach, the classic Noldor tendency to jewels braided in his hair and gold on his wrists and around his neck, although for one of his own people, he's surprisingly understated, preferring darker colors.

Still, he hardly looks like he's traveling hard.

But when he arrives he dismounts before the scouts, dipping his head politely.

"Is Chief Haleth here?" He asks.

DING DING SOMEONE ORDER EQUAL PARTS SILLINESS AND PINING

[confoundthemighty]

Months and months of wretched lockdown, and at last a breath of hope perfumes the air. Finally (and without any Heavenly interference other than Aziraphale’s own general vague well-wishes, as far as he can tell) the humans have made a vaccine and are distributing it as quickly as they possibly can. There’s optimism ranging from cautious to jubilant in most of the souls he feels pass by the shop, when he bothers to extend his senses.

And still there’s not a word from Crowley.

Strange things happen to a hedonist in isolation. With so many pleasures great and small out of reach and no idea when they might be available again, a kind of weird alchemy takes place over time that rearranges one’s priorities and creates miserable agitation in the soul. Along with the hunger for experience and sensation, a sort of manic determination grows: If I make it out of this I’ll never pass up a chance to indulge again.

Combine this determination with a love that’s only grown keener in the sustained absence of the beloved, and you have an absolutely untenable state of being of the exact kind that grips Aziraphale now.

On New Year’s Eve he decides he’s had quite enough of wallowing (a decision assisted by a glass of champagne that really would be better shared). He digs a picnic basket out of a dusty corner, jams a few bottles of wine into it along with a strawberry almond Budapest roll he’s baked but hasn’t had the heart to eat alone, and heads to Mayfair. For the first time he doesn’t give a damn whether anyone might see him and disapprove—he has things to do. (Though he does, naturally, make certain he has a face mask on. He has standards.)

Crowley’s door knows him well enough to open itself when he arrives after he’s given a courtesy knock; the flat is full of a thick silence. The plants have clearly been too terrified of a sudden inspection to misbehave, though some of them are looking a touch thirsty.

Crowley himself is, to Aziraphale’s dismay, still asleep.

The black sheets on his bed seem to cushion him like the velvet in a jewelry box, setting off a diamond. His hair’s been growing on his pillow, a soft red tangle that’s somewhere between waves and ringlets. His eyelashes rest unmoving against his cheeks.

For a moment Aziraphale wants to simply shake him awake, demand that Crowley sit up and pay attention to him. Then the thought gentles: really, Crowley is quite beautiful when he sleeps, all his angles and edges at rest. A harsh awakening would probably jangle him into a state of exasperation, and that’s not what Aziraphale wants. After all, he’s here to tell Crowley that he wants to ring in the new year together, and hopefully more than that if his courage doesn’t fail him.

That thought sparks another that gives Aziraphale pause. He could make his intentions known and wake Crowley with the same gesture. It would be terribly, terribly romantic, to wake his serpent with a kiss.

Although.

There is, Aziraphale reflects, a bit of a problem with the awakening kiss. In fiction it’s perfectly fine: the author can assure the audience that the handsome prince’s motives and desires are all born of innocent love, and that the princess in her bower pines for the kiss she cannot ask for or say yes to. Negotiation isn’t a necessary part of the equation when an author can show you what’s inside someone’s mind. But outside of a story things get considerably stickier, even for immortal beings. Or perhaps especially for immortal beings, depending on how you look at it.

The other ideal thing about fiction is that no real soul is hurt by a possibly dubious action. If he misjudges this, he might end up hurting the soul he loves most in the world, and Aziraphale would rather pack up and leave for Alpha Centauri than hurt Crowley again if he can avoid it.

Although.

Both he and Crowley have long been slipping into human dreams to examine and shape them, for work (and occasionally for their own curiosity). He could ask. Or at least let Crowley know he’s here.

With the gentleness only an anxious angel can manage, Aziraphale seats himself on the edge of the mattress. His fingers just barely brush the high slope of Crowley’s cheekbone, a touch lighter than a breath of air.

Easily, as quiet and certain as opening a door, he lets himself sink into the demon’s dreams.

I tried so hard not to do this, you've no idea, but the idea is *lodged.* But no, it's not US.;)

[duckshaveears]

It's a bright and sunny day in Camelot.

At least, it looks as Camelot did. It looks like Wessex, the castle is right, the trees are the correct sorts of trees. The clothes are the same, the flags and banners, the crowds gathered to watch the jousting knights. There are some details lacking, however. It's not as damp or muddy, and the smell of horse dung isn't nearly as prevalent or pungent. Arthur and Guinevere sit up high with an assortment of nobles beside them, and all the knights of the round are gathered to do battle, or at least mock-battle in the name of entertainment.

There is one quite noticeable difference from Aziraphale's own memories of the place (aside from the lack of horseshit). Sitting beside Guinevere is a very familiar figure. Aziraphale's own face smiles bemusedly on the tournament grounds. His doppleganger looks exactly as he does save that he's wearing a cream colored dress with brown and gold trim, under the same fur-lined cloak Aziraphale may remember from his own days as a knight.

as promised: a stab at Sleeping Beauty AU

[confoundthemighty]

Once upon a time…

Sunlight, warm as a kiss, stole across Aziraphale’s pillow to dye the dark behind his eyelids rose-red. He breathed in deeply, still half caught in the cobweb of a dream, and rolled to his side to blink out at the window.

It was a little after dawn. The sun, just now cresting the tall trees at the border of the royal estate, spilled gold light into his room to soften the edges of familiar objects. Streaks of pink and violet dyed the clouds just visible at the edges of the window frame. Already it promised to be a perfect summer day, bright and vibrant.

Aziraphale almost wished it wasn’t his birthday.

Not that he wasn’t excited to be twenty-one. Twenty-one was, by every legal and social recknoning he knew, considered of an age to make one’s own decisions. And birthdays as a general rule were a great deal of fun. He simply wasn’t enthused about having to spend most of the day at a birthday party, especially not one thrown by his family. Which this one was.

The food would be divine—the royal chef always ensured that much, at least—but he didn’t look forward to the rest of it. All Aziraphale’s milestone birthdays so far had been marked with the same stifling formal atmosphere. It would be six to eight hours of stifling socializing and insipid games with other petty royals, people who didn’t know or care for him outside of his position as the heir to a small kingdom and a not-so-small fortune. His parents and attendants would be watching him like hawks to make certain he was behaving properly, not quoting too much poetry or expressing shocking opinions. Not to mention they’d all been hinting that it was high time he come to an understanding with a suitable (and suitably distinguished) person.

But maybe when night fell…

His heart turned over, the faint fog of dread lifting. Maybe after dark, he could give everyone the slip and head out to the garden. The old apple tree was about to bloom—it always blossomed and fruited later than the rest of the apples in the royal orchards—and if the moon was out, it would turn the leaves silver. There might be glow-worms winking in the dark.

Maybe Crowley would be waiting for him.

Once upon a time, there was a prince who lived in a beautiful golden cage. His parents loved him, but because a wicked faerie had cursed him as an infant, they kept him locked away to ensure the curse never came to pass. Even after the faerie responsible died in exile, they worried, and so the prince grew up well-loved and protected but not free.



[ooc: see discord for more details!!]

[duckshaveears]

Crowley was awake before dawn. That was early even for an under-gardener, and even for an under-gardener on a day as important as this one. But he had his own private project to check on, and besides he couldn't wait. He wanted everything to be perfect. Those were in fact his orders, but he had much more personal motivations for making it so. He smiled secretly to himself as he thought of them and jogged along the paths between the flowerbeds towards his destination.

The gardens were glorious even now, in the pale pre-dawn. Crowley nodded approval as he passed beds of hollyocks, geraniums, peonies, dahlias. The estate was a proud and noble one and the gardens were expected to live up to expectations. Which they did, under Crowley's stern supervision. Well, under the supervision of the head gardener, ostensibly. But more often it was Crowley out here on his hands and knees tending all the plants and insisting that that they would thrive or else he'd know the reason why.

But the roses were the real prize of the estate. Roses of all colours: darkest red and palest whites, pink, yellow, peach, coral. Even the head gardener grudgingly acknowledged that Crowley had a rare touch with roses. For years now he'd tended them, guiding their growth, cultivating.

And now...now his triumph. Just in time. Perfect.

He had to tell Aziraphale.

Crowley glanced at the sun. The house would be awake by now--the kitchen staff rose even before under-gardeners--and Aziraphale would soon be plagued by maids, valets, all the swirl of activity that was bound to surrounded a rich entitled young man on his more important birthday. But if Crowley were determined and clever, he could surely slip in long enough to deliver his own personal birthday greeting before all the real fuss began.

And since he was indeed both determined and clever, he managed to make his way unseen to Aziraphale's window, listened under the closed shutters as someone argued with the young lord about something unimportant--socks, probably, they even had rules about socks, poor sods--and when there was a brief silence he rapped a knuckle on the wood. Two taps, a pause, and another two taps.

Once upon a time, there was a gardener who fell in love with a prince. Everything in the world should have kept them apart, all considerations of class, rank, wealth, education, taste. But even as youths they looked at each other and found they were more alike than different, and found common ground. And a seed of affection took root, grew, and began to bloom, despite growing wholly in secrecy and shade.

Stomps feet

[salutosinedelectat]

[ I come demanding owed offers! Politely.

I also made seperate accounts for zirafell and cathetel if it's easier ]

Re: Stomps feet

[duckshaveears]

[ooc: How did I not see this?!!?!?!?! I didn't see this! ...though I'm guessing we have a good number of threads going on now. ;) Still, want some more?]

this was so fun I couldn’t leave it to the mercies of captcha

[confoundthemighty]

[[continued from here]]

Personally responsible? Because if so, I’m thoroughly impressed!

Well, simpler relative to Hamlet, but a touch more complex relative to that particular sentiment. This would be more along the lines of… how shall I put this.

[Aziraphale, as it turns out, does not know the first rule of holes. Even if he’s not aware that he’s digging right now.]

These two only seem to encounter one another in the record shop, or the coffee shop, or outside the pub. And it’s quite clear that there’s a mutual attraction, and that there has been since the first time they noticed one another. Only, I’ve been advised that “my heart has not been fully my own since the first time I had the chance to speak more than a few words with you” is, in this day and age, not the best way to express such an attraction.

hooray!!

[duckshaveears]

Eh, they weren't anything exceptional. Just good enough to add to the chaos.

Ehhhh that might work honestly, depending on the target. Bit formal maybe but some humans like that. You don't think it sounds like what one of them would write or...?

official dream thread sequel (TM)

[confoundthemighty]

Though they spend quite a lot of time in bed, it does take several months for Aziraphale to actually fall asleep in it. It’s not really that he’s reluctant to keep Crowley from following through on his playful threat to get inside his dreams. He’s just spent such a long time either actively avoiding sleep or spending his nights reading that it’s simply a habit by now to stay awake.

That habit was formed when he spent most of his nights alone, and now nights and days alike are spent in the best of company. Even though they don’t entirely have the world back the way they’d like, even though theatre and restaurants and the symphony and all those sorts of things are still slowly recovering, they have one another. They talk and talk and talk, conversations that go on for literal hours and span the entirety of their shared history; they share little bits of their hobbies, each explaining their own progress and praising the other’s. And they spend a great deal of time exploring in the waking world the things they’ve only dreamed of doing to one another.

The thing is, though, that Crowley does enjoy sleep. He especially seems to love drifting off wrapped around Aziraphale, or with his head in the angel’s lap, or… touching him in any way that he can, really. The first few nights it happens, when Crowley drifts off in his arms, Aziraphale simply watches him. He doesn’t pry, he doesn’t disturb whatever dreams Crowley’s having, he simply watches. Marvels at how beautiful he is, how the little serpent on his face completes the perfection of the whole picture, how all the brilliant elasticity that he adores when Crowley is awake relaxes into something that seems untroubled. And whenever Crowley wakes and discovers he’s still held, still right here by Aziraphale’s side, his smile is ten times more dazzling than the angel he once was.

Eventually, when simple admiring doesn’t quite keep him from wanting to wake Crowley up to talk to him, Aziraphale summons books out of the shelves so he can do some reading. As it turns out, reading is even more enjoyable when he’s got his serpent snuggled up to him. And then, at last, just as it does with humans, sleep catches him off guard one evening as he’s re-reading The Scarlet Pimpernel with Crowley asleep in his arms. Between his demon’s slow deep breathing, his warmth, and the familiarity of the romance, he’s lulled in a way he hasn’t been in a long, long time.

Sleep pulls him down into the comfortable darkness of total rest for a while, with Crowley’s weight serving as an anchor.

found it! let Crowley's Magical Mystery Tour of Aziraphale's Shameless Subconscious begin

[duckshaveears]

He'd meant to plan it, is the thing. Arrange a visit, get permission explicitly again just in case--though Aziraphale had been not only undaunted but enthusiastic about the idea of Crowley entering his dreams, a thing Crowley finds surprising. There's a lot he finds surprising these days. Aziraphale with his habitual protective barriers not only lowered but smashed into pieces has been an educational experience of the best sort.

The point is, it was supposed to happen deliberately, with them both agreeing beforehand. Instead Aziraphale slips into sleep while Crowley is using him as a pillow, and Crowley...

...is suddenly dreaming.

And aware of it, which is helpful. He'd be hard pressed to explain how he knows this is not only a dream, but not his dream. A different timbre, a frisson that isn't present in his own mind. He knows the same way he knows the difference between his skin and Aziraphale's when they're touching.

Well then. First thing to do is find where his angel is lurking--what's the ethereal equivalent of lurking? Hovering? Languishing? Cavorting, that's probably it. The point is, he should find Aziraphale. And should also let him know he's here, as it were. Though a little bit of payback wouldn't come amiss if there's a good opprtunity.

"Heigh ho," says Anthony Crowley, and starts walking.

Faramir!

[freo]

Éowyn tugs her robe a little more securely about her frame before reaching for the small glass bottle on her vanity, grateful for the warmth of the fire humming in the hearth. Autumn is beginning to win over summer and the nights already have a chill to them. The scent of lavender and rosemary -- bounties from her beloved garden -- is clean and calming as she pours some of the oil into the cup of her palm, rubbing it into her hands and sifting her fingers through the loose waves of her golden hair, letting her thoughts wander as she devotes these quiet moments to her nightly bedtime routine.

They have been Lord and Lady of Ithilien not quite yet a full year. In that time, they have made plenty of progress, setting down roots in this fair but untamed land, building a permanent settlement and making secure the area. Just because the Dark Lord was thwarted does not mean there is no more danger. Ithilien was wild and ungoverned for so long ere the defeat of the Enemy that change takes its time; yet they are both of them committed to doing what must to see it through. They have toiled hard and there is still more work left to be done, but Ithilien is now a growing town with established infrastructure; each month bringing with it further growth. Éowyn can hardly wait to see how their home will look like in another year.

In another year other things may have changed, as well. At least that is Éowyn's fondest hope. Wagging tongues may have gossiped and wondered at the lack of heir even after nearly a year of marriage, but Éowyn was not worried. A child would come when the time was right. They have certainly labored faithfully to see that goal realized, she thinks with fond amusement. Separate bedchambers might have been the norm for many couples of their rank, but not them! Be that as it may, for a while now, she has been beset by inconvenient spells of faintness and bouts of nausea she's tried not to pin too much of her hopes on. After all, there are other causes for such things than a pregnancy. But her monthly blood should have come weeks ago, and so she thinks she can now judge with some certainty that she could indeed finally be carrying their first child.

She has only just picked up her hairbrush and pulled the bristles through her hair once or twice before she catches the familiar footfalls of her husband, a smile on her lips as she watches Faramir enter their chambers through the mirror sat on her vanity. She almost laughs at herself, knowing how the expression on her face must look like; she is still utterly besotted by the man she's privileged to call her husband, her heart skipping at the thought of telling him the news.

"Good evening, my Lord."