by Ankhsattva.
Disclaimer applies as always.
NOTES: What possessed me to write this? I have no idea. I just felt like writing some mindless fluff and here is the result. Written from Faramir's point of view, pretty obviously. Don't read if fluff makes you feel sick, and spare me a flame.
Eowyn.
I love that name. It holds so much grace, and so much elegance.
At the same time it can be a rough, clumsy name. When whispered, it sounds
like the gentle wind blowing through the trees. When shouted, it sounds
like bells ringing, celebrating a joyous event. It is a tall, cold lily.
It is a young white rose coming into bloom. It is a dusty book holding
crackled papers, well-thumbed and read many times. It is the grass in morning,
wet with dew and glistening.
Most of all, however, it is my love's name. My beautiful love.
Once so cold, and so proud, she melts near me, and becomes a warm and caring
wife. Yet she still retains the beauty that likens her so much to the frosty,
icy winter, and the brightest ivory star in the sky at night. And I love
her for this.
"Faramir?"
I look up, and see my beautiful Eowyn, looking half amused, and
half puzzled.
"Writing again?" she asked, with a hint of a laugh bubbling in
her voice. Her eyes are shining. She walks to me and sits on the floor.
"You spend all your time writing in that journal but never do you let me
see what you have written," she says, twining her pale, slender fingers
around mine. "I think you're embarassed."
"Perhaps I am," I answer. "However, if you wish it so much, you
may look at what I have written. But you and you alone," I hasten to add.
"And I trust you not to speak of the contents to anyone else."
Eowyn tuts playfully. "It isn't a good thing to be so secretive," she tells me, picking up my journal and scanning it. She looks at me a few times then refers back to the journal. "You really wrote all this?" she says, looking a little surprised. "It's good. And so like you," she gives a sly grin. "My dear romantic Faramir."
"Is it a bad thing to be romantic?" I ask, taking her hand again.
"No bad thing at all," Eowyn answers. "It certainly is different
though," she mused. "I have not lived with the most romantic of men over
my time," she laughs, obviously thinking of Eomer. I cannot resist smiling
too; her laugh is infectious. "Eomer was always quite practical, as many
people are in Rohan. We had no time for poetry and romance."
"What a sad thing," I answer. "Poetry is as beautiful as you,
my fair Eowyn. It would be a tragic to go through life not knowing of it."
At this Eowyn stands, and tilts her head. "Poetry as beautiful as I?", she teases, a lighthearted smile tugging at her lips. "You mean to say that I have a rival?" She tries to keep her act of shock and offense up but cannot resist a small giggle. I stand as well and take her in my arms.
"Nobody, not even Luthien Tinuviel, rivals your beauty," I whisper
and kiss her.
And the rest, as they say, is history.