Having recently read Ellethill's "Fair, Strong and Cold," I'm happy she is letting me play in her sandbox for a while. In her story, Faramir and Éowyn do not fall in love before their marriage, but after, their marriage having been arranged for reasons of state rather than of the heart. This makes much sense to me, given their rank and lineage, and the brevity of their time together in the Houses of Healing. In her story, they slowly come to care for each other during the first months of their marriage.

This story takes place a month or so after her epilogue. At the reunion of Éomer and Éowyn in Minas Tirith, Aragorn asks Faramir to inspect the northern borders of Ithilien for any small sign of unrest, and the Steward of course immediately complies. He has been away a month, and now returns to Emyn Arnen, and his lady wife. Oh, and did I mention he is ill?


What can I say, I enjoy writing stories where strong, handsome men suffer illness and must be cared for by strong, beautiful women. Though, in this case, the king and queen help out, too.

And, in case anyone was wondering about my penchant for companion pieces, I am still learning much about Arda and Tolkien's exquisite characters. I don't quite feel comfortable yet coming up with a set of circumstances of my own for fear of writing something that crosses his intentions. I prefer to trust those who have come before me, and play in their worlds for a little while, until I get my bearings.

The more R&Rs I get, the more I can know if I am on the right track, or if I stray too far from what is easy to envision. Thanks!

Drops, like glass beads, fell in a steady rhythm from the gray autumn skies of Ithilien. The steady ping of rain on the boughs of the trees had gone on for three days without cease, a cold mist rising from the leaf-strewn ground.

Deluge might be a more apt term, Faramir grimaced, and then wiped at his raw nose for what had to be the hundredth time that hour. They led their dripping horses through the thick foliage, having dismounted the previous morning when the ground proved so muddy that the combined weight of horse and man nearly caused the pair to sink past rescue. He felt as though he had spent the last days taking laps in the icy Anduin fully clothed rather than returning home from a visit to the northern borders. There was not an inch on his body that was not soaked, and for the last several hours he was grateful for his long cloak – not because it afforded any warmth in its sodden state, but because its folds masked his incessant shivering. He swiped a branch away from his face as he slogged through the undergrowth. The tenth month had proven mild at its start, but in its last week had turned suddenly frigid.

The Captain had known since he awoke two days ago that he was becoming ill: the thick pressure in his head, the leaden feel to his limbs, and the painful protest his throat made at any attempt to swallow had portended a vicious cold.

But he had stubbornly pressed on, refusing to slow or take any rest. It is naught. He told himself. Merely a cold; nothing to fret over. He had suffered many a cold before; he would doubtless suffer others again.

Any of his company who looked on him would not mark his current state; most of the men who had served with him for nigh on twenty years - and had known nearly every stance of his body - were gone: married and retired, or fallen in the Ring War. And, through long years of practice, the new Prince of Ithilien had become quite consummate at hiding any discomfort or infirmity from the casual observer. The guard that now traveled with him were less seasoned, though no less valiant, and they would not catch the subtle signs that he was unwell: the pale cast to his skin, the soft sniff every ten or so paces, the slight hunch to his shoulders.

Though he did not know it, his former company would have conned him into making camp and gotten him off his feet hours ago, having learned over the many years how loathe their Captain was to acknowledge any infirmity, even past the point of reason.

He glanced over his shoulder. These men - though new to him - had served him proud and true, and until this march had only spoken well of him who was their lord. Many had requested the assignment to his corps in Ithilien, the reputation of the brave yet reserved Prince having spread throughout the land of Gondor.

And some had volunteered simply to serve the Lady of Emyn Arnen, the White Lady of Rohan, who had slain the Witch King of Angmar when no living man could.

A smile curved his lips. Éowyn!…

Faramir's heart beat with increasing speed. Lifting the waterskin from where it rested over his shoulder, he took a long swallow of the cool liquid without slowing his pace. He was keen to reach her by this evening, if he could. After nearly a month's separation, he was finally returning home.

The water soothed the fire in his throat as he suppressed the growing urge to cough. Which exact moment he had realized his own love for her, Faramir was not certain. He saw her in his mind as she had been the morning he had departed Minas Tirith: her golden hair glinting in the morning light, an ivory hand lingering on his chest, and her soft lips pressing to his as she whispered, "Return safe to me," before she could speak no more.

They now had been married almost six months' time, having joined together at the request of their king. But – thank the Valar – what started out as merely begrudging respect had deepened into something more resplendent than any he could have imagined.

Thinking back to those first weeks together, when she held herself stiff and cold in his presence, his heart cracked, causing him to close his eyes briefly in pain. He had moved so cautiously then, and would not for all the riches of the world have risked ruining the future they were attempting to build through blundering and haste. For months he had longed to see the ease she finally began to display with him, the lightness to her step, the swiftness of her smiles…

Three months into their marriage he discovered that his wife had miraculously come love him.

Since this revelation, they had spent but four swift weeks enjoying each others' devoted company – days spent in much talk and much silence, on long walks, arm in arm, in lingering kisses, stolen and sweet – before they were summoned to the White City to reunite Éowyn with her brother.

During that time in Ithilien, in their deepening affection, they had finally joined together as husband and wife. He had been gentle and slow in their marriage bed, for even after her first admission of love for him, their union could not be swift, or furious. Nay, that first consummation had been tentative, he moving as slowly as her racing heart had allowed, striving to show her that there was pleasure after the initial pain.

Theirs was a love that had been slow in coming, and slow then in its ripening.

Another branch flicked out to scratch his cheek, and he pushed it away with a numb hand. Recalling, he admitted he had been both eager and apprehensive in their first demonstrations of love, his unease stemming from his realization that there was much about a woman's body – especially one untouched as Éowyn had been – that he did not know. He was not much familiar with these undisclosed arts in the first place. When first a soldier, he had lost his innocence on his brother's coin, but had never acquired a taste for those indifferent, hurried encounters. After a time, he began to turn his brother down when Boromir proposed a trip to the less illustrious levels of the White City, and that was the extent of his knowledge of women.

All who knew Faramir of Gondor could only say he was ever a man of forbearance. However, his wife was a fine wine he could not resist. His breath quickened each time she laid her touch to his skin, and the very sight of her caused his heart to near burst for happiness.

She had sensed his nervousness, and had whispered loving assurance even as her own heart had fluttered like a bird against the bars. Trembling hands explored skin flushed with heat, lips met and breath mingled, hot and shuddering. And in the midst of this had they joined.

They had parted, panting and gazing at each other with shining eyes. Then, rising to eat, they had spent the day walking in the garden, hands entwined, shoulders brushing. They had gone for a long ride in the forest, racing each other and laughing together. That evening, they had joined once more, almost worshipful in their passion, and then lay together in silence, bodies spent. He knew she had long lain awake, once she thought him swept into slumber. In truth he had merely pretended to sleep, not wishing to disturb her thoughts.

She had spent so long in contemplation that he had not been able to help himself – he had reached out through the gift of the House of Húrin. It had caused no small twinge of alarm when he had looked into her heart and found a maelstrom of emotion he had not expected: fear, confusion, longing, sorrow. Not for the first time in his life, he had cursed this two-faced gift that allowed him to see in part, in shapes and in shadows.

Perhaps she deemed him unsatisfactory in some way… perhaps something he had done had been unknowingly amiss…

The next morning when he awoke, she was gone from their bed. He had dressed quickly, heart pounding, going to seek her out, and found her sitting quietly eating her breakfast. She had smiled sweetly up at him, no hint of the previous night's turmoil on her face. And so he had kissed her – reverently, almost apologetically – and had sat down with her, not speaking of what had transpired. But that next night, lying side by side, she had responded to his hesitant advances, and some of his unease had withdrawn.

When they had traveled to Gondor, being with her brother and the king and queen had brought out an unguarded happiness in her that healed his heart. She had laughed unbridled, danced carefree, and seemed so joyous in his presence that he knew he could not be other than joyous himself.

And when the morning came when he was to leave for the northern borders, at the gate where he had departed from the city, she had kissed him with a passion that spoke not of a woman who scorned his body and would spurn his bed.

"Return safe to me…"

Their first brief separation had allowed them both the time to contemplate their own hearts, and the result had been more than he could have hoped. He felt sure that this separation would have a similar effect; indeed his own desire had grown with each day he spent longing to be by her side.

He quickened his stride, calling, "Make haste, lads," in a voice slightly husky, tinged with longing and the onset of his cold. The drenched company behind him did not notice it, so intent were they on the struggle of man and beast through viscous mud and dark vegetation.

"I do not see the reason for such speed," one young recruit huffed, pulling at his bay who balked at the increase in pace. "Why do we not make camp?"

The older lieutenant at his side quirked his mouth patiently, his salt-and-pepper hair plastered to his scalp under his ineffectual hood. "Had you a lady such as he to come home to," came the gruff reply, "You would understand his impatience."

The lad rolled his eyes in response, muttering a curse to his uncooperative beast, as the heavens continued to pour cold misery upon them, and their Captain pressed them interminably toward Emyn Arnen.

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