Hey guys. …Wow, it's good to be back on the grid, even if only for a week or so. O SCHOOL I LOVE YOU SO
This one's for Faramir and Eowyn. My heart broke over and over again for Faramir, and I was so happy when he got a girl! :'D
For those waiting on updates on my other stories, sorry! This is a much-needed change of scene, and I need time to read through what I wrote and get back in sync with where I left off. Also didn't want to suppress the need to write Faramir/Eowyn in case I never regained that drive. Hopefully I can pull together some presentable updates before school closes its jaws on me again. kdfghkjdhfg
Disclaimer: I don't dare even joke about owning Lord of the Rings.
-Sanded Silk-
Perhaps it was the scar of his father's hatred for him that made him think thus; nevertheless, whenever he looked upon Eowyn's golden head dappled in sunlight as it lay on his shoulder, her smile content, one hand curled elegantly on his chest, he felt immense inadequacy. What did he do to deserve the love of a woman so beautiful in body and soul, so pure in expression and intent, so willing to hold his broken body and know his shadowed mind?
-.-.-
She had only loved a man once before in her life, and it had not been reciprocated. Aragorn had been tenderly polite in his honesty; he lay her broken heart upon the mossy forest floor to heal, instead of simply dropping it upon the sharp rock of scorn. As she slowly found the strength to stand and leave the mossy floor behind, the bitter taste of being repulsed—of being not good enough—lingered in her mouth, even as the treeline disappeared behind her in the fog.
-.-.-
Sometimes, when he lay his head upon her chest, his cheek warm against the cool of her collarbone, even as he felt her heart flutter against his jaw, he suspected that it was not he who laid his cheek upon her chest and set her heart aflutter so, but another—a man whose heart she tried to capture once, a man whose love she was imagining then. He first learned of this buried wound of hers from the whispers of those who thought he was not listening. There was jealousy, of course; but it was never set aflame with anger or frustration. He was afraid (and he hesitated to use that word, resented that word, even in the quiet of his mind, even though it was true) to demand more of her. His own gnawing inadequacy was enough to silence him. He seemed only reasonably tolerant of the desires and concerns of others; but his drive to satisfy her, to make her happy, knew not the bounds of reason. He seemed in awe of her, drawn to a strength and light in her that he so painfully lacked, and he only dared allow himself to bask in it at her will.
-.-.-
He never overtook her, never led, never asked for anything beyond what she yielded. When she lashed out at him, he withdrew and gave her the space and time to recollect herself; he never sought her forgiveness, but waited for her to bestow it upon him; and when she did, clouds in his eyes parted, and his heart was glad. This apparent submissiveness frustrated her, yet broke her heart. For the longest time, she had not been able to pinpoint the reason why he so unfailingly bore her angry, cutting words with that heart-wrenching patience of his. It was Gandalf's story that finally answered the gnawing question. For several nights afterward, she lay awake deep into the night, haunted by the image of such a father, the idea of such unrelenting disapproval, the crippling brokenness and self-doubt such a life could inflict. And now, finally, she understood his fear of extinguishing her love for him; she perceived the whispering thread of inadequacy beneath the cool he projected to the rest of the world, a festering he both perpetuated and hated; and she wondered desperately if there was anything she could do to overcome it, and draw him out into the sunlight.
-.-.-
One night, it was suddenly different. There was no doubt or wistfulness in her face, but a clear, penetrating curiosity. She pushed him onto his back—rather roughly—and, to his confusion, sat upon his chest. She looked at him; he looked back from underneath her. She leaned over him; her hair, set aflame by the moonlight, fanned out and ensnared him. Her hands moved to his neck, squeezed, harder, harder. He knew the marks would still be visible in the morning, and yet did nothing, only returned her stare. As he watched, the curiosity and daring in her eyes wavered, gave way to something vaguely pained, something he could not quite name. Her hands moved from his neck to his face; she cleared his hair from his brow, cupped his face with a tenderness he had never before known. He was afraid to breathe, should he break the spell. She leaned down to press her lips to his and whispered his name against his muted mouth, over and over again, her hands smoothing over his face and the marks she made on his neck. He lay there, paralyzed by fear and confusion and wonder, his nerves scattered by this achingly-wonderful display of love.
-.-.-
He still did not respond to her love, did not rise to meet her affections, and there could only be one reason in her mind, that which she most feared—that she was not good enough, not enough. A father's love is irreplaceable after all, and she felt she could understand this. Nevertheless, she wanted to know. She wanted to hear the reason from his own mouth. She clung to the hope that she was, after all, sufficient—more than sufficient—for someone. That treeline was still visible behind her, and it would not disappear no matter how far and hard she ran from it, no matter how vehemently she detested that mossy floor. She asked him one night, when she was wrapped around him again, her hands on either side of his face. She watched as his gaze fell from her eyes, as the skin around his eyes tightened. She knew it needled him, the fact that she was inquiring so brazenly, but she held tight to him and hung on his lips, awaited his answer. He gave none.
Will you ever allow yourself the luxury of believing that you are loved?
He closed his eyes.
Is my love not enough to close this wound?
And he did something he had never done before.
He pushed her away.
She did not follow.
-.-.-
As usual, he did nothing to make it known whether he wanted to see her or not, but held his silence as he watched her approach. Even as she pulled close to him, pressing her body to his until she could feel his heartbeat thrumming throughout her body, he remained motionless. But this, too, was not unusual; he never moved unless she nudged him into action.
She shook as she put her mouth to his ear. She shook with fear, with exhilaration. At last, in one final attempt to right what was wrong, she would lay her heart bare before him.
I do not love him anymore. I am yours now, and yours alone; he has no place in my heart. But what he left has not yet fallen away. I want you to dispel that fear. I want to know if my feeble love can hope to heal your heart and bring you peace.
He did not answer. She dared not pull back to see his face.
I love you.
They both tensed, but she carried on, not knowing what else to say, what else she could say.
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I—
His arms around her, tight. The intensity of the catharsis and the relief tangible in the air. With his lips finding hers, the song was finished, the sun risen; two pieces made apart, but always meant to be together, finally collided with the right orientation and clicked, never to part again.
He pulled back, brushed his mouth along her jaw line; he dropped another kiss on her lips, then another. Their chests rose and fell in perfect sync. Neither could remember what life had been like before this moment, this sunlit beginning.
His love is nothing to me now.
He ran a hand through her hair, marveling at the profundity of receiving and returning.
You are more than enough.
A/N: Hope you all enjoyed! Please reviewreviewreview, and lemme know if something wonky has happened to my writing since I last posted. :P
-Sanded Silk-