Cold, Cold Night
Disclaimer: I'd like to see the person who thinks I own this.
Archives: Please, just ask.
Warnings: n/a
Rating: G
Reviews: Constructive criticism? PLEASE.
A/N: Do you know? I can't believe this story is so warning-less and child-friendly. I must be losing my touch. Pleurgh. Faramir thinks about Eowyn. POV.
The fire's flickering in the hearth but it's not really generating any warmth in the cold dank room, on the iciest of days. My wife is close to me for warmth, her golden hair spread across my shoulder. Fifty years could have gone past, her hair could have aged into white, and she'd still be perfect, still be my Eowyn.
She stirs as though she's been asleep and coughs a little dry cough. She's catching a cold, though she'll never admit it. I wouldn't want her to admit she's weak, as it would hurt both me and her. Essentially it's a lie. She's so strong-minded, she could get through anything.
I remember the first time we kissed. The world just… dissolved and it was just Eowyn, gold hair and ivory skin, and the most perfect wife. I'd never find a better one, never find one that could even be equal in my mind to her.
Her name's the one I call out in the middle of the night when I remember Boromir, remember Denethor, and when I cry womanish tears she doesn't think any the worse of me for grieving.
And the best thing is she thinks the same of her imperfect husband. I could never be good enough for Eowyn, but yet she loves me. When I think of how it could have been… how she could have ended up tethered to Wormtongue, a proud spirit sundered from her life, then I find her and hold her close to me.
She knows what I think, that's why we sit together on nights like these.
It's a cold, cold night and I am chilled to the bone, but I have Eowyn beside me and she warms my soul.