"Do I not get this dance?"
The Prince of Ithilien bows extravagantly low, one black eyebrow raised and mouth twitching in mock affront. He knows full well the answer before he speaks but is quite unable to resist.
The glow from Merethrond's many torches winks off the silver buttons of his tunic. Gleams on his lady's hair of molten gold. And shines on the faint drops of terror that dot his eldest's brow.
"No," Éowyn replies most firmly, turning and taking Elboron's outstretched hand. "It is my right to claim 'Bron's first turn about the floor and I am so proud to do so."
She curtseys and the newly sworn First Lieutenant Elboron bows stiffly and correctly, white gloved fingers holding tightly to her own as if they seek an anchor in a gale. He has, his father and Lord knows all too well, faced his first Orc skirmish with more equanimity; face set and pale, an expression of grim determination on boyish features that, beneath a shock of thick blond hair, look uncannily like both his great-grandfathers. Ecthelion's eyes but Thengel's cheekbones, said Aragorn, afterward in the firelight, and Faramir does not doubt it. And Boromir's utter fearlessness. (This last he keeps assiduously to himself, for though his wild Shieldmaiden is cut from almost the same cloth, she is a mother still.)
"Mother, can't we wait until the second dance?" asks 'Bron, biting uncertainly at his lip, surveying the couples thronging the marble sea. Faramir's heart thuds with a pang of sympathy. A first formal ball in Minas Tirith can be terrifying: intricate dances, a thousand watching eyes, a stage as wide as Emyn Arnen's entire riding ring. It is nothing like their easy and intimate dances held in the town meeting rooms. The whole court has turned out in their finest on this warm midsummer eve to fete the new young recruits. Nobles. Guards. Ambassadors and a Prince or two. Across the expanse of white the Queen graces her own eldest with a smile just as fond and wide. Eldarion, clad like his swordbrother in the black and silver of the King's Royal Guard, looks a little more composed. But only just.
"Whatever for darling? We practiced this very tune."
They had. Both young princes had had a turn about the rather more cramped palace dining room, table and chairs pushed back and fearsome little sisters locked out just in case. At this very moment, Faramir notes that both Finduilas and Eledwen stand remarkably docilely beside the commanding bulk of the King, enjoying second helpings of dessert. (Bribery sometimes works. Thank the Valar.)
"It is a little complicated," offers 'Bron, "and they will all be watching."
"Only because you look so handsome in your uniform!" replies Éowyn, flashing her best encouraging smile and picking up her hem. "Come!"
There is no escaping the moment now. Éowyn looks back once to catch her husband's eye and then sweeps them both onto the floor. Son and mother stand, hands clasped, ready to promenade as the opening bars of the music swell, two bright spots of gold amidst a fair of dark and raven hair, and suddenly Faramir is dizzy.
The light slides and swirls. The music fades away and he is gripped by a tide of waking dream so fierce the fine grey of his mother's eyes is swallowed by a dark more inky than a moonlit night.
They will all be watching.
It is not forward that he is thrown, but back.
.
~~~000~~~
.
Éowyn, puzzled and inclining her golden head, waits patiently for him to lead her into the next movement of the Thanksgiving Ball, but for a long moment he simply stands, heart full and wondering at his fortune. In all the small, oddly important, details, it transpires that being Steward is not so very different from being the Steward's son. He has not tripped upon Merethrond's wide stone steps. No councilor has taken (obvious) offense at his seat. He has not forgotten the names of pretty and pallid young things who vie for his attention. The tight ache of worry that blocked his chest is now just a memory, banished by the warm mellow candle light and bursts of happy laughter that rise up above the music.
And the smile upon his dancing partner's lovely face.
"Do you see?" Éowyn asks, a little breathless, two spots of colour high upon her cheeks as they take their place at the end of the long set. She reaches with her sword hand to pull the filmy gauze of her sleeve down across the shield arm's bindings and he finds himself watching it jealously for they have dropped hands again; the tingle of where her fingers pressed against his palm is fading, and more than anything he wants it back again.
He cranes his neck to watch the next couple promenading down. "Anborn and Kira?" Under the glow of the lieutenant's proud affection, the young woman shines as if she were Tar-Miriel herself.
"You approve?"
"I do," he nods. "For all his silver tongue, he is a most faithful heart. And they dance well together."
Éowyn looks at him askance. "You call that dancing? I call that slaughtering his dignity with his feet."
"Or more precisely slaughtering her toes. Unlike his captain."
As hoped, he is rewarded with a wry and sudden laugh. "Oh ho. You are quite sure of yourself, Lord Steward."
"In this, always yes!"
The tune ends and the makeshift orchestra strikes another up. Valar bless Horgin the music master. It was The Goose Girl: a once most scandalous couple dance from Gelin comprised of 'scenes': a tableau of complicated to and fro as the 'maid' leaves her bedroom window open to allow a 'conversation' with her suitor. It is not a dance to do with just anyone. Or anyone you do not wish to better know.
Éowyn bites her lip, frowning at the crowd. The opening bars have begun and already couples are lining up. "I can't manage this. I have never seen it danced before. I don't know what to do!"
"Absolutely, you can, my lady. Have faith." and with that he places a warm hand against her side, whisks her into the twirling 'chase', relieved to find she has thrown her caution to the wind and truly let him lead. He guides her with just a push forward or pull back, fingers caressing the white satin of the sash about her waist and oh but this is a joy. How could not all the world be right with her light in his arms, clasped so close that the jasmine twined into her hair tickles at his nose?
They 'fight', and 'argue', and 'reconcile', finally coming to stand together, pledging their devotion before the One. Time stops and he finds they are poised, almost chest to chest. An island in the throng, but he sees nothing but the faint wash of blue deep within her steel grey eyes.
"They are all watching," Éowyn breathes, looking up anxiously, limbs trembling like a harpstring kissed by the wind. "I must be making a fool of myself."
"Never. They are all watching because you are more beautiful than anything they can imagine." She is and he is the luckiest man in the hall. Giddy with it, he bends to nestle a cheek against her hair.
""I feel like I could float out into the night," she sighs.
"Maybe it is the music." Or the heady scent of jasmine. Or the wild beating of his heart.
Her eyes shine bright like the coruscating, sparkling stars. Against their dappled veil streaks a trail brilliant as a meteor.
"Did you see it?"
"What?"
She cocks her head and he stands transfixed and wondering, a tide thrumming in his blood. He has been here. He knows it. Utterly. All at once.
"Faramir?"
His dark head shakes but the glow lingers still. The visions are never simple to scribe in words. They tumble out of his lips, dazed and slow, as if surfacing from the River's deep.
"When I…I was… last in Ithilien, I saw a star streaking across the night and in the day thereafter I found a patch of niphredil near where it fell. A portent, I thought. A sign that for all the dark there might be coming light. But I never realized what it truly meant."
"Faramir?" She frowns, wondering but not afraid, puzzled; her small strong hand sliding up to hold his cheek.
Fire and snowdrops. Winter's rime and heated iron. Strands of bright-gold and raven hair twining in the breeze.
There will be darkness. And sweetness. And all the delicate, unnerving contradictions of a life.
And he is not afraid.
"Nothing, my love. Nothing." He clasps her wayward hand, turns it upward and in full view of all kisses the inside of her wrist. "Come let us catch a breath of air."
~~~000~~~
.
'Faramir. Love. Come back to me."
He does, limp and for a moment disoriented, light and music flooding back with each calming stroke of Éowyn's fingers across his back. Before him, Aragorn stands with both hands lightly on his shoulders, poised to catch him should he fall.
"Sorry. I am sorry," he mumbles but Arwen shakes her head, steps forward to press a practical goblet of something strong into his hands.
"Here, mellon. Restore yourself."
He drinks most gratefully, lets the fruit-fire of the brandy sear him back to the here and now, pleased to find he needs no help to hold the cup. "How long have I been 'gone'?"
"Not long." Éowyn nestles herself against his side but the tune has changed. Elboron is still out on the floor, now gallantly squiring a blushing Eledwen and Finduilas, thankfully, is oblivious, frowns in concentration in 'Dari's arms. She hates to be not perfect at every single thing. He runs a faintly trembling hand across his face, wondering, as ever, how she might take this most wayward of her father's 'gifts'. Bron at sixteen is past the age for it to come- Elphir was twelve and Imrahil a precocious ten when it first appeared. Theomund is yet too young, but Fin with her fine-boned Dol Amroth looks is the one he suspects might come to understand it.
And struggle. More than he did.
Valar. He takes another, larger swig, willing it be some years yet. "I am well. I am."
"Are you certain?" Faramir nods, and satisfied his friend will not topple to the floor, Aragorn pulls back, firmly orders the merely curious to move on, gives them both some room.
Éowyn looks up, "Where did you go?"
"Back." He coughs as a little more brandy hits too hard. It is always so. His body slow and sluggish. Chilled as if standing too long on patrol. Or swimming in green water. The heat of Éowyn's body is welcome where it seeps through her gauzy gown.
Bless his wife. His gorgeous, wise, and wonderful wife. As unfazed by his visions as she is his trails of ink and quills and books. While he worries about gifts that might not be, and inheritance, and challenges yet to come, she is ever grounding to the here and now.
Perhaps he has been wrong. Borrowing trouble before the day, when all any of them can do is wait. There was a time when he accepted all that the world would bring.
"To where?" She squeezes lightly at his arm.
"To us. To our beginning. I think I needed to remember something."
Éowyn smiles. The few laugh lines only make her face more breathtaking. He sets a finger below her chin and tilts it up, catches soft lips in a most blistering and hungry kiss.
Before the world. Again.
She laughs delightedly and he speaks with all his heart. "How much of a gift you are."