Dear readers—thank you so much for your kind reviews! I got a lot of positive feedback on Éomer, so I'm going to include a little more of him in this chapter. Aren't he and Faramir simply nummy? This chapter is definitely on the PG-13 side.
Some of you may notice that I changed my pen name. Don't get confused. It's still me. At least…I think so. *pokes self*
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The Stone and the Steward—Chapter Three
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The celebration lasted well into the night, and though Éowyn missed the presence of her husband, she was secretly glad the King had ordered Faramir home to rest. He certainly seemed to need it. Despite Faramir's absence, Éowyn found company with old friends, both from Rohan and Gondor, and particularly with her brother. When Éowyn finally felt she could no longer keep her eyes open, it was Éomer who took her arm to escort her home through the darkened streets of Minas Tirith. Arm in arm, they laughed and joked and teased one another mercilessly, as had always been their way.
Éomer's chest swelled proudly. "Lothiriel is lovely, is she not? Sister, I am in love."
"In lust, I should say," Éowyn responded, raising an eyebrow. "Yes, I agree that she is quite beautiful, but I do not believe in love at first sight."
"This coming from the woman who claims to have fallen in love in under a week."
"I was under great duress," she huffed defensively. "And Faramir was quite charming!"
"Never trust a man who courts a woman when she's distressed, and waits to do so until the woman's older brother is off to war."
Her mouth dropped open as she laughed. "I thought you liked Faramir!"
"The Steward is tolerable, I suppose, though he broods terribly," Éomer conceded with a smile. "He seems to have gotten worse since the last time I saw him. I suppose that's due to your wretched cooking. That alone would make any man despondent."
Éowyn chose to ignore the insult—for the present—for Éomer had observed something that had been weighing on her mind. "I admit that I am very worried about him. He has not been himself lately, particularly since we returned to Minas Tirith."
"The man takes himself too seriously."
"He has been through much."
Éomer shook his head. "No more than you or I, Éowyn. We have lost many loved ones as well."
Éowyn chuckled sadly. "Yes, but we did not have the infamous Denethor II as a father. You should hear the stories the women I've met here in the City have to tell of him."
"I have heard it said that Denethor was noble and just in life. Be careful of where you get your information. I would not like to hear tales from any woman, for they like to cluck their tongues and gossip terribly. Rarely is the truth spoken from such lips."
"I take offense to that!"
"Good."
Éowyn slapped his arm in retribution. "Well, I have to hear the story from someone. Faramir never speaks of his father. I know the memories of Denethor hurt him deeply, but he will not admit it."
Éomer fell silent for a few moments and considered the information presented to him. "Take my advice, sister, if you are indeed worried about Faramir. Do not pay heed to petty gossip. Seek the truth from the man himself, if you believe it is the memories of his father that grieve him."
"You are right," Éowyn said, her eyes falling to the ground in thought. "I hate to make him recall things that hurt him, but I suppose it is better in the end."
"It is obvious he loves you—despite your cooking—and I suppose that gives him a little merit. I am sure he will hear what you have to say."
Her eyes turned upward to smile kindly at him. "Since when did my brother become so wise?"
"All this kingly business is getting to my head, I believe. Next, I'll be recording my memoirs and become obsessed with producing an heir to the throne."
Éowyn laughed. "I hope you do both. I have long desired to be an aunt."
When they finally came to the doors to the Steward's House, Éomer bestowed a kiss upon Éowyn's brow. "Sleep well, sister, and tell the runt if he touches you, I shall break him. I would rather be a father than an uncle."
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She found him in his study, fast asleep at his desk, his weary head resting upon one arm. The candles in the room burned low and dim, casting much of the room in long shadows. She hated to wake him but knew he would sleep much better in a bed. Quietly Éowyn approached and touched Faramir's face lightly with her fingertips. When she spoke his name, gray eyes slowly peeled apart to gaze hazily up at her.
"I keep finding you in here when you should be in our bed," she said gently. "Don't you enjoy my company anymore, husband?"
He did not respond but caught her wrist and pulled her onto his lap. She laughed, as he seemed to arrange her into a makeshift pillow. She wrapped one arm around his neck, and his head rested comfortably above her breast. She shivered as his warm breath tickled her neck.
"Oh, yes, I almost forgot," she continued. "My brother says your life will be in peril should you touch me."
Faramir grunted sleepily and gathered her impossibly closer. Éowyn smiled as she lightly traced his features with a fingertip—over his long eyelashes, down his distinctive nose, to the light stubble on his cheeks, and across his full lower lip. She did not fail to notice the twin tracks of dried tears on his cheeks, despite the room's failing light. Her heart twisted anxiously for him, but now was not the time to delve into such matters. She was glad that he had at last found a little rest.
Pressing a kiss to his brow, Éowyn whispered, "We will be more comfortable in our own bed, my lord."
Again Faramir uttered an unintelligible grumble, but seemed to comprehend her words, for he slowly rose to his feet, setting her carefully on the ground. She noticed that his eyes were barely open as they journeyed to their bedroom, such was his fatigue. Éowyn helped him out of his clothes and into bed, joining him a few moments later when she had undressed. To her surprise, a half-asleep Faramir rested himself gently on top of her, catching her lips in a series of long, lazy kisses. Her eyes drifted shut languidly as she soaked in his slow ministrations.
"Tell your brother to mind his own business," he said at length, rolling off of her with a smile.
"Gladly," she responded, laying her head upon his chest when he gathered her close.
"Love you," he mumbled and was asleep before she could respond.
Éowyn smiled sadly as she watched him. She vowed to herself that tomorrow, they would talk about what was bothering him so deeply. Decisively, she pressed her nose into the crook of his neck and closed her eyes. "I love you, too, Faramir. Sleep well."
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The dream came to him just before dawn.
Again, Faramir found himself at the top of the Tower of Ecthelion. The palantir stood before him, its surface engulfed in flames. He looked upon it longingly but valiantly resisted its call. He could not, however, ignore the shadowed figure haunting the edges of the room, clothed in robes of black.
"Who are you?" Faramir demanded, taking a threatening step towards the cloaked figure. "You are not allowed here."
"Faramir," the stranger breathed slowly, his voice strained and fleeting—that of a withering old man. "You have come again. I prayed that you would."
"I ask again, old man," Faramir said heatedly, his patience running thin. "Who are you? How is it you know me?"
Whether the moon suddenly came out or the shadows decided to shift, Faramir did not know, but the face of the man was at last revealed. It was ghostly pale and withered, but undeniable in its individuality. "Do you not know your own father?" the bent figure asked, vacant eyes staring blindly at his son.
Blood rushed from the Faramir's face, and he felt himself sway slightly on his feet. He backed away from the man in dismay, tears springing to his eyes. "This is impossible."
Denethor smiled vaguely as he crept along the edges of the room like a patient spider. The palantir burned between them, its presence difficult to ignore. The dead Steward approached the Anor-stone, his eyes falling from the face of his son to gaze into the glassy surface.
"Why have you brought me here?" Faramir asked desperately, not noticing that he wept. "Can you not find peace, father?"
Denethor's eyes once again rose to pierce Faramir with a cold, vacant stare. Pale, ancient hands carefully gathered up the small palantir; the old man held the stone out to Faramir. "You understand little, my son."
And then, to Faramir's utter horror, Denethor burst into flames before his pleading eyes. The ghostly apparition shrieked and writhed as it burned, and Faramir found that he, too, was screaming in terror. The last thing the weeping son saw before the nightmare left him were his father's hands, withering in flame, grasping the palantir.
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It was the second time in two days Faramir had woken upon cold stone in confusion, not knowing how he came to be there. As the last threads of the nightmare left him gasping and shaken, Faramir's eyes flew open in a panic. Gazing at his surroundings, he found to his bewilderment that he was not in his bedroom. Indeed, he was not even in the Steward's House. The early morning sun shone harshly through the windows of the secret room in the Tower of Ecthelion, displaying his surroundings in such detail, there was no denying where he was.
More disturbing, however, was the palantir he held loosely in his hands. Crying out in surprise, Faramir jerked his hands away and sat up quickly. He saw that his fingers were painfully burned a vivid red. Faramir's eyes widened in dismay as he looked again at the Anor-stone. Fingerprints marred its smooth surface, as clear as day.
In horror, Faramir realized he had unwittingly looked into the palantir.
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To be continued…hopefully soon. :)
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