-/Pains in the Heart-
I don't own the characters, just the plot. Please don't sue me!
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---- Minas Tirith ----
As Éowyn had hoped, Faramir's body relaxed and his hands loosened their hold. She immediately wrenched her lips away, and tugged her hands out of his, and thrust her body through the gap. She pelted down the corridor, not trusting to the secret passage; "Éowyn, wait!" shouted Faramir, but she kept on running, making for Éomer's room, for he had not attended the party.
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She was almost at his door when Faramir caught up with her, snatching her arm. "I - I thought that was what you wanted," he panted.
"No," gasped Éowyn. "It was what you wanted, as you knew well.
"You were willing," he accused. "You did not pull away. You returned the kiss."
"You did not ask for consent!"
The door opened. "What is the meaning of this?" shouted Éomer. The King of the Mark was dressed in simple breeches and tunic, and seemed to have barely left his bed. His eyes, blurred with fatigue, rested on Faramir's hand, frozen around Éowyn's wrist; his expression softened into a air of concerned understanding. "Éowyn, come inside. I beg that you wait here, my lord."
Ashamed tears dripped down Éowyn's face. A fearful look spread across Faramir's face. Gondor had long called itself superior to Rohan, but the Mark had a new king, one who (Faramir was sure) would not hesitate to beat the Steward of Gondor to a bloody pulp for violating his sister. One who would give chase if Faramir fled. It was best to get a head start.
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"What happened?" Éomer was not by nature insensitive, but was cursed with frankness. His sister was sitting on his bed, beginning to hyperventilate slightly.
"He - he-"
Éomer crouched and took Éowyn's shoulders, looking deep into her eyes. "All our lives, we have been together," he said softly. "Every trial you faced, I was facing it with you. Every time Wormtongue looked at you, I flinched too. What happened?"
Éowyn raised her eyes to her brother's, and saw understanding, and love. It was not the frenzied love of Faramir, or even the gentle love of Aragorn, but the deep bond that develops between a brother and sister during times of strife. She felt like a child again, demanding that Éomer give her a leg- up so she could clamber onto a pony. Éomer would not let her down.
"He - kissed me," she said simply. Now she said it, it sounded silly, but it had not been so.
"I see," said Éomer flatly. He strode to the door and flung it open, sweeping out his sword as it opened. Éowyn followed cautiously. "It is as I expected," muttered Éomer. "The swine has fled. He will not be difficult to follow."
Éomer sheathed his sword and strode quickly up the passage until he came to a round antechamber, where he took out Gúthwinë again; the dinner-guests were just leaving their party, and Faramir was having difficulty passing through the throng. Éomer's face cleared a path for him, for all stood aside when they caught sight of the robust King of the Mark of Rohan, carrying his sword with a face like thunder.
"Is what my sister says true?" he demanded. Faramir spun round and stood defiantly before Éomer. He hesitated. "Drop your pretence," snarled Éomer. "I know you were listening at the door."
"It is true," said Faramir with a flash of his eyes.
Éomer pointed his sword at Faramir; its honed point was inches from the young Steward's breast. "Do not touch my sister again; I do not want to sully Gúthwinë with your blood. I shall not report to the King of this, but if there is a next time you will not be fit to plead your case. Begone from my sight!"
With a deadly glare at Éomer, Faramir slid down a side-passage without a word. His pride had been hurt, but he had been in the wrong. Though Éowyn felt as though she had somehow betrayed Faramir, she could not help but feel strongly reminded of the last time Éomer had threatened a forward suitor thus: Gríma son of Galmód.
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I don't own the characters, just the plot. Please don't sue me!
--------------------------------------
---- Minas Tirith ----
As Éowyn had hoped, Faramir's body relaxed and his hands loosened their hold. She immediately wrenched her lips away, and tugged her hands out of his, and thrust her body through the gap. She pelted down the corridor, not trusting to the secret passage; "Éowyn, wait!" shouted Faramir, but she kept on running, making for Éomer's room, for he had not attended the party.
--------
She was almost at his door when Faramir caught up with her, snatching her arm. "I - I thought that was what you wanted," he panted.
"No," gasped Éowyn. "It was what you wanted, as you knew well.
"You were willing," he accused. "You did not pull away. You returned the kiss."
"You did not ask for consent!"
The door opened. "What is the meaning of this?" shouted Éomer. The King of the Mark was dressed in simple breeches and tunic, and seemed to have barely left his bed. His eyes, blurred with fatigue, rested on Faramir's hand, frozen around Éowyn's wrist; his expression softened into a air of concerned understanding. "Éowyn, come inside. I beg that you wait here, my lord."
Ashamed tears dripped down Éowyn's face. A fearful look spread across Faramir's face. Gondor had long called itself superior to Rohan, but the Mark had a new king, one who (Faramir was sure) would not hesitate to beat the Steward of Gondor to a bloody pulp for violating his sister. One who would give chase if Faramir fled. It was best to get a head start.
--------
"What happened?" Éomer was not by nature insensitive, but was cursed with frankness. His sister was sitting on his bed, beginning to hyperventilate slightly.
"He - he-"
Éomer crouched and took Éowyn's shoulders, looking deep into her eyes. "All our lives, we have been together," he said softly. "Every trial you faced, I was facing it with you. Every time Wormtongue looked at you, I flinched too. What happened?"
Éowyn raised her eyes to her brother's, and saw understanding, and love. It was not the frenzied love of Faramir, or even the gentle love of Aragorn, but the deep bond that develops between a brother and sister during times of strife. She felt like a child again, demanding that Éomer give her a leg- up so she could clamber onto a pony. Éomer would not let her down.
"He - kissed me," she said simply. Now she said it, it sounded silly, but it had not been so.
"I see," said Éomer flatly. He strode to the door and flung it open, sweeping out his sword as it opened. Éowyn followed cautiously. "It is as I expected," muttered Éomer. "The swine has fled. He will not be difficult to follow."
Éomer sheathed his sword and strode quickly up the passage until he came to a round antechamber, where he took out Gúthwinë again; the dinner-guests were just leaving their party, and Faramir was having difficulty passing through the throng. Éomer's face cleared a path for him, for all stood aside when they caught sight of the robust King of the Mark of Rohan, carrying his sword with a face like thunder.
"Is what my sister says true?" he demanded. Faramir spun round and stood defiantly before Éomer. He hesitated. "Drop your pretence," snarled Éomer. "I know you were listening at the door."
"It is true," said Faramir with a flash of his eyes.
Éomer pointed his sword at Faramir; its honed point was inches from the young Steward's breast. "Do not touch my sister again; I do not want to sully Gúthwinë with your blood. I shall not report to the King of this, but if there is a next time you will not be fit to plead your case. Begone from my sight!"
With a deadly glare at Éomer, Faramir slid down a side-passage without a word. His pride had been hurt, but he had been in the wrong. Though Éowyn felt as though she had somehow betrayed Faramir, she could not help but feel strongly reminded of the last time Éomer had threatened a forward suitor thus: Gríma son of Galmód.
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