Author's Notes: This is slightly revised from a post I made to the thread "Was it happily ever after" on the forum. I wrote it in order to illustrate a scenario in Faramir and Éowyn's marriage that would not turn out happily. Still, I think it remains optimistic.
Twilight
by Jenni
-------------
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark!
--excerpt from "Crossing the Bar" by Alfred Lord Tennyson
------------
"I do not approve."
Faramir had barely looked up from the papers sitting upon the desk in front of him as he casually brushed aside his son's request. He was far more disturbed than he appeared, but he retreated into his characteristic and unnerving calm even as Belin fidgeted where he stood.
Belin, the Steward's youngest son, was a lanky youth of twenty years. His blonde hair was cropped just above the chin, which was the latest fashion, but the remainder of his appearance was disorderly—not dirty, but not loyal to any particular mode of dress. His surcoat bore the White Tree of Gondor, but underneath it he wore a green tunic, which his aunt had woven for him in Rohan. His boots consisted of sheepskins bound with rawhide strips in the manner sported by peasants, and at his thigh hanged a knife taken after a skirmish with the Southrons a year ago.
Belin, like his habits of dress, was directionless, heedless and lacking in any healthy discernment. He liked everybody he met, whether they were worth liking or not. He was also naïve. All these things Faramir forgave on account of the boy's youth. Yet not in this matter.
"You do not have to approve, Father," answered Belin. "I love her, and she will be my wife."
Faramir signed one of the papers before him, put it away and pulled out another one. "So you have already asked her then? What is her name again?"
Belin's jaw shook with repressed anger. His thin face flushed red and he wiggled his nose, a nervous habit he had acquired in boyhood. His father already knew all about the girl in question and was just being obstinate. "Léowyn, Father," he answered with a choked sort of sound.
Faramir peered up at his son, abandoning his work for a moment. "You are too young."
"I am twenty! Elfwine married at twenty-one."
"And naturally you must follow his example," laughed Faramir, returning to his work. "My answer is no."
"Is it truly, Father?" asked Belin in a dangerously neutral tone.
Abruptly, Faramir set his papers down. He sighed and placed his head in his hands, at last behaving like a man tortured by too many burdens. In the process he pulled out a dead hair by accident. He stopped to examine it before tossing it away. Raven black. Not gray.
"I know you are thinking of elopement, but I beg you to reconsider," he began. "You are of Númenorian blood. She is not. You are only twenty. I understand that she is a year older. You are young; you don't think of these things, but it will not turn out well."
Belin's eyes flashed. "I do not care!" he cried. "And I do not see why you should either. Léowyn is of Mother's people."
Faramir's temper began to fray at the mention of his wife. "That is precisely why I am qualified to advise you in this manner. I am telling you to pick a woman of Gondor because I do not wish you to suffer the pain of watching your wife fade away while you linger still in the summer of your life."
It was clear from Belin's reaction that Faramir had not said the right thing. He backed away from his father's desk and made for the door. Before he placed his hand on the latch, he faced his father again. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "That hasn't got anything to do with me."
Faramir found his wife later on, sitting in the garden under the primrose tree they had planted together almost forty years before. Her hair was as silver as his seal of office, which he had left sitting on his bureau. Her hands, which were now busy categorizing the herbs laying the basket next to her, were noticeably arthritic, but her back was still straight.
He went to her and kissed the top of her head.
When she looked up at him her smile revealed the crows' feet around her eyes, and the deeper lines about her mouth. Faramir was strangely depressed at the sight, but he sat down beside her without showing this.
"How did it go?" she asked.
"He won't listen to me, as usual. He'll probably run back to Rohan and marry her anyway."
"I don't see why you won't let him. She's of a good family, and from what my brother has told me, they do love each other."
Faramir grimaced. "He's too young."
Éowyn rolled her eyes, having seen the obvious solution. "Tell him he can marry her in a year or so. If they love each other so much, they can wait."
Faramir was silent, and so his wife teased him by poking him in the ribs.
"Don't do that," he said, catching her hand. But he caught it too hard and she winced as the pain in her joints flared up. Faramir released them instantly. "I'm sorry," he offered a little too repentantly. He released her hand as if he was afraid he might break it.
Éowyn's eyes alit with understanding, and her shoulders sank. No longer jovial, she began to set her herbs in the basket. "Don't apologize," she said. "It didn't hurt." But she stood up anyway, preparing to leave.
"It is not Belin's immaturity that worries you, is it?" she asked him, although her words seemed less like a question than a statement. "It is the girl's race."
Faramir averted his eyes in the way that meant he would not answer her. But when Éowyn was about to go, he jumped up to help her. His concern was no longer amusing, but offensive.
"Don't," snapped his wife, pulling her basket away from his reach. "I can handle it myself."
"Where are you going?" Faramir asked.
"To the pantry," she answered, walking away at a brisk pace. The pantry was part of the women's sphere of the house. Faramir had not been there since the construction of the house, and its mention was a clear sign that Éowyn did not want him to follow her.
Thus he remained in the garden, staring at her retreating form.
That evening before supper, Éowyn sat alone in her chambers staring into the mirror. Her gray hair was twice as offensive tonight, and the wrinkles on her face were uglier than they had been in the morning. She had dismissed all the maids specifically so she could peruse her image in peace. It had been a long time since she had sat this long in front of a mirror, and she had never stared at herself with such marked disapproval before.
She burst into tears.
All the family gathered at the dinner table with the exception of Elboron and Belin. Elboron's wife (Númenorian of course) stood patiently by her chair as they awaited her husband and brother-in-law. As family custom dictated, they would not sit until everyone had arrived. Éowyn noted the secretive way her daughter-in-law cradled her hand against her abdomen. On any other day she would have felt pleasure at such a hint, but today she merely felt jealousy for her youth.
Beside her, Faramir had not noticed his daughter-in-law's gesture. He was staring at his wife instead, no doubt noticing the redness of her eyes.
As if on cue, he asked, "Have you been crying?"
Éowyn looked around to see if anyone had heard the comment, but it had been made quietly enough that no one noticed.
"Yes," she answered, not bothering to deny it.
"Whatever for?"
Éowyn glanced at her husband, staring innocently at her. Was it possible he didn't know? Had he forgotten their exchange in the garden?
Then she realized that he didn't want to know. It hurt him too much to think about it.
"I felt sorry for Belin," she said.
"Ah."
He might have said more, but Elboron chose that particular moment to crash into the hall. His velvet surcoat was somewhat disheveled and there was a piece of hay in his hair. He didn't even bother to greet anyone properly.
"I say, Belin's gone mad!" he exclaimed. "The servants told me to go to the stables, so I went to find him, but he pushed me into the hay and rode off. Should I ride after him, Father?"
Faramir seemed so shocked by this news that Éowyn was certain he would rush off to saddle his horse. But to her surprise, he pulled out his chair and sat down, winking at her as he did so.
"No, son, let's sit down and eat. I'm hungry. We'll send a messenger after him later to tell him he can marry the girl without the dramatics."
"What happened to 'He's too young?'" Éowyn inquired.
Faramir smiled tenderly at her. "Well, what does it really matter if he loves her?"
Éowyn reached out to take his hand, but in the process she knocked her fork to the floor. Instinctively, she bent down to pick it up, but as she did so some pain flared in her back and she made a soft cry.
Faramir leaned over and picked up the fork for her.
"Thank you," she said.
"You're welcome," he answered. But his countenance was sad, and he was no longer smiling.