Disclaimer: not mine

Secundus

"Ada!"

Éowyn stood outside Faramir's office, still in her traveling cloak, as she waited for the right moment to interrupt her son's reunion with his father. She could hear the sound of scrolls being rolled up and books being shut. There came an exclamation of glee, indicating that her husband had hoisted Elboron into the air and was twirling him about. It pleased her to hear their mirth, and she did not wish to intrude.

In fact, she was tempted to go to her chambers without seeing Faramir. The idea nagged at the back her mind, causing her to feel guilty. She was a bad wife. Only a bad wife wouldn't want to see her husband after a five-month absence.

Only a bad wife would uproot her son and leave for five months without an explanation.

But only a bad husband wouldn't have noticed there had been something wrong when she left.

Stop it, she ordered herself. He loves you.

But she didn't want to go into the room, and see the smile on his face fade and become something less, something borne out of habit. Whenever she entered the room anymore, Faramir always looked at her that way. As if he was struggling not to ask, "What now?"

She didn't understand why he had become so distant, and she hardly knew when it had started. All she knew was that he was never in Ithilien longer than a week. He came and went, like the passing of a summer breeze in an otherwise stifling existence. She had stopped asking him to stay at her side long ago.

He was constantly in the South, rebuilding Minath Ithil or in the city attending to matters of state. But here, in the seat of his realm, in his own household, he was a stranger. And she didn't understand why he wouldn't take her with him. She didn't understand why he shut himself in his office for hours on end, without sending her a single note or an excuse for why he could not make it to the dinner table.

He hadn't noticed the improvements she had made to the house: the tapestries imported from Dol Amroth, the fresh linen from Eriador, the better trained kitchen staff. He never mentioned the books she had added to their library, all for his sake, or the herbs she had planted in their garden.

And the few times she asked him where he was going, why he could not stay, he would simply answer, "Éowyn"

That was all. In that quiet, preoccupied tone of condescension. "Éowyn"

Just the way Aragorn had spoken to her before he had left for the Paths of the Dead. Just the way her Uncle had spoken to her before leaving her at Dunharrow. Like they couldn't be bothered with her, and she had no part of their travails.

It hadn't always been like this. Faramir had once been attentive and kind. Sometimes he still was, and in those brief and fleeting moments, Éowyn allowed herself to believe that everything was fine. It wasn't her; it wasn't him. He had been busy for a while, but nothing was missing.

But then he would ride away to chase after orcs or to construct a castle or negotiate a treaty. She would stay behind, as she always did, because if she asked to go he would look at her and say, "Éowyn"

Inside the room the laughter quieted, and Éowyn took a deep breath. She stepped inside, preparing herself for Faramir's disappointment. She was pleasantly surprised. Faramir looked up upon her entrance, and promptly set down their son and came to her. He embraced her without hesitation, kissing her gently on the forehead and the lips. She leaned into his touch, dreading the moment he would release her. But he did not. He did move away, but held her hand.

"How was your journey?"

"It was well," she replied without elaborating. She did not mention what had brought her back to the city so suddenly.

"I did not expect you for another few weeks," he said.

Éowyn swallowed. Then perhaps he was disappointed after all. Perhaps he would have preferred that she stay away. No, he is happy to see me.

"I wanted to see you," she told him, and was delighted by the light that leapt into her husband's eyes. "I missed you."

"I missed you as well," he answered, but with some reserve. His eyes were searching hers. "Was that all that brought you hither?" he asked. "Only the desire to see me?"

He knows... It should have hurt her that he was not satisfied with her explanation. It should have hurt her that he suspected her, but she somehow found herself pleased with his paranoia. Perhaps she even wanted to inflict a little more pain, just to see that he still cared.

But looking at him standing there, so unguarded, with their son hugging his leg and his face so vulnerable, she just couldn't go on with the charade.

"Yes, just the desire to see you," she smiled, moving to kiss him again. But he pulled away suddenly. His hand released hers, and her gaze moved to those ink-stained fingers. She noticed a few cuts from where he must have cut himself with his pen knife when he sharpened his quill by candlelight long after sunset, when it was too dark to see what he was doing.

In the early days of their marriage, she often had awoken to find ink on her shoulder from where Faramir had touched her with his hands while checking on her before returning to work. The ink from his calloused fingers would smear onto her gown. Perhaps that was why he had stopped coming. It hadn't happened in many years.

"I have something to tell you about your...friend," he said softly.

Éowyn swallowed. "I told you once before. He is not my friend." Then she paled, realizing her mistake. If she had returned just to see Faramir, she wouldn't have known about the Haradir. She wouldn't have automatically thought of him when Faramir mentioned her "friend."

Faramir brushed his hand over his brow, as if frustrated, but Éowyn knew not if he was angrier with her or himself. "Of course," was all he said, then sat down at his desk again. He gave his son a playful swat, but his good humor had faded.

"Elboron, go with your mother. I have more work to finish."

Éowyn held her hand out to her son, who took it dutifully. His large baby eyes were dark and serious, comprehending that something was wrong. She shooed him away, and he went to his nurse standing just outside the door. Dismissed, unwanted because mother was busy. Unwanted, but not unloved. She understood that well. Her son, poor boy, she almost followed him to the door to embrace him once more; and yet mother was busy.

She returned her attention to her husband.

"Faramir, you had something to tell me?" she asked, failing to keep her voice perfectly steady. She was almost begging him to maintain the connection they had shared earlier.

He looked up at her while opening one of his accounting books. "It can wait."

She stared at him, unable to think of what to say to make him set down his work once more. Perhaps she should not have interrupted him. Perhaps she should have played innocent. Perhaps she should have done many things she had not and not done things she had...

Faramir was bent over his work again. He had picked up his quill, shaven down almost to the end. He would have to sharpen a new one soon... It wasn't moving. He wasn't even fiddling with it between his thumb and forefinger as he did when he was reading.

It occurred to her that he cared: that he was still thinking of the rumors, and that they did bother him, and that he still loved her so tremendously, but perhaps he was afraid that she would confess everything and ridicule him.

But there was nothing to confess. Not really. And he must know it, for she could not bear to cause him pain. She would tell him the truth.

"Faramir...nothing..." she stopped, unable to allow the words to leave her mouth. How could she begin without sounding as if she were lying? She stammered for a moment more until she saw her husband begin to fiddle with his pen. He turned one of the pages of his books and crossed something out. Then something else. He flexed the taught muscles of his hand and scratched his beard as he always did when concentrating.

He wasn't listening. ...Or maybe he didn't want to hear? Could that be it? Was he trying to avoid a scene?

Éowyn felt so close to being able to tell him what she needed. So many times she had tried to tell him. She hinted at her unhappiness at every moment; and yet he never knew. Once he had been so good at understanding her; he had seen into her very soul, and she loved him for it. Now he hardly seemed to care.

But he did love her (does love her) and that was enough. She was sure that he was angry over the Haradrim, and that was her twisted consolation. Sometimes it was difficult to tell whether he was angry or not, but certainly he must care about the rumors. What husband wouldn't? And she could tell him so long as he loved her and she was certain he wouldn't shake his head and say, "Éowyn, come out of the darkness. I cannot do what you ask of me."

But he wouldn't say that if he loved her. So she opened her mouth to speak. Some sound left her throat. Not a word, but a stammer; yet it was a beginning. And then...

"I missed that," said her husband. "What?"

Éowyn trembled at his question. It was the end.

"...Nothing."