Disclaimer: Same as Chapter One.

Author's Note: My muses struck me at one o'clock in the morning to write this chapter, so I hope that the lost sleep was worth it, but I'll let you be the judge of that. As before, R&R.

Chapter Two

Rituals

The following morning, Faramir awoke refreshed, ready for the day. He shrugged into a tunic and leather vest, pulled on his leggings and laced his boots. He'd awoken way before Éowyn, so he set about preparing breakfast for the two of them. The staff usually arrived around noon, just in time to prepare the luncheon meal. The only staff that lived in the great house of the Prince of Ithilien was Ioreth, who had resigned her position in the Houses of Healing when Faramir and Éowyn had left Minas Tirith, in order to serve Faramir, whom she admired more than all Men, save Aragorn. She knew she could sleep in every day. Faramir loved to fry eggs and bacon and eat toast he'd toasted himself. It made him feel like he could better relate to the people he ruled over in his princedom. Éowyn understood, she herself loved to shop among the serfs, but she had neither Faramir's enthusiasm nor his talent for cooking. They'd both learned that lesson the hard way.

Faramir shuddered at the memory of the first meal they'd eaten as a married couple. Éowyn had slid a bowl of something on his placemat. It looked like a solvent for a wound, and smelled like one, too.

He'd resisted the urge to ask, "What is it?" and said instead, "Thank you, Éowyn. I could use a hot bowl of…"

"Stew," she finished proudly. "Try it."

He'd taken a spoonful of the thick broth and lifted something unusually lumpy out of the bowl. To this day, he felt the bravest thing he'd ever done was finish that bowl of stew. And to this day, he still had no idea what kind of stew it was.

He looked up from the fire and jumped when he saw Éowyn standing in the doorway. She was wearing the same robe she'd worn on their wedding night, only much more conservatively. Faramir smiled at her and beckoned her to his side, putting his arm around her and drawing her near him. "You've been standing there for a while, haven't you?"

Éowyn chuckled and laid a hand on her swelling stomach, a habit she'd developed. "Yes. What was the memory this time, my love?"

Faramir smiled and told a half-truth. "One about you."

She frowned slightly. "The look on your face was strange for a happy memory. It seemed almost as if you had tasted something bitter or foul." She thought for a moment and laughed, and Faramir was certain she'd figured out what he'd been reminiscing about.

He turned the bacon and said, "Breakfast is done."

Éowyn groaned. "That is well. I feel as though the child eats more than half of what I eat." She did not seem to be truly upset, though, and set about getting flatware and silverware for their meal. They dined in the kitchen, at the servant's table, which was a ritual for them. The dining hall, they decided, was far too large for two people.

Faramir held her hand as they ate. As he did every morning, he asked, "How is the food?"

And, just as every morning, Éowyn replied, "Delicious."

When they had finished, Faramir washed and Éowyn dried and they both put the dishes away. Faramir set the leftovers (and there were plenty) aside for Ioreth when she awoke.

Such were the mornings in the House of the Captain and the White Lady.

Both Faramir and Éowyn had never before lived in so much peace or happiness. Faramir's childhood had been riddled with ridicule from his father, who hated the son who most reminded him of himself. Boromir had always been the favorite. "Faramir, look what Boromir's learned to do," or, "Faramir, why can't you be more like your brother?" were some of the constant jabs his father took at him. And it only got worse after Boromir died and Denethor sunk into madness.

Faramir was not ashamed of his father. Because Faramir's heart was pure and he was a wise man, he was able to forgive Denethor his faults and even grieved his death, if only because he'd never been able to win the love of the Steward.

Éowyn would not speak of her childhood. She would only give him a rough outline, and she never spoke of her father or her mother. She sobbed at the mention of the late Thèoden, and the only living relative she had now was her brother, King Éomer, and they hadn't spoken in some time. It seemed to Faramir that she was trying to remove all connection from Rohan.

He decided to talk to her about it later. For now, let he let her be happy.

Another Note: Writing a sequel is hard, because it's difficult to decide how you want the characters to react to each other with the progression of time. How have they changed? Do they relate differently now? What new characters should be introduced? And, most importantly, what is the plot for the sequel? I'm doing the very best that I can, I know this chapter was a little suckly, but bear with me. It'll get better, I promise.