It was several hours after his meeting with his father before Faramir felt he had calmed down sufficiently to seek Éowyn out. The only slight glimmer of light on the horizon was the arrival of a missive, on expensive velum, penned in his Aunt's elegant hand. The Princess Merileth had written with her customary grasp of diplomatic niceties. She understood that the niece of the King of Rohan was visiting Minas Tirith in his company, and of course needed to be offered hospitality in keeping with her station. Yet at the same time it would clearly be quite unacceptable for her to stay in the Steward's palace, in the company of a widower and two bachelors, with no female chaperone. As chance would have it, however, she and Prince Imrahil were visiting the city and would be delighted to have the Lady Éowyn stay with them.
Tucking the letter into his tunic, Faramir heaved a sigh and went in search of Éowyn. He felt that she would probably accept his aunt's offer of hospitality with good grace. That would be the easy part of the conversation. But how was he to tell her of his father's reaction? And what sort of a sorry apology for a man would she think him to be when he told her the whole story? Well, perhaps not quite the whole story. He had no intention of telling her of his father's vile assessment of her character. The bare bones, the mere facts would suffice – he would spare her the worst.
~o~O~o~
To Faramir's amazement, Éowyn smiled. Admittedly, it was not a particularly humorous smile – her face bore a look made up of resignation and cynicism in equal parts.
"I cannot say I am surprised. You may have thought he would agree; I on the other hand did not for one moment think that was a likely outcome."
"But surely you must be disappointed in me. I am disappointed in me. I feel as though a real man would have stood up to him, would have said 'Morgoth take you,' and married you without his permission." He glanced down, avoiding her gaze. She gave a quiet snort of … what? Resignation? Irritation? Then she reached out and stroked his cheek gently. Her voice when she spoke revealed that he had misread her mood completely; it was gentle and understanding.
"Faramir, I'm not a fool. You don't care for his opinion, you don't care whether he disinherits you or not. But you do care for your country and your troops, and I know that your father threatened you not only with disinheritance, but also with stripping you of your commission and exiling you. We are at war, both our countries, in all but name. You can't sacrifice the safety of your nation for love. If you did you wouldn't be worth the having." This time her smile did seem almost genuine, if tinged with sadness, as she declaimed, "Thou couldst not love me, dear, so much, loved thou not honour more..."
"Ecthelion I's ode on being parted from his new bride. Though I don't recall the original going quite like that." Faramir managed a faint grin in return.
"Hmph," said Éowyn. "Your job is to quote poetry. I, being a practical and barbarous Rohir, merely plagiarise then adapt it to suit my purposes."
It wasn't until several hours later that it occurred to Faramir to wonder fleetingly quite how his lady had happened to hit upon exactly the same turn of phrase his father had used in their ill-starred meeting that morning. But he was prevented from pursuing this thought by Éowyn's intervention: for the first time in several days they had found a quiet place to themselves, and she was certainly not one to waste a golden opportunity. It was not long before Faramir lost all capacity for rational thought.
~o~O~o~
The few days in Minas Tirith passed pleasantly, but with the cloud of Boromir's imminent departure hanging over them. Faramir was fretful and clearly worried. Éowyn suspected he might have had another of his premonitions, but since she was safely chaperoned in the company of the Prince and Princess of Dol Amroth, she certainly had no opportunity to find out at first hand whether his dreams were disturbed, nor did she find the chance to ask him outright. Boromir was also fretful, but more in the manner of a horse on the starting line of a race, tossing its head and tugging at the reins, anxious to be off. Inaction did not suit him, nor long goodbyes.
The afternoon before Boromir was due to ride on the morrow, he sought Éowyn out. She smiled at him.
"I wish you the speed of Béma's wild hunt to carry you to your destination safely," she said. She hoped that he only picked up on her genuine concern for him, and not for the equally strong current of relief that seemed to flow beneath the surface of her thoughts whenever she considered his quest, and the fact that it might, perhaps should, have been Faramir riding in his place. However, Boromir was possessed of rather more sensitivity to the moods of others than she had credited him with.
"We've never beat around the bush, you and I?" he responded. "You're quite glad Faramir's not going."
Éowyn could not help but give a wry laugh at being so easily discovered. "Not at all! I am very glad Faramir is not going," she corrected him.
Boromir laughed too, and tried to make light of her evident embarrassment. "Worried he wouldn't be up to the trip?"
"Ah, you're teasing. I know that you at least do not underestimate your brother... unlike some of your kin." Her brows drew together in a frown for a moment, then her face cleared. "No, it's just that I would miss him. Miss him more than I had realised, more than I thought I was capable of." She glanced away, down at her hands, to cover her embarrassment.
"Éowyn..." His voice held a sudden note of seriousness she had not heard before. Startled, she looked up to find him staring straight at her. "I have a feeling – an odd sort of sense – that all may not be well with this venture. Don't scoff. I know Faramir is the one with the sight, but still, I get feelings sometimes. If something should happen to me..." He shook his head as if trying to clear away the dark clouds of uncertainty, then forced a smile which did not quite reach his eyes. "Ah, I'm being absurdly melancholic. Anyone would think I'd been reading my brother's books of poetry. But if I don't come back, the two of you can name your first born for me."
"First born?" Éowyn raised her eyebrows. "What makes you so sure there will be one?"
"The way the two of you carry on? It's only a matter of time. In fact, I'm amazed it hasn't happened yet. Almost worth it to see the look on the old man's face!"
"Almost, but not quite," said Éowyn, dryly. "Anyway, should we get that far, you can come to the child's naming yourself."
"I shall do so with joy."
"So, you do not dine with your father tonight? I would have thought that he would wish to spend time with you before you leave," Éowyn said.
"One might have hoped... But no, having briefed me in the early evening, apparently he has matters of state to attend to. What he gets up to in that high tower of his is anyone's guess, but he over stretches himself. He always looks drained, tired, after a night's work on his papers there." Boromir's expression was worried. For all his comments about the old man, Éowyn reflected, he loved his father. As, incomprehensibly, did Faramir. Or had until this week. After the last few days, Éowyn was not quite sure how the younger of Denethor's two sons now felt.
Boromir continued, "So, I shall break my fast with him tomorrow before I ride north. But tonight I get to dine with you and Faramir at our uncle's town house."
~o~O~o~
Towards the rear of Imrahil's city residence there was a walled garden. Faramir had led Eowyn into it to "take the air," though she suspected it was more because he was beginning to feel the strain of keeping up a carefree exterior when he was worried about the dangers his brother faced on his journey. The evening would have been more relaxing had it just been Imrahil, Merileth and their cousins. But diplomatic necessity had meant the inclusion of a number of court worthies, and although they seemed to have been hand-picked from among the prince's friends and allies, nonetheless their presence stopped the event from being the family affair Eowyn had hoped for. So she couldn't blame Faramir for taking the opportunity to escape from the glittering social chit-chat for a few moments. However, his actions did take her by surprise. Rather than sitting in plain site by the fountain in the centre of the courtyard, he tugged her hand and drew her into a shaded grotto in the stone wall behind a clump of fragrant shrubs.
"Do you know, I don't think I've ever seen you in skirts before," he whispered, eyes sparkling with amusement.
"I feel ridiculous," Éowyn replied. And in truth, she did, for it had been nearly three years since she'd worn dresses at her uncle's court.
"You look beautiful." Faramir raised his hand and stroked her cheek, running his fingers along the braids of hair which framed her face.
"My feet hurt. These damned slippers pinch."
Faramir grinned. "Ah, so ladylike and gracious in accepting compliments." Éowyn gave a quiet snort of laughter. "But I cannot leave my lady love lamenting her sore feet." He placed his hands on her waist and lifted her, effortlessly, onto the stone ledge at the back of the recess. Then he reached under the hem of her gown and slipped the jewelled, embroidered slippers from her feet, dropping them casually to the ground before starting to massage her feet.
"Oh, that's nice. Mmm"
Faramir's thumbs rubbed circles into the arches of her feet, soothing the skin where the shoes had chafed. Then, with a sidelong glance up at her from beneath dark lashes, his fingers moved gently up to her ankles and calves, stroking her skin.
"I don't recall the slippers causing any problem up there," Éowyn said, raising her eyebrows.
"Are you sure? One can't be too careful about the after effects of overly tight jewelled slippers. I have lost men to lesser wounds..." Faramir dipped his head and placed a kiss on her left ankle. "I think I should check you over carefully... I've been thinking I should do so since the moment I set eyes on you in this dress." His lips moved up her calf towards her knee, shoving the folds of rich fabric upwards. He lifted her leg slightly, and kissed the side of her knee, fingers gently stroking the hollow behind. "Oh Valar, the skin here is so soft..." His head disappeared under her skirt.
"Faramir! What if someone comes into the garden? We'll get... Ah!" The final sentence turned into a moan as Éowyn felt the tip of Faramir's tongue leave a silky wet trail up the inside of her thigh. Then his hands, firm and strong, parted her legs and lifted them till they came to rest on his shoulders. She felt the heat of his mouth as his tongue quested further up her thigh, then felt long, nimble fingers teasing at the edge of her small clothes.
"Faramir... Stop... Someone will see..." Her voice was shaky. Somehow, despite her words, her hands clutched the heavy material of her dress, holding his head just where it was.
She felt his fingers ease the fabric of her small clothes to one side, felt the hem of the silk teasing her skin and the curls of hair as he moved it out of the way. It was as if the hidden, secret place between her legs seemed to swell along with her racing pulse. She felt his hot breath on her, as he spoke, his voice low and laden with need. "I can stop if you want me to... Do you want me to? Really?" Each word caressed her skin and sent flames of desire licking across her body.
Almost involuntarily, her thighs tightened round him. "Faramir..." Only this time, his name was an unmistakable plea for more. In a deft motion, his tongue flickered across the surface of her sensitive skin, hot and wet, just a single quick stroke and no more.
"Was that a 'yes'?" Another teasing stroke, slightly slower and more purposeful, sliding just a tiny part of the way between her folds. Then he moved his head back, and blew lightly on the moistened skin.
"Oh gods, yes..." Then his head was back against her, his lips on her soft skin. And somehow, he managed to alternate strokes of his tongue with murmured words against her, and the hum of his lips in contact with her skin as he spoke did almost as much as his tongue, and the words, oh gods, the words...
"Since the moment I saw this dress... wanted to get my head under your skirts... wanted to breathe... your wonderful musky smell... taste you... Valar, I love the way you taste... your thighs wrapped round me... your thighs are like silk... and the noises you make... gods, the feel of your heat round my fingers... I could stay here all night..."
Then his words trailed away as he applied himself with single minded focus to his task, sucking at her, tongue lapping across the nub of flesh hidden there, swirling round. She felt him slide his long, clever fingers inside her, curling and twisting them to stroke inside her.
Éowyn's hands clung to the lip of the stone ledge, gaining purchase as she writhed and ground her hips against his head. Her back and neck were arched backwards, body drawn tight like a bow. And all the while there was a glorious liquid heat from his mouth, his lips, his tongue, flowing between her folds, teasing the delicate centre between them, licking, sucking in time with the movement of his fingers. Éowyn felt her tense need surging, building, until with a gasping shudder, her thighs clenched around him as the wave of desire finally crashed over her.
As she sat, shaking with the aftermath, Faramir managed to disentangle himself from her skirts and pulled her body close to him, kissing her with lips which still held the salty, brackish tang of her desire.
"Valar, to be able to do that to you... Feel what your pleasure does to me." He took her hand and pressed it to the front of his breeches, where she could feel his cock, swelling against the fabric. Her fingers moved to the laces and started to tug at them. But before she could get to the hard length within, a man's voice cut through the darkness.
"Faramir... Our uncle is about to propose a toast."
Faramir jumped away from Éowyn with the sort of speed he normally reserved for sword fights. Boromir came into view, his face imperturbably impassive. However, as Faramir stepped to one side to allow Éowyn to precede him, Boromir whispered from her other side, "Only a matter of time, only a matter of time..."
Eowyn's fragment of poetry is a misquote of Richard Lovelace's To Lucasta, on going to the wars.
As always, thank you for all my reviews.
Guests one and two! Lovely to hear from both of you. Yes, my Éowyn and Faramir both have what I suppose could be called masculine and feminine sides to their characters – I suppose it's an abiding belief of mine that the whole "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus" business is a complete crock of... (well, whatever it was Damrod had Éowyn removing from their hideout!) So I tend to see people as people, with a mixture of traits, in varying proportions, depending on the individual. I also think it's pretty much canonical – obviously that Éowyn has a steely, determined side, but also that Faramir has a thoughtful, gentle side: he is undoubtedly very good at reading people, and at being understanding of what he finds there. And although I occasionally do sappy and romantic, I generally find awkward and humanly fallible interactions to be more believable ones. So yes, I can imagine a clumsy proposal like this much more easily than I can imagine a hearts-and-flowers version (though that may simply tell you about my own character and failings of imagination as a writer...)