Thank you so very much to Nell, darkvendetta, winteralcymyst and XxPriscillaxX, for following and/or favouriting this month. Apologies for how long this took. Good grief i need to write shorter chapters... but they both had things they had to say
With a heartfelt sigh Faramir folded the small piece of parchment nestled against his sling and tucked it back into the pocket of his tunic. Already the square was a little ragged. Too much opening and closing, and one unsteady cup of kahva, had marred the white, but he could not bring himself to care.
The single word 'yes' was still visible.
Almost he had not had the courage to slip the note below Éowyn's shuttered door. "One does not give up because the task is hard." So said a wizard once, a blue light floating in a dim archive room, inky shadows playing across his deep lined face. No, one does not give up but necessity does not make it any easier to admit how wide of the mark his awkward, if well-intentioned, words had fallen. The sight of her beautiful face, distraught, even angry, had chilled him utterly; so much that he had penned the apology and the invitation mere moments after her last footfall sounded in the hall.
He had had to force himself to not set off too early for the front gate.
Éowyn was new and strange, and yet familiar in a way he could not explain. So unexpected, but after a few short days in her company he had lived, laughed, shared more than in all these months of strife. She had come to mean so much, so quickly, it was quite startling.
As a warrior he thought he understood this. When the world darkened and death seemed like a certainty there was no time to hesitate. It became survival. The fall of a blade. The sharp snap of a trodden twig. The sighting of a tense drawn bow. All decisions taken in an instant; the world narrowed entirely to what had to be.
The world might collapse, Gondor might stand on the brink of ruin, but he, hemmed in by slow-paced, measured days, had lost his careful, measured heart.
Warrior or no, it was utterly unlike his normal self.
Of course there had been a few brief, aborted relationships. Young widows who wanted nothing more than companionship in the soft firelight. Brief affairs that did not survive his need to be gone for months. Though they had hurt, fleetingly, at each demise, he had never been consumed with the need to see them once again. Never spent every waking moment anticipating their next conversation. The newfound emotion made him marvel at Annwyn—how she and Madril had borne with grace the separations in their life that kept the other Rangers unattached- Anborn not for the lack of trying; busy Renil and Mablung folded into the arms of large and loving families; Damrod loudly sworn off the fairer sex, although Faramir rather suspected the older man's heart had been broken badly once, for all he'd claimed it was a lump of coal.
This was a heady feeling. He had to see her more…and above all else t see the bleak hopelessness, the frost in her blue-grey gaze erased.
It was this latter need that brought him to the errand that began their day, hovering near a worn carved bench beside the arched stone vines of the Houses' central gate and aching in a new and different way. The sun had yet to piece too far into the higher circles. There were few about, save the two Tower Guards standing, correct and erect beside Houses' entrance. Excited, beyond grateful to have this chance, he held his cloak and whistled (a tune, not a warning signal) to release a little tension. What if she did not appreciate the surprise? What if she was still angered by his words?
"Am I suitable?"
Faramir whirled around at the hail and felt his ability to articulate vanish in face of a new sight. Éowyn stood on the dusty flagstones, an image of deep blue and white, crowned by gold, showing off her handiwork. Her long glossy locks were braided and pinned up, exposing the elegant lines of her long neck.
The sight did something untoward to his normally artful tongue.
"For?" he croaked out at last.
"Escape." Éowyn frowned, lifted the mantle's hem and pointed one foot forward. "You mentioned escape. I have no spurs but I have my stoutest slippers."
Valar be thanked. Until that moment he had not been entirely convinced of her forgiveness. He shook himself to loosen a fall of words. "You are perfect."
She smiled and he took his chance before his courage failed. "Éowyn…"
"No." The gold head shook and briskly a pair of stained riding gloves were pulled on. They looked borrowed and a little tight. "Yesterday was yesterday. A foul day and quite unlike this morning's sun…" She strode forward and looked pointedly out the gate. Tell me, Captain, here do we go...? Are we on the lam or have you cajoled the Master by some magic trick?"
"Neither," he replied, delighted by the hint of amusement and impatience in her eyes. Well then. Sometimes it was best to not look back. "We are both restless and need other paths to walk. I simply appealed to Varan's better sense. He has judiciously recognized that a little freedom will help speed our recovery."
"Then shall we?" Éowyn raised one elegant brow and gathered up her skirts.
"In a moment…" he explained. "It is a surprise. But not too far." he added, hastily/ It had not be, for neither of them were quite in shape to climb all up and down the city's steeper streets. Faramir worked to hide his grin. The lady was practically dancing with impatience. It was going to make the surprise even sweeter still.
"But we are going out?"
"We are."
"Where?"
"Not far." This time he shrugged, feigning a patience he did not feel and with effort dragged his gaze from her prettily flushed cheek back toward the Houses. Before too long a breathless young Bergil pelted up.
"Sorry my Lord, but Princess Lothiriel insisted you have these." The boy held out his own green leather gauntlets. "Said you must not catch a chill."
Faramir silently ground his teeth. Being treated like an invalid was infuriating. But if it was the price of adventure he would gladly spend the coin.
Éowyn tilted her head as he obliging pulled them on. "Our accomplice?"
"Our guard.. Varan's one demand in allowing the change of scene…"
"How trusting of him," was the faintly acid reply. "But where?"
"You shall see." Oh ho, the lady's impatience was getting worse. Her pointed toe was vibrating like a harpstring in the wind. It was time to move. Faramir nodded to the lad. "Bergil please run ahead and tell Cahil we are on our way."
"Of course my Lord." The lad bowed, pushed wide the heavy door and vanished into the slanted sunlight of the street. Faramir pulled up his green hood and gestured for the lady to go first. With alacrity Éowyn settled her own fur-lined hood and swept on through.
They walked east, back toward the Citadel's winding stair, dodging the few others roaming the sixth circle's thoroughfare: a small troop in black and silver, a weary messenger leading an equally weary horse. They were not recognized. His own cloak afforded some anonymity, and although more than one glance doubled back to the striking blue clad figure at his side, he doubted there was anyone left in the City to know Finduilas' winter mantle. Forty years was a long time ago.
The door he sought was not far along. Soon enough he spied the narrow, pale oak plank and the spare, dark robes of Gondor's Chamberlain. Cahil stood waiting solemnly, well aware of how easy the alcove was to miss if one did not know where to look.
"My Lord," the man intoned when they drew up beside. Cahil, who would know the young master's walk anywhere, bowed correctly, slowed only a little by age-stiffened joints.
Faramir drew back his hood. "Cahil. It is blessing to see you." He found himself swallowing around a sudden lump in his throat. It was their first meeting since his father's passing and his own injury. Of all those in the Steward's household it was Cahil who would mourn hardest the master he had served faithfully for so many years. The familiar narrow face was sunken and aged with grief.
Impulsively, the new Steward reached out a steady hand and clasped a shoulder hard.
The servant blinked in surprise, nodding sadly his grey head. To be touched by the Steward, much less in sympathy, was an experience beyond his keen. "And you my Lord," Cahil coughed and surreptitiously wiped a tear away with the corner of his robe. "The Lord Hurin is most conscientious and I have endeavoured to serve him wel but it is….different."
"I have no doubt." Faramir did not. His father's loud and boisterous second cousin was a good soldier and a capable administrator, yet Denethor he was not. Hurin had to see a threat to know it coming. After years of silently anticipating every unspoken need to be boldly told "to not worry" must be jarring in the extreme.
He touched lightly at Éowyn's elbow. "Éowyn, may I introduce, Cahil, son of Cawdir. Chamberlain of the Steward's Palace. Master Cahil…the Lady Éowyn."
Another impossibly correct bow was served. "I am honoured to meet you, great lady."
Éowyn snorted but merely inclined her head, amused by this display of typical Gondorian etiquette. Once the proper pleasantries were exchanged Cahil pulled out a heavy iron key. The fob was worn, the metal smooth where a thumb would grip and a tengwa "F" adorned each side.
With some effort the key was fit into the lock and the mechanism turned. He pushed the door ajar. Its unoiled hinges creaked like an oldster's knees. "Directly you asked my lord, I ascertained Nera had in fact been keeping up the space. All else is assembled per your request. I took the liberty of leaving some refreshments."
"Has Varan agents everywhere?" Éowyn snickered, leaning forward in her excitement to catch a glimpse past the heavy wood Faramir's eyes danced as he shifted to block the view. The lady most definitely had a problem with surprises. However did her family keep Mettare gifts well hid?
"Ale or tea?" he asked over her head, ignoring her moue of distaste. They had finished many, many cups of tea after their daily walks. Something different would be a refreshing change of pace.
"Both, my Lord. And scones. The best to be had from the morning commissary"
"Thank you." Faramir glanced one last time up and down the street. The sun was climbing and already the shadows cast by the City's eastern prow were shrinking from deep indigo to paler grey. Much of Minas Tirith would soon be about. He turned to a quiet, steady form, unobtrusively toying with something in his pocket.
"Bergil, could you please stand guard by the door and see that we are not disturbed?" Faramir was not taking any chances. Prying eyes were to be avoided on this special mission.
"Yes, sir." The lad stood straighter up, pleased and flushed, but Cahil looked nonplussed.
"There is no need, milord. I have kept safe all the other keys."
"Nevertheless. After you my lady." Without further ado Faramir nodded to Bergil and pushed the door full wide, waiting politely while Éowyn swept on through.
"What is this place?"
At her wide-eyed exclamation Faramir could not help but beam. Nestled in the centre of a broad and green oasis of formal planting beds, set to catch all the light, there stood an elegant, curved glasshouse. Twice the height of a man, it had arched doors and two high spans on either end. Arabesques of silvery lead sailed between panes cut in exquisite swirls of waves and shore. The climbing sun scattered little rainbows off the neatly beveled facets and beyond, in one corner of the garden, mist rose above the placid surface of a pond.
It was beautiful. And a work of art. And quiet as the Houses were surely not.
"My mother's private studio and garden," Faramir replied, proudly. "Our housekeeper has kept it tended these many years. I thought that you might like to see it."
He led Éowyn forward along the pale gravel path toward the building. Beside the eastern door, spring birds scattered from the branches of a sprawling lilac bush. Already the tight corollas were bulging soft heather purple.
"You said you wove…" Faramir placed a hand on the delicate lever and pressed to door handle down. A dusty scent, comprised of parchment and old wool and time, drifted out.
"Oh…" Éowyn stepped lightly through and turned around, taking in the hushed and airy space. Ranks of empty bobbins stood arrayed upon a cupboard, shorn of their coloured coats. Racks of heddles, which once would have been full of braided warp, hung overhead. A large horizontal loom stood sentinel in a corner, its stool gone but clearly once well-used for its steel pins were worn at the nub. Over on the far side, set to catch the southern sun, a single part-finished canvas leaned drunkenly against an easel, while a row of cracked and dessicated paint pots, like withered petals, marched across a shelf.
Once bright as a high midsummer border, now it felt forlorn.
Éowyn walked forward and ran her fingers reverently across pieces of parchment scattered on a scrubbed work table. "These are beautiful," she breathed.
They were, or so Faramir had always thought. The watercolours were faded with age but still they flowed with life, swaths of yellow and fucshia and cerulean blue twining together to form graceful swirls. Pomegranetes, sunflowers, Ithil on its rising arc- circular patterns figured prominently. All plays on the mandala symbol that was life to long ago Westernesse.
"She could see a new design in everything." He smiled fondly at the memory. "Sun or rain, she would be here. I remember the smell of fresh cured yarn. And jasmine," he added. "She made her own dyes from the garden plants. Later, when she had not the strength to sit at even the little tapestry frame, she painted, still planning patterns. One of her works adorns the Houses' dining hall."
"I think I remember it." Éowyn spread out a few of the lower sheets. Even through the faded tones, the bold colours echoed, utterly unlike the muted pale designs that graced every arch in the City's stone. Faramir nodded at her curious glance. "She also tried to emulate designs from other halls. Meduseld. Lórien. She hated simple white."
"I had not assumed a Gondorian to prize another's proud designs," Éowyn murmured, delighted to find a model for a woven edge—all stallions and running knots.
Faramir's mouth quirked as he bent over his sling to look at a hint of gold upon a saddle. "She was not typical, no. " In point of fact, Dol Amroth's youngest princess had defied convention at every turn. He liked to think it was her artist's eye that had allowed her to see differently. In her designs and in her choice of husband.
"Come, let me show you round."
For a pleasant half-candlemark they wandered amidst the neat square-laid paths, taking in another view of the river away off in the climbing sun and the variety of already-blooming plants. This would not be a pale space like the Houses—come Lothron it would be alive with colour. By a grape-covered arbor they paused. Cahil's tray of treats was welcome, and when at last Éowyn had pronounced the ale acceptably wet and the scones entirely satisfactory, she touched his hand in thanks.
"This is lovely. And I am most grateful to have somewhere else to walk. I made it four times around the far loop yestereve. If I see that droopy poppy again I may have to kick it down."
Faramir nodded in agreement, working hard to keep a smirk from off his face. Of course she would assume this was simply yet another garden to take walks in. Anticipation beat like a message drum within his chest, but he would not spoil the surprise.
"Did you bring your feadan?"
"No." He set down his now empty flagon and brushed a few stray crumbs from off his lap, laying the simple linen cloth back across the pastry basket. "Before we leave there is another sight that I must show you."
"There is?" Éowyn arose, alight with curiousity again and he led the way, striding purposefully but slowly along the outer square, pausing every now and again to move aside some heavier fall of green. Pointedly he refused to acknowledge his guest's puzzled frown and repeated entreaties for enlightenment.
On impulse, hoping to distract, he plucked a stray primose and offered it silently across.
Two spots of pale colour stained Éowyn's cheeks. "Should you be doing that?"
He shrugged a little sheepishly. "It is mine now." He watched her accept the bloom and sniffed at the golden petals. They were brighter than her hair but not so soft. Once again he found the need to speak fire his tongue before his careful sense.
"It is lovely but does not compare to you…"
"Hardly," she scoffed but still the faint blush deepened. "I am surprised that you, a scion of Numenor, should think so. Compared to the beauties of Gondor my hair is brass and my skin is far from milk."
"My brother would have said I have always loved the rare and the unusual."
"Faramir!"
Valar help him, she had actually laughed.
Wildly for a moment he wondered if the wound in his heart had marred his tongue the way the one in his shoulder marred with aim. Again he was stupidly blurting out the truth. Boromir had long teased him for his love of the exotic. In Minas Tirith women might wash their skin in lemon water to chase away the sun-kissed colour of skin darkened by a day's ride, but not Éowyn. Next to her, raven-hair and cream-white skin seemed insipid. Devoid of life. Mixed with her fiery and frank disposition, well… it seemed that he was quite lost.
To hide his discomfiture he hustled on ahead. "Bear with me a minute while I find the spot."
"What spot?"
Just as the lady started to sound more frustrated than perplexed, with relief he caught the sheen of blue steel below a sprawling mass of sumac.
"Aha!"
One sweep of his good arm and the prize lay exposed in all its forbidden glory: two practise swords and a light riding bow glinted against the dirt.
He looked up and cocked a dark arching brow. Every prick of cringe-worthy verbal miscue was worth it to see the look of shock and admiration upon Éowyn's lovely face.
.
~~~000~~~
.
"You sneaked these in?" Éowyn asked, incredulous, nearly dumbstruck at the sight. Weapons were expressly forbidden in the Houses. She had resigned herself to waiting days, weeks, under her admittedly gentle confinement until she could properly train again, Béma's horn, the relief of not waiting so very long almost made her nearly faint.
She watched Faramir's wry half-quirk broaden to a full on grin. "I did. Or rather I had them sneaked in. You did say you wished to train. To get your sword arm back."
She had. Éowyn took in the swords and two sets of padded armor, and essayed a small smile of her own, wondering again if she had underestimated Gondor's quiet, thoughtful Captain. Misjudged thoughtful patience for overcaution
A cautious man did not find creative ways around inconvenient orders. Especially when they were supposed to be convalescing.
"However did you manage it?" she asked, shaking her head at the daring.
Light grey eyes glinted with amusement. "Cahil is anxious to be service and Private Eldrin has been released on his own recognizance. And I am his commanding officer. The men do have a tendency to do things when I ask."
They did. Even when he was asking them to complete a hopeless quest.
She paused so long not knowing how to reply that his features softened, conspiracy giving over to concern. "It matters greatly to you Lady to have the means to defend yourself. Even here."
An unfamiliar rush of emotion made her voice low and almost rough. "It does." For a second time in as many days he had understood her well without need of words. Guessed or gleaned her heart. She tilted her head and eyed her companion quizzically. Was he such a good judge of men as to gauge so much from just their visage? Or did he somehow instinctively understand what made her comfortable? It felt strange and overwhelming yet also oddly comforting.
She might longer watch for stray hands in the corridor that did not mean allies were unimportant. Especially on unfamiliar ground. "You are a most surprising man, Faramir of Gondor."
"Let us say.. practical," He bent down to pick up one of the blades with his right hand. It was not full size, a sparring blade for a youth. Neither of them had full strength yet and therefore a practical and considerate choice. "We both wish to be ready come what way."
Come what may. She wondered for a moment if he had had other dreams. Seen something of Aragorn's feint to come. Perhaps.. but if so he was not minded to speak them in the open air and on this morn at least the darker shadows that had plagued him seemed lifted with the sun.
Pleased by both the neat solution to a change of view and a secret sparring space, Éowyn accepted the sword as he passed it carefully by the hilt. The grip was wound in black-dyed leather, worn and stained from use. The scribed image of a tree and stars ran across both sides of the pommel. It was rather elaborate for a practice piece. Was it his, forged just for the Steward's son? She opened her mouth to ask but then just as quickly shut it again.
There were two blades…and the Steward had had two sons.
An experimental half swing established the weapon had exquisite balance but yet a bit too heavy for her weakened hand. She let it droop, point down, into the gravel, frowning thoughtfully. "Varan will not like it."
Faramir's mouth quirked again into a faintly teasing smile. "Tell me it does not give you a small sense of satisfaction to confound him? I should have thought that a point in its favour."
She chuckled inwardly at the thought. Oh she just imagine the Master's rather lugubrious face frowning with displeasure. A measure of independence and almost, as it were, right under his long nose. "More than is seemly.." she allowed.
Faramir grinned back and bent pick up the second blade. He struck an active stance, wincing as he held his bound arm farther outward for better balance. "Varan need not know. He believes us merely changing the scenery for our walk."
A half-hearted attack succeeded in shearing the sumac of a dried spent flowerhead. He grimaced, lifting the blade again and pushing forward with a quicker feint. Another flower fell, as did a muffled oath. He rolled his stiffened left shoulder cautiously. Both of them were unaccustomed to much more than an easy stroll. "Of course, if he asks I shall have to answer truthfully."
Éowyn pursed her lips, watching the performance. His blade had been far from steady. Either the right was not his normal hand or he was weaker than he let on. Mayhap both.
She pointed back to the garden door. "Hence the effort to keep down the number of confidants?"
"Exactly," Faramir nodded for emphasis. "But I trust to your common sense. It will do neither of us good to overtax."
No, but she had been beyond frustrated with the slow pace of therapy under the Master's care. So far Éowyn had only been allowed a small iron grip to hold. Improve her proprioception first, Varan had said. She snorted derisely. It was as if he believed her ready to relapse at any point. Ridiculous.
Hesitantly she raised the blade again and took another swing, careful this time to keep it to just a quarter arc. She could control it both on the ascent and descent. Just.
"I have been working to regain my strength," she announced, wondering whom she was trying to convince.
"Then that is well. You shall find it easier practising a little more each day." Faramir looked relieved as he lowered his own blade and glanced up to catch the angle of the climbing sun. "We should cache these in the glasshouse for when there is more free time. My aunt wished to see me by mid-morn."
"More tonic?"
Faramir's scowl could have dug a hole into the ground. "Valar no. She has threatened to place me in the market scales if I do not gain more weight. I believe she intends to monitor the increase." He leaned forward and retrieved a light chain shirt. It was not so bright as mithril steel, yet obviously finely wrought. "It comes of having taken a rather studious approach to both garden and healing lore down through the years. She loves to measure things."
.
~~~000~~~
.
Together they gathered as much of the small horde as their two good arms could hold and shifted all into the little studio. It took two trips. A remnant of paint-splattered canvas was pressed into service as disguise and by the time Éowyn felt the weight of a person's gaze upon her back Faramir was turning the final latch.
Behind them a nervous triple whistle sounded softly.
Faramir stiffened but did not glance back. He took his time, setting the key back into a pocket of his tunic, resettling his cloak about his sling. When he finally turned to their visitor, his hand was rubbing thoughtfully back and forth across his jaw.
Bergil stood, cloak askew and dragging in in the dirt, shifting from one foot to foot another, obviously anxious to impart his news but also obviously unhappy to intrude.
"Lad," Faramir observed drily into the sudden quiet, "if that was meant to be 'sentry here' the two second notes lacked in pitch." Only the faintest twitch of his mouth betrayed the effort it took to keep from smiling broadly.
The boy's shoulders sagged. "Oh sorry sir, I did not want to shout."
Faramir's mouth twitched again. Éowyn wondered if he was not minded of some private joke. "It is nothing we can't remedy. With a little training."
The young face snapped up and suffused with happiness. "Really?"
"Absolutely," Faramir assured. "Come to me after supper and I will instruct you on the basic calls. You have made your oath. I see no reason why not."
"My lord!" After a moment's dazed silence he remembered his errand. "Master Cahil sends word that Princess Ivriniel is looking for you."
"Ah. I expected so. Would you go ahead and let her know that we are coming?"
"Sir." With a quick pull of his leather cap and another excited 'thank you' Bergil hurried off.
Watching his retreating back Éowyn could not resist. "What did he actually call?"
"Kine"
"Kine?" She bit her lip. "As in the ox?"
Faramir nodded slowly. "It is also the name of the guard's favourite pub. I had to stop and think a moment if he really mean it."
They were both still giggling at the image of boy with an illicit pint when they reached the garden's narrow door. The Chamberlain stood patiently waiting once again.
"I shall tidy up milord?"
"Please, Cahil. And my thanks. Everything was perfect."
The man flushed happily at the praise. He fumbled in his robes before producing another key. This one was fobbed more simply in turned dark oak.
"You wished a second key my Lord, " Cahil observed. "The Steward's..." He paused, turning a deeper, more unbecoming red. "Your father's, " he began again, "is here. I have, of course, a spare."
"Thank you, " replied Faramir gravely. As he turned to pass the extra key into Éowyn's hand, she caught the barest flicker of sadness in his darkened gaze before it vanished like a minnow darting in a sudden current. What would it be like for her to be home in Edoras with so many reminders of Theoden around? Hard, she imagined, like dodging obstacles in a field blindfolded and never knowing when another might rear up.
She gripped the key, pressed her fingers lightly against his longer ones and felt Faramir jolt at sudden the touch. Had she transgressed? Gone beyond the bounds of Gondor's rather staid propriety? Éowyn hastily dropped her hand and looked up to find his expression unreadable. It was not anger. Or affront. Looking closely, she could see something moved in the still churning depths but could not glean quite what.
Faramir awkwardly cleared his throat and turned back to the Chamberlain. "Cahil I wish Lady Éowyn to have the run of this space. She may well come on her own at times."
"Very good my Lord. If you or she will send a note up to the palace I can be on hand at times." He did not add 'as events allow'.
"Of course."
Éowyn crossed the threshold into the now much more busy street. Guards in the formal livery of the Citadel thronged the thoroughfare, making their way up to the Seventh Gate. A row of smaller wains, such as were used to move heavy cargo between the circles, clattered toward the next lower gate, pulled by a dozen, dusty, tired men. A porter with a load of heavy jars looked back and apologized when he brushed roughly by. She held her splinted arm a little closer. It was remarkably full for a city evacuated and under siege. She had not thought they might be jostled. Or recognized.
Faramir had forgotten to draw his hood.
"Make way for the Lord Steward!"
The cry rang loudly from one soul who perhaps remembered a more formal overlord. Instantly, every man, liveried or not, all those left to hold Minas Tirith's safety, stood to hasty and obedient attention, saluted and placed hands to breast. And exactly because a glimpse of the Steward's robes and ring had become so rare a sight those days, the throng parted like a stream about a jutting rock.
Faramir blanched white as the pennants on the Tower.
People, of course, were curious. Every gaze was solicitous, many sympathetic. In another time and space the noble man in a simple Ranger cloak, walking with fingers tightly clenched, might have stopped and shaken the people's hands, accepted wishes or condolences, offered encouragement of his own. Then, a bare month after his brother fell and six since he had learned of his father's death, the regard was more than just disconcerting-it was upsetting. Faramir had not had time to accept a role he never imagined should be his. Éowyn could feel it-how the words and reaction had taken him unawares-it was shock that made him stride stiffly, nodding and returning the salutes, a tic jumping high upon his cheek.
Sudden pity for his plight made Éowyn reach out, grab his free hand and squeeze hard as she dared.
"Lady?" Faramir tore his gaze from the street. Through the thin fabric of her glove Éowyn could feel the slight trembling of his hand.
"You do have an ally on your flank," she murmured.
"I do?" His voice was strained and thick, but the dark pained look had lightened briefly, like storm clouds rising after they have spent their rain.
She nodded. "I find I need all your focus to explain the intricacies of Minas Tirith's ….plumbing, " she explained. It was not a brilliant ruse but was the first thing to come to mind. The pavement was not entirely even underfoot and she had just stepped across an iron grate.
"Plumbing?" Faramir, wide-eyed in surprise, searched her face.
"Yes, how does the City handle the Spring rains? I really must know right now..there is no time to look up."
Ahead the carved sigil of the Houses' gate was visible: two hands cupped, ready to offer aid. Their goal was not too much farther up ahead. In his clear grey gaze comprehension dawned. "Well then…"
Boldly, Éowyn lengthened her stride as much as she dared, lifted a corner of the mantle to focus on avoiding a large loose slab. They hurried along, ignoring the audience, she asking rudimentary, ridiculously un-urgent questions and Faramir answering them with no trace of irony. Slowly, step by step, she felt his tenseness bleed away. Below her glove the trembling had begun to fade but still she did not let go. Somehow the touch was grounding, needful for both of them; the warmth of his body seeping through the thin kid leather, felt—right, reassuring, but alive in a way she could not describe.
And most assuredly like nothing she had felt before.
They had almost reached the gate when Faramir held her hand taut, frowning and casting a searching look beyond the white spire of the Tower. Engrossed in her part in their little tableau, Éowyn had not noticed that the few silver clouds of the days before had fattened and begun to block the sun, darkened to an angry grey. He, familiar with every nuance of the White Mountains' shifting winds, had felt the storm's sudden shift.
"Lady I think we shall have to run."
The first giant drops splattered on to the cobblestones just as they reached the safety of the sheltered courtyard. Éowyn, winded from the exercise, rushed up under the eaves, stepping aside to make way for Faramir. Between a column and the rapidly drenching stones there just enough room for two. They huddled, a little winded, chests heaving in unison, cloaks dripping, watching as the clouds opened up and rainwater began to pour off the overhang. It rushed along a sloping gutter, forming a swollen stream for several feet before disappearing into a cistern.
As the grey sheets thinned to a steady drizzle Faramir gave a quiet sigh. "Éowyn, you are a marvel."
She raised a startled eyebrow. "Because I am ignorant of waterworks?"
His laugh was low but loud in cloistered space. "Is not our fair City's intimate architecture the focus of every schoolroom in Middle-Earth?"
Intimate. The word burned her ears. The wry, dry-as-summer-chaff humour she had noticed in the days before had bubbled up again and made her almost dizzy.
"No." Faramir now stood so very close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her brow, almost count the lines that years of sun had gathered round his eyes. The air smelled of fresh green and muddy stone and him. They had not walked far but her pulse was racing, her legs wobbling unsteadily as she tried to set a little distance between their chests.
Unbidden, his right hand reached up, tucked a loose wet strand of her hair back into place. "Why ever not?"
What was the question? She could not remember. Éowyn gripped at the column behind her back. In the pit of her stomach a kaleidoscope of butterflies turned a graceless flip.
"I don't know."
It was the truth-the correct reply to whatever the query was. Heart pounding, she stayed very still as Faramir frowned, searched her face for some answer only he could see. He must have found it for he nodded and stepped back a pace, folding his hand across his chest and giving a short careful bow. "My lady. I thank you. That was kindly done."
The spare words were no less heartfelt for their simplicity It was nothing, she wanted to reply but really it was not. The sight of him upset had twisted an unnamed something in her chest. Now the warmth of his normal baritone was back. She was relieved.
By some stroke of luck, she managed a halfway composed response. "You are welcome. I am always happy to help a friend." Were they friends? The words had tumbled out but now they surprised. She, who had held herself apart so long, was claiming friendship after not even a sennight of acquaintance?
If he sensed her discomfiture he did deign to let it show. Faramir studied the wetted stones afore. Where before the courtyard had been quite empty, now it was packed with carts, and bales, and sodden, blood-soaked blankets.
He sighed unhappily. "I should escort you to your room but am afraid that I must leave you now. I must go find my Aunt. There has been surely been some news."
And ill tidings fly faster than a goodwife's tongue. However much she wished to know, she would surely find out soon enough. "I can manage on my own."
"Of course." The gentle half-smile she was coming to recognize as yearning spreadly slowly along his lips. "But I would rather walk with you."
He would? The revelation set little flames of heat amidst the butterflies.
Faramir took his leave. She watched all the way, almost until his dark green cloak passed under the farthest arch and disappeared amongst the sea of grey clad healers and assistants. The welcome rain that before had seemed fresh and new felt leaden. Bema's horn, what was wrong with her?
Before she could quite understand, the young woman who had already done something unusual, twice, that morn, opened her mouth to speak.
"Faramir, wait!"
Whether it was the unique timbre of her voice or some other madness on the sodden wind, he was attuned, sensitive to her. Picked up her words from even across the crowded hall.
Faramir swung on his heel, looked up immediately though she had not spoken very loud. "Éowyn?"
"I should like to meet this Ivriniel."
.
~~~000~~~
.
In the event, Ivriniel of Dol Amroth was not free.
Faramir's guess of trouble had been correct. Two barges had come down Anduin from farther north, laden to bursting with hollowed-eyed, bloodied but silent men.
At the doorway to one open ward he stopped a limping soldier with a private's stripes who bore the green eyes of Lebennin and far too young a face.
"Cair Andros has been assailed again?" he asked, dark brows furrowed in concern. It had to be the fortress isle. What little news had the reached the City told of successes in Anorien, Elfhelm and his men were having an easy time chasing routed Orcs across the fens and fields.
The young man blinked, passed a tired hand across his face and smiled through a row of broken teeth. The mottled red splashed across his cheek had yet to darken to a brooding plum. "Nay, my lord. 'Tis good news for once. These are the hostages we retrieved."
"Hostages?" Faramir paled. Cair Andros had fallen almost ten days before. How much agony could the jubilant filth visit on their prisoners in that time? "It is free?"
"Aye," the private nodded, stood a little straighter in his pride. "Lord Aragorn bid some of us retake the fort." He rubbed his neck as if still surprised at what they had done. "Easy in the end. The creatures may know sommat of storming but they don't know how to hold."
A flush of hopeful colour seeped into the Captain's cheeks. "The tunnels?"
"The same. Old Steward Turgon was a canny one."
"That he was." Faramir clapped a steadying hand upon the soldier's shoulder. "Tulkas bless you man. Go find your rest."
They wended their way through the now bursting wards, Éowyn keeping close, for though she had thought herself somewhat inured to suffering-she had tended injured in Edoras after all—this was quite another scale. She was aghast. While she and Faramir had been ambling around a sunlit garden, blissfully caught in another world, wagons had been lumbering up from the port.
Ones filled with maimed and tortured men.
It was horrifying and quite beyond anything she could have imagined. Ten days was quite sufficient time for Orcs to vent their evil selves upon their prisoners. 'I am a daughter of Eorl.' she whispered to herself for strength, swallowing down the bile that rose. She wanted to avert her eyes but it felt a dishonour to their suffering.
"Éowyn." Faramir drew close, holding her elbow and trying to shield her sight with his larger frame. "I know that you have fought and valiantly. War is terrible and we all know it so. But this is something else again. Truly unspeakable." His bleak gaze was sympathetic. "Do you wish to go?"
She took a deeper breath and mutely shook her head. A few of those lying on the pallets were Rohirrim, men who had served with the Gondorian regiments, looking to help strike the first blows at the Enemy. Their heads were shorn of their golden locks even as their mouths were shorn of their tongues.
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. Wordlessly Faramir offered over his own handkerchief. She sniffed and dabbed at the wet before it could streak her face like drops racing down a windowpane. "I can manage."
Never more had the sound of rain upon the roof breaking a quiet hush been so very welcome.
Inside the second ward they found his cousin.
"Lothiriel!" Faramir hailed quietly and she looked up, waving distractedly, apron stained, lines of worry on her pretty face. A large pillow was set upon her hip. As they watched, she bent down and gently propped up a wounded man's bloody bandaged knee, finding a word and brief, gentle smile. He had no lower leg.
When she straightened Faramir drew near and held her hand. "Are you well?" He pressed gentle kiss to her brow below the grey headrail.
She sighed heavily and bit at her lip. "I will be. There is really so little that I can do. I am not versed in surgery. And so few of these men have simple wounds."
"But you are here and that is gift enough, " he said. "Do you know where I can find Aunt Ivriniel? Bergil said she sent for me? He was supposed to explain that we were coming"
Lothiriel frowned. "That was nigh a candlemark ago. I am afraid he was waylaid to help offload at the front. Your intelligence is old." She turned to scan the wider room. "I would expect she is by now outside the surgery."
"Where?"
Lothiriel pointed through to a farther corridor.
After Faramir gave the soldier a few quiet words of encouragement and his cousin (to Éowyn's surprise) hugged them both, they departed. Another quarter candlemark saw them in an open space the far end of which was cordoned off. Rows of neat pallets were laid across the floor, tended by the grey-clad healers and assistants. In their standard garb they looked like a flock of peculiarly attentive doves huddled over remnants of spilled grain.
Éowyn's first sight of Dol Amroth's elder princess would stay forever in her mind. Tiny, doll-like, but with a carriage that spoke tellingly of the steel wrapped along her spine, her bright head (for she eschewed the grey in favour of sea blue) hovered over a mercifully unconscious man, barking commands to those around with all the experience of a general on a battlefield; cajoling, ordering, prodding grown men twice her size to do her bidding.
As they watched her tiny fingers stripped away day's worth of rotting bandage from a half-healed, grey-skinned stump. The soldier's forearm was gone. Another part would need to be taken off if it were to heal properly at all.
"Faramir!" They had been spied. Ivriniel straightened up and with a practiced throw, hurled the bloody mass into a waiting wicker basket. It landed with a sickly plop.
"Aunt Rini." A tight muscle working in his jaw was all that showed that even Faramir had to steel himself to that sight.
"Nephew." The princess's deft hands did not cease to move as she worked to rebandage the ugly wound. "I appreciate you coming but am afraid there is no time now. I had meant to cover Varan's morning shift. Let him get a lick of rest. But there is nothing for it now. I will not be free for many hours yet." She glanced up and blinked, as if just noticing he was not alone. "Lady Éowyn?"
Incongruously, Éowyn felt the need to bob a curtsey. "Princess."
"Ivriniel," the woman corrected firmly. With a quick twist of long practice she tied off the length of muslin, gently set the limb back down and nodded to a young assistant hovering beside. "Beru see that the Master knows this soul is amongst the next." She plunged her hands in a waiting bowl and toweled them on a proffered cloth, bright eyes darting to their sodden cloaks. A small pool of wet now graced the floor
Éowyn felt acutely she was in the way. "What can we do?" she implored.
"Do?"
"To help, " she explained. "Surely there is something. I have nursed a little in Edoras."
Ivriniel's look of initial skeptical surprise faded with a tired sigh. "You are supposed to be recuperating. And are not to heft anything of any weight. Both of you," she added, pointedly. "That rather limits your usefulness."
Faramir and Eowyn exchanged a guilty glance. Hefting weight was exactly what they wished to do. She was about to explain that a lightened load should be sufficient when the princess set her hands on hips, frowning a nearly empty wicker basket.
"Cortin! Drat the man. Where are my bandages? Cortin!"
Her startling bellow carried easily across the hall. A grey-haired porter waved in acknowledgement and perched a heavy basket upon his brawny shoulder. "'Here you are your highness. where should I put t'lot?"
"Beside me here." Ivriniel pointed to the next adjacent pallet. No sooner had the new pile of white had been settled down than her delicate features screwed up into a frown. "I can't use these!" Indeed she could not. The cloth appeared to be whole, clean and laundered, but not yet torn into ready strips. "Get the other basket please, " she ordered crisply, shoving the offending pile with a tiny foot.
Faramir coughed once. Ivriniel's sharp gaze took in two hopeful expectant faces.
A black eyebrow raised in almost perfect imitation of her nephew.
"Well then. Need drives. Perhaps you can be useful after all." Ivriniel nodded to a farther corner of the hall. "Since you have a single working pair of hands between you I will have you tear all this into bandages. Mind you wash your hands thoroughly first, and keep the fabric off the floor, " she admonished. The princess abruptly turned her back and bent to inspect the remains of another soldier's ruined face.
Éowyn glanced sidelong. Faramir looked just as shocked as she.
Well then indeed.
They were dismissed.
.
~~~000~~~
.
When both had washed and found the sharp, biting smell of lye soap almost covered the stench of blood and sweat and fear, Faramir and Éowyn made a quick survey of the far corner benches. They would not serve—every flat was far from clean enough for the task and already commandeered by exhausted denizens.
They stood flummoxed for a moment.
Lothiriel once again came to their rescue, halting mid-flight as she breezed past.
"Through there…, " she gestured with an elbow to a side corridor. "The Healer's hall. Este knows none of them will have time to pause. "
One handle grasped awkwardly between each of them, the pair retreated to the relative quiet of Houses's staff space. It was a functional, if spartan, room: trestle tables and bench arrayed before a desultorily drawing fire. High windows set into the outer wall bringing in the wan light of the now flat grey day. Several types of tea, forgotten in the rush, steeped upon a low coal brasier while over the hearth a pot of a fragrant soup bubbled quietly. Importantly, it was spotless.
They laid both cloaks to dry across a chair and Éowyn set her end of the basket on top of the nearest tabletop, stripping off her gloves. "How should we do this?" she frowned, lifting up one limp piece of white. It was cotton, quite fine in fact, and not the stuff of bandages Faramir had in his own Ranger kit. It appeared the City was low on many things.
"Standing I think.." he ventured. They each held an end and on his signal pulled hard. There were was a most satisfying rip.
Éowyn surveyed the long split in what clearly was a tablecloth. "This works. Faster than shears. " She was surprised. Faramir, who had had experience shredding shirts to staunch wounds after Orcs' dirty work, took it in his stride. "It does. And makes a remarkably softer binding, " he remarked, fingering the soft stuff. Renil would give much to have something that did not abrade a fellow's skin like sandpaper.
Sobered by the morning's sight they worked mostly silently, picking out lengths that sported tiny embroidered stars and dainty flowers, working arm and shoulder muscles in a most unorthodox exercise. Halfway down the pile the pieces they unearthed looked decidedly fancier than the fabled covers of Dol Amroth's dining hall.
"Why these are petticoats!" Éowyn exclaimed, shaking out a long fall of cloth. Sure enough, yards of white lawn dotted with pale pink rosebuds fell to a gathered waist just above the floor.
Faramir's mouth quirked as they yanked through the delicate embroidery.. "They are. It has been a feature of late for ladies of the court to wear double petticoats. I daresay they can afford to lose a few. If the kingdom survives we may have single handedly changed its style. No more double petticoats."
"Double petticoats?" He did his best not to laugh at his assistant's incredulous expression. "Why would any sensible woman waste cloth on wearing two?" The practical Shieldmaiden was bewildered. "Surely it is not so cold."
"No. Fashion," he answered with more authority than he felt.
"Fashion!" The sound of tearing cloth was shrill. "What possible benefit could a double petticoat convey?" Éowyn huffed, skeptically. "Your ridiculous sidesaddles are already almost impossible to ride. How can any woman hold her seat in this?"
He shook his head and reached for another, flouncy, frilly piece. "It is a skill. You will have to ask Lothiriel. She is the noted horsewoman of the family. Just as her father is the noted peacock." He wondered if Dol Amroth had adopted the convention yet. Imrahil's sense of style was legendary. Faramir, by contrast, found all the standing waiting to be fitted a horrendous chore—it was beyond him how anyone could put up with all the tugging and fussing more than once or twice a year, especially for elaborate underthings. He must ask Amerith if she had contributed to their present windfall when next he had the chance. Her own closet could have replenished most of the House's stock.
The enjoyable, destructive part of the chore passed quickly. Together they made quick work of shredding the longer lengths and laying them flat upon a clean spare cloth. The table was soon covered. Then came the merely tedious. Winding the long thin strips into bundled bandages. In practice Faramir found this rather harder with one hand. After several tries and a muffled curse they each gave up and agreed to co-operate. Sitting beside each other on the long low bench, Faramir held up his good hand up while Éowyn wound a strip about it, pulling off the finished fat skein and forming a slip not to keep the whole together.
It was to his mind a quite enjoyable solution. It allowed him to watch her work.
Of course Éowyn was beautiful—he had thought so from the first-fair of face and crowned by that glorious hair, but now he what he noticed were her hands. Small but strong. With nimble fingers and pale oval nails. And quite intriguing calluses to match his own. They were mesmerizing-they had felt warm and firm upon his own and now imagined picking up her wrist, turning her palm over to plant the gentlest of kisses on the soft skin of the underside. The daring declaration of a suitor's intent to court. Sitting, they were not so very different in height: she was long of body and he long-legged—he had not noticed this before and now the thought made him quite inordinately pleased. It would be easy to slip an arm about her shoulders, pull her close, brush her lips with his own…..
"Faramir! Pay attention!" His hand was pulled sharply up, the lady's fair brows set in consternation. The current piece of focus, a lightest blue piece of fine Haradi silk, had slid apart and now lay dangling in haphazard loops. He steadied his arm and held his palm straight flat, waiting, chagrined, while Éowyn rewound the jumbled strip. It took three tries- the very softness of the fabric made it harder to keep quite tight. She frowned and her pink tongue poked out in concentration. It looked adorable.
Setting the precious parcel aside Éowyn selected a simpler strip of whitework and began the process of winding once again. Shrewdly, this time she gave him something to focus on.
"Your aunt. She is quite formidable. Is she very like your mother?"
"In looks," he explained, shifting to ease ache in his now tired shoulder. "But not in temperament. My aunt is more studious. The love for detail that in Rini is for lore in my mother went to colour. Though both were headstrong." He flushed, sitting straighter up. She was eyeing him quite strangely. Had she picked up the reason for his untoward inattention?
"But Ivriniel never married?"
"No. Her fiance died."
The winding paused, blue-grey eyes darkened in sympathy. "I am sorry."
He shrugged. It was an old sadness long past and reckoned with. Others now crowded close. "In time, she was foster mother to me and all the Dol Amroth brood but nursing came most naturally to her. It is her vocation and her love."
As her sons and art were to mother whatever little time she had, Faramir thought sadly. If Boromir's account were to be believed (and he had no cause to doubt it) she had loved her youngest son deeply, perhaps even a little madly, and their father never understood. He had tightened his grip, trying to pry them apart, taking more of Finduilas for himself but had only loosened his hold on her. It was a uncomfortable thought, his part in their separation. No one yet had explained entirely the why of it.
Another tug of his hand drew him out of his reverie. "Sorry. Was your calling always to be a shieldmaiden?" he asked, the question taking both of them by surprise.
"No one has ever asked me that before." Éowyn tied off another knot before reaching slowly for a palest peach coloured strip. She paused so long he felt the question might have been rude but then she went on. "There were no girl children in the household in Edoras when Eomer and I arrived. We played, my brother and I and my cousin Theodred when he was home: forts, wooden swords, riding. All the things that boy children do. I suppose it was a natural progression. I was good at it. It mattered. It was a skill of which I could be proud and kept me out of doors. Unlike this needlework." she added ruefully. "My stitches were never so very fine. I always wished to be outside. And you?" She looked quickly up. "Did you plan to be a Captain of a ranging company?"
Faramir shifted awkwardly again. Had he? Planned anything? It had always been more that he would follow in Boromir's footsteps. Do what needed to be done. "It is what I trained for," he explained, "and more to point, what Father wanted." And what the Steward of Gondor wanted he always got. Or almost always. 'Be true and remember always what I dreamed.' He had made a choice- been true to her in that- and with it had failed to do all his duty to his lord.
And could not let himself regret it. Too very much.
The sudden bitterness in his tone caught Éowyn unawares. "Then what would you do if given your choice?"
Her question in turn was fair enough. He looked away, watching tendrils of smoke rise above the fire. What would he? He had not often thought of it. No one save Mithrandir had ever asked and there had been no time in long and long for boyish dreams. They lay in the past, locked away behind need's iron bars. "Lady I do not know," he admitted, intending to leave it there, but then, because it was a pleasant dream and he found it easy to share with her things he had never shared with another, he dug down and found the startling truth.
"Lay down my sword. Journey and see for my own eyes every kingdom of Middle-Earth. See Rivendell and Lorien, for they were where Boromir went last." His words trailed off. The winding paused. Éowyn had held her breath in sympathy. He sounded melancholy again and that was not what he wanted.
Faramir shook himself and smiled, striving for a lighter note. "I am not sure if it is my grandmother Fana's blood but I find I also wish to build another garden. A piece of Ithilien as it was. Before the Clearance. There are hills in sight of City where I have a piece of land. Emyn Arnen it is called."
If this admission of lack of martial feeling was unwelcome to a proud Shieldmaiden Éowyn did not show it. She reached for another broad ruffled piece, bit her lip, adjusting the cotton to lie flat.
On impulse he asked the same of her. "What have you wished for….?"
Éowyn's hand stilled upon the cotton, frozen by the sudden tumult of emotion his words unleashed. She swallowed hard and he cursed himself for a fool, daring to presume the same intimacy back. He began to abjectly apologize when the slow winding began again.
"I also have never truly thought, " she said, haltingly. "I had a vague expectation once that I should settle down but then Uncle became ill. Since Yule it has only to been to ride to war, to no longer face waiting endlessly by the hearth." Her voice dropped low. "Certainty, I suppose. That there would be an end to the mean rudeness of Uncle's existence."
Neither of them added how that wish had in fact tragically come true. Even Lorien could not see the myriad paths ahead.
"And now?" His eyes were dark.
"Certainty still. Honour. Freedom." She shrugged. "If we were to come through these fearful times I suppose that I must wed."
"You do not sound as if you look forward to it."
"No. I do not relish being someone's prize."
Faramir winced at her choice of words but could understand something of what she said. There had never been any question that the Steward's sons should marry-part of their duty to Gondor and their noble house-but one neither was entirely at peace with. Every ball and feast that passed he and Boromir had been oogled like prize bulls at a fair. Fawned over. Flattered. After Denethor's aborted attempts to find Boromir a wife the frenzy had died down somewhat and they both had been relieved. If Gondor, beyond all hope, survived the coming storm, what then? It would be a new order would it not?
It occurred to him the choice was now entirely his. Hopefully it was the same for her. "As the heroine of the Pelennor surely you will be free to choose as your heart decrees."
Éowyn shook her head. "Free will in love and life, it is a phantasm. We will still be bound. By duty. And circumstance. I moreso, because I will be not just a noblewomen.. I will be a pawn to diplomacy. The King of Rohan's sister."
He protested. "Surely no brother who loves and knows you would insult you so…treat you as a thing."
"My brother has never been king before. I expect he has not thought what to do."
Her cynicism pricked him to the core. "But surely women are the finer sex! Stronger in themselves. Wise men do well to remember it. Listen carefully and cherish their good counsel. Had I an entire company of Shieldmaidens I can guarantee a good deal less grumbling and ten times the industry."
That drew the ghost of a fleeting smile. "We have a saying in the Riddermark about the strength of women. "A wægn stigrâp of æghwilc stedeheard gâstberend wýscan stearc wîf" At the stigrâp of every strong man stands a strong woman….'"
"stigrâp?" The word was unfamiliar. " Side? Shoulder?"
"No.. it hangs on a saddle." Éowyn rubbed at her brow, searching futilely for a word that would not come. "Shit, I am tired. I can't remember the Sindarin word for that." Immediately she clapped one small hand across her mouth, blushing scarlet as a robin's breast. The one thing a noblewoman in Gondor did not do was swear. Faramir, delighted by this turn, threw back his head and laughed. Only the more interesting women in his experience, like Amerith, or Lothiriel, were particularly profficient at that skill. Daring. Wit. And beauty. The White Lady was turning out to be quite much more than he had first guessed.
"Actually we say gorn for that…" he offered, quite enjoying that the rosy tinge to her skin ran all the way from her long neck to the tip of her pert nose. It was, assuredly, most impertinent to point that out. And improper to wonder how far down it went…
"Gorn? For stirrup? That's the word I wanted, " she crowed.
Faramir laughed at himself. Surely he could have guessed it to be equine-related. Stirrup. Stigrâp. The word was nearly the same in Westron as Rohirric. "No, " he corrected, "Gorn is 'shit'."
Éowyn's mouth dropped open. "You swear? I have never yet heard an oath pass your lips!"
"Of course I swear!" he protested indignantly. Why did people always assume he was too prudish to use the words? "I am a soldier. I swear. Just not that often. My father said it displayed a lack of imagination." And Valar knew the habit of pleasing him died hard.
Éowyn looked relieved to not be alone in the transgression, "Swearing is less creative yes but sometimes it is absolutely the more satisfying…."
"I assure you that I do know more." He stood, stretching his stiffened back and coaxing the blood back into his fingers, warming to the subject. "I can give you the westron 'shit' in four other languages. There is the Quenya: muk; the Orcish: bagronk. Albiraz in Haradi: and muzkhgrum in Khuzdul."
Éowyn shook her head. "I knew you were a learned man but…"
"And I can give you 'pintel' in all of them."
"No!" She broke out in a storm of altogether infectious giggles. "This is an surprisingly edifying conversation, Faramir. You are most educated for a soldier."
The giggles amplified but he found he did not mind. Humour was a balm for all the suffering around. That made it easy to be the subject of the joke.
He hastened to explain. "It was part of what helped convince my brother that learning was of some use. That and the anatomy. I was trying to motivate him, I can give you all sorts of other naughty bits."
Éowyn was now snorting with laughter, her beguiling cat-grey eyes, dancing in a most distracting way. "What about Hobbitish? You could ask Merry."
It was his turn to be shocked, incredulous at the thought. "You want me to ask Meriadoc what his pintel is!? You are the one who knows him far more than I!"
They both broke down, doubled over, spluttering and guffawing inelegantly, Somehow the day's tension had to be released and had found an outlet neither could have seen.
Faramir wheezed, pulling the tea-scented air back into his lungs, wondering, as he watched Éowyn pull tumbled wet strands of golden hair out of her mouth, what spells she wove. How could this woman make him want to admit the most unlikely things? To show his thoughts and damn the consequences. Even stranger, how could she so naturally, without condition, accept the ridiculous fruits of his imagination?
The thought that here was another with whom he need not constantly guard his tongue was heady, exhilarating. Like traversing across a high sharp ridge or how he imagined it to be drunk. Thoughtfully, he watched Éowyn master her mirth.
"I have not thanked you yet. For everything. Today, " she said, producing his handkerchief from a pocket of her skirt. It was one embroidered by Leylin. A reminder of a now distant, happy time. He closed her fingers back around the simple square. And kept them there.
"No. It is I who should be thanking you."
"What for?"
Once breached, the damn began to crumble. He had resigned himself to slow, anguished healing. Now, somehow, he could enjoy happiness where he found it. Let the hurt recede, like a chorus, into the background and take the fleeting joys for the gifts they were. All because of her.
"I have felt low these last few days. But not now. Éowyn you are a wonderful influence."
"Because I make you want to swear?" she chuckled. It was another thing they shared. The urge to self-deprecate.
"No."
His eyes shone as his thumb ran a slow circle across the back of her hand. It was trembling. He was utterly certain it was not fear.
"Because you make me want to be myself."
.
Pintel is of course a part of male anatomy ^_^
The other languages quoted here are mostly cobbled.., some drawn from Hisweloke's excellent dictionary. The more colourful words are from this helpful reference section at the Silmarllion Writer's Guild web page. Éowyn's expression is courtesy the translator at Old English Translator. I have played a little with the date of Aragorn dismissing the faint-hearted, placing it several days before.
Thank you so much to Annafan, Thanwen and Wheelrider for wonderfully helpful comments on this chapter (no she can't touch his beard in public quite yet! much as she, and I, want her too). And to Certh's excellent spotting of the bits that slipped my net.
And giant hugs to all the ladies at the Garden, to andartha and weirdlet at tumblr, and to many friends here and at livejournal for helping me get through a rather difficult month. One foot forward at a time.