Nothing belongs to me, I'm only borrowing...please review!
Blood rolled slowly down her whitening limb as she stared out the window in deep contemplation. The wound on her forearm had reopened and bled through her bandages, a gory reminder of the days past, but she could not bring herself to care. She stared at the crimson trail that snaked down her wrist to drip from her fingertips, dropping silently to the stone floor. With every shining maroon orb that fell a memory flared...the king's ivory face as he lay in state in the silent Tower Hall...Eomer's tears as he berated her for foolish bravery...Aragorn's sad eyes as he tended her wounds...Wormtongue's pallid skin as he stroked his fingers across her cheek...
Eowyn turned from the window and shook her head, willing herself not to think of Grima. Her stomach tightened as she thought of his penetrating eyes, his half-lidded stares. She knelt in front of the hearth and lifted her sound arm to stoke the fire, inhaling the aroma of the burning oak timber. It smelled like Meduseld, and she couldn't repress a slight, twisted smile at the thought of her home. Could she bear to return there now, without her uncle? Eomer would never allow her the freedoms that Theoden's dotage had done. She had taken advantage of the king's illness to slip unheeded into the countryside, exploring the land of her people without escort, reveling in the solitude of the wilderness. But finding her near death on Pelennor field had stirred in Eomer the will to keep her out of harms way, and therefore closeted in solitude again. He had expressed over and over that he would never allow her to be hurt again, all while clutching her to his chest as though she could save him from drowning.
The room was dark but for the glow of the fire. The moon was hidden beneath the clouds that roiled forth from Mordor, casting pitch black night across Gondor and beyond. The only light that Eowyn could see was the pinpricks of lanterns from the city far below, sending tiny pools of illumination to fight the darkness. She sighed and settled to the floor in front of the fire, shivering at the stone flagons' chill against her legs. Her deep green dressing gown did nothing to quell the cold. She pulled a thick quilt from a chair and tucked it around her, burrowing her chin into the fabric. It was elaborately decorated, beaded and brocaded with the White Tree, with tiny jeweled stars sprinkled over the midnight fabric. She shut her eyes against the light of the flames, feeling the heat roll against her face. She began to drowse in the warm cocoon and her head dropped to the side to rest on the side of the bed, in a dreamless haze.
She did not wake when the door eased open, nor did she hear the soft bootsteps cross the floor. Faramir of Gondor knelt at her side, unconsciously rubbing his hand against the stubble on his cheek as he watched her. She looked serene sleeping there, her face unfurrowed by lines of worry or pain, with the brocaded blanket draped over her body. He had not seen her thus before, and he was rendered mute by the peace and beauty of her face. He searched his mind for a woman of Gondor who could be called her equal, but no one came to his thoughts. Then with a sudden jolt he saw his mother's face. As dark as Eowyn was fair, they shared the same sad countenance, the same grief veiled behind their eyes. In his mind's eye Faramir could still see Finduilas' sorrowful face as clear as staring into a looking glass.
A distant roll of thunder drew Faramir's gaze to the window. A dark stain trailed from the windowsill to the floor, puddling in a crimson oval on the stones. He frowned as his eyes traced the dark drops to the fireplace and to Eowyn's sleeping form. He could see a stain of blood darkening the quilt she had wrapped herself in. Getting to his feet with difficulty, feeling still the stabbing pain in his chest from the wounds of the dark arrows, he plucked some fresh bandages from the mantle, then returned to kneel at Eowyn's side. After a moment's hesitation he reached to stroke Eowyn's cheek, then thought better of it and gently touched her shoulder instead. Eowyn awoke with a start, jerking backward away from Faramir's touch with a little gasp.
"I am sorry I frightened you, my lady," said Faramir in a low voice. "But your wound has opened and needs to be redressed. Rather than rouse the healers I thought I should do it myself, if you would allow it." Eowyn unconsciously ran her palm across her face, brushing a tendril of hair out of her eyes.
"Of course my lord. You startled me out of sleep, for a moment I thought..." she stopped for a moment, her mouth tightening. "I mistook you for someone else." She dropped her eyes and distracted herself by untwining herself from the quilt. She presented her wounded arm to Faramir, not looking him in the eye. There was a kettle simmering softly on the fire, and he filled a small bowl with water. He then gently took her by the elbow and began to unwrap her bandages. With a soft cloth he dribble warm water on the wound, sponging away the dried blood. His brow was wrinkled as he retrieved a small vial from the pocket of his breeches and dripped some ointment onto Eowyn's arm. With gentle pressure he worked the salve into the injury, mouth pursed with concentration.
Eowyn looked away, not because she could not stomach the sight of the wound, but because tears had come to her eyes at the softness of his touch. "Lord Faramir," she began. He looked up from her arm, meeting her eyes with his own gray ones, brow raised. "Thank you," she said, "for speaking with me last night in the gardens. Your words have helped me, truly. You are right. There is still hope."
A smile spread across Faramir's face. "I am so pleased to hear you say that, lady. I have feared for you, that you would not choose hope, but would give up and pine away before the end reveals itself. You have chosen life, and for that I am so..." he paused, grasping for words. "I am grateful."
"Grateful my lord?" asked Eowyn, confused. "I do not understand."
Faramir dropped his eyes back to Eowyn's arm. With practiced fingers he rewrapped the wound, precisely knotting the bandages. He stared down at her swathed forearm, his heart suddenly pounding wildly. He took a deep breath and sighed it out, raising his head to meet Eowyn's bewildered gaze. "May I sit for a while with you, my lady, and tell you a story?"
"Of course, lord, please." Faramir slid to a seat at Eowyn's side, rubbing at his eyes with his fingers. Eowyn felt a strange thrill at the feeling of his side pressing against hers, and grew more conflicted yet again.
"You know of my father and my brother, Lady Eowyn, but you know not of my mother." Faramir stared into the fire. "My mother came from Dol Amroth, in the South by the sea. She was very beautiful, with raven dark hair and eyes like the gray seas. She was betrothed to my father when she was still a girl, and when she came of age she was brought to Minas Tirith to be wed. Theirs was not a great love of the ages, but a friendship. They loved one another, after a fashion, but my mother was never truly happy. She missed her home. She missed being free to do what she would. Instead she was bound by the rules of the court, and by my father's fears for her safety. My father dreaded that some dark fate would befall my mother, whether by accident or ill design. He jealously guarded her beauty, afraid that another would steal her away as a prize, or that she would find love with a secret suitor. So he cloistered her, and would not allow her the freedom she coveted. She was not allowed to leave her tower, much less the city itself. She wished to be out in the world, among the people. She missed the sea air, and her home where she could follow her own heart without fear of my father. Boromir's birth brought them joy, for a time. My father thought that her sadness had left her. Then I was born." Faramir stopped, setting his jaw and looking at the floor. "Again, for a time, she was happy. She had someone to care for, to look after. But as I grew older she began to feel unneeded, useless, and she fell deep into despair. She took to her bed, refusing to see anyone. She stared at the walls, seeing nothing. She would not take food or water. When she did speak she talked of a shadow in the East, a shadow that hungered only for blood, death. She was preoccupied with this vision of the future, saying that death was coming for us all. In the end she made her choice. She chose to give up on hope and succumb to anguish. She never saw the sea again." Faramir's voice softened and Eowyn ducked her head closer to him. "I was five years old..."
"My lord I am so very sorry," Eowyn said softly, surprising herself by grasping for Faramir's hand. "I too know what it is like to lose a mother to melancholy."
"I tell you this, lady, because I see my mother in you." Faramir's answer shocked Eowyn into stillness. "I feared that you too would choose to give up hope for despondency, and waste away in sorrow." Faramir turned to face Eowyn, and startled her by gently caressing her cheek. "You and my mother are two sides of the same coin, Eowyn. I see so much of her in you." He paused, and it seemed to Eowyn that he was mustering courage. "I was so young when she died that I never had the chance to make her happy. Perhaps you'll give me the chance to do that for you."
Eowyn opened her mouth but could not find a reply. Faramir's hand still rested against her cheek, the gentle warmth joining with the flush that was rising in her face. Finally she raised her hand and covered his. "Lord Faramir, I am truly touched that you compare me to your mother. It is clear that you loved her very much. But as for me, I am no great beauty, nor am I whole." She paused. "I am damaged, Faramir. I am not worthy of the happiness which you offer to me."
"Neither am I whole. But together perhaps we could be. And as for beauty..." He stopped and met Eowyn's blue eyes with his gray gaze. "As for beauty, I hope you'll forgive me being forward when I say that you are the greatest beauty I have ever laid eyes upon. Understand that I am not speaking about carnal inclination," Faramir said softly. "My dearest desire is to see you smile, to truly feel the joy of living. I wish you to ride with me across Gondor, from the mountains to the sea, I wish to lay under the stars with you. I want to give you what you crave, my lady. I want to give you freedom." He paused, and twined his fingers through hers. "I want to be with you Eowyn." A shock ran through Eowyn to hear him speak his desire so plainly. "I am not the king. I am not Lord Aragorn. I cannot offer you a throne, or a court to care for you. There is no guarantee that I shall even live to see the end of this war. But I would go to the last battle knowing that I go with your heart. Give me something to survive for, lady." The soft pleading in Faramir's voice made Eowyn shiver.
"You are wise, Lord Faramir, that you have divined what I yearn for. I do long to be free, to not be bound by courts or rules or protective brothers." Faramir smiled. "But I must have time, my lord. I must have time to grieve for my uncle and for my people. I must have time to think."
Faramir nodded and pressed Eowyn's hand to his lips. "I am sorry if I have further burdened you my lady. But I am pleased to see that you have chosen to seek hope in these dark days. And I would very much like to be at your side as you do. But remember this." He lowered his forehead to bump against hers. "To dwell on what might have been only wounds the heart. Look to the future." With that he gently placed his hands on Eowyn's face and kissed her forehead with whisper softness. "Think on me, my lady." And with one last tender caress of her cheek, he was gone.