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Author Topic: Heal the Past, Live the Present  (Read 5361 times)


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Heal the Past, Live the Present
« on: November 21, 2016, 03:00:01 AM »
Hours passed slowly, the days wearing on at an even more trudging pace.  It offered time for reflection, for introspection; an opportunity that Faramir naturally felt compelled to seize.  His mind often wandered as he sat in the lofty gardens – perched on the city’s sixth circle, high above the plains – the cool breeze pressing gentle kisses to a brow that had, until mere days ago, known all-consuming fever.  It seemed a shift in the wind would invariably come, bringing with it the stink of smoke and decay from below, the ripe reminder of reality cutting through the floral haze that shrouded the Houses of Healing.  In the face of such ruin and loss, the Ranger clung to hope.  Not in desperation, but out of a resolute and unwavering belief. 

Ah, but if only he had such faith in himself.

The Ranger’s wounds went deeper than the arrows that had pierced his flesh.  Even now his heart was heavy with grief; for the passing of his closest kin, for the blood his people had shed on the Pelennor Fields.  Countless souls lost, innumerable families torn asunder.  The ghost of his beloved brother drifted close to the surface of his mind, conjuring as many tears as faint, fond smiles.  Almost as a counterpoint to these bittersweet echoes were the sharp edges of his father’s memory, that cut where none could see.

Patience.  Patience was key.  He might not be as strong as Boromir, nor as lordly as Denethor, but he was not powerless.  With the itch and ache of his knitting wounds, Faramir spent long, quiet hours suturing his heart and tending to his stricken spirit.  There was no shame in finding distraction in his thoughts, or in the beauty of the gardens, or in pleasant company.

Movements stiff and slow carried him to a largely unfamiliar door, late on this clear morning.  Beyond the entry was a chamber, with windows facing to the east, towards Mordor.  It would be a fallacy to suggest that duty alone brought him there (though as the twenty-seventh Steward of Gondor, he was obligated to ensure the Lady of Rohan was comfortable) and it would be equally false to suppose the impromptu visit was triggered by boredom.  The truth was so much more touching than that.  Although the manner of their meeting had been far from typical, the honey-haired shieldmaiden had moved and enchanted him in ways that Faramir could not yet begin to explain.

Concerns that he was infringing on Éowyn’s privacy, once distant but now very present, caused the Ranger to hesitate.  It took a brief moment for him to steel his resolve and knock softly upon the door with his less-practised left hand.  The sound was low and quiet, enough that he hoped he would not disturb the Lady, if it proved she was resting.


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Re: Heal the Past, Live the Present
« Reply #1 on: November 21, 2016, 04:01:09 AM »
The breeze that lifted her hair from her neck was air of a kind that bordered on the fell. It came from the East, the direction from whence she faced, curled up against the thick velvety drape that separated twitching skin from cold wall. A soothing tableau was what it seemed, a means of seeking rest in a place elsewhere from a bed-- the action that was semi-conscious among all those ill or wounded and kept long confined. The drape was an odd, yet oddly protective sort of garment against the cool that was not entirely air against her skin, the illusion of hiding its folds provided putting one in mind of a time when life was freer and the innocence of childhood could be troubled only by the thought of seeking sanctuary from the dreaded bath time or the need to present, yet again, at a formal occasion.

Eowyn did not rest, though. She rather felt she hadn't a clue how to anymore, for it seemed so long since her world had been right enough to do so on one hand...and on the other, she did not feel she deserved it. A thought that bordered on the mad, yes, and yet she entertained it regardless, for it kept her from succumbing entirely to the listless fog that had long threatened the very edge of her thoughts...and kept her further still from entertaining the reality of the nightmares that kept her awake.

Beyond that, she simply feared that to not keep watch was to lose her the very little that remained of importance. Her brother was gone that way, their men, her kin. Her friends too, even as she felt the sting of resentment amid her apathy that was knowing Merry had been permitted to go while she had not. And so even as she bid farewell to another night where sleep had been a fickle partner to her, and rubbed with the abandon of the lonely and the alone at the dark circles marking the pallor under her eyes, Eowyn kept vigil. She did it despite the discomfiting breeze that came from the East, her last, flickering act of defiance in her refusal to shy away from that wind and haze which came slowly, inexorably, from Mordor.

The apathy that lingered had some merits, though, and one of them came with the distinct lack of startle that could have been caused by the knock on her door. She knew in the back of her mind that the trauma she had suffered should have made her more hyper aware...and yet. For once, the shadows that had risked plaguing her from youth were an actual boon. Her hands tightened over the book Gamling had deigned to bring to her before he too had left, a gift delivered from the citadel libraries with a worry and an attempt at humour that she could appreciate if only for the trying. "Read it thoroughly, my Lady, and tell us when we return of the perception of our blessed Riddermark that comes from our Gondorian cousins."

Read it thoroughly, for our people can read but they read slowly. Read it thoroughly, in the hope that it will take your mind from other things.

A thoughtful gesture, though one that made her sigh, just as she did at the sound of the door being rapped. The healers and their servants tended to leave her be now though, so it would not be them. Her body at least had weathered the dangerous period, and though she still felt constantly the ache in her arm and the twitch of revulsion that came with looking at the now only half bandaged, bared hand and arm that still glowed dull with the purple of Angmar welts, there was no need for them to monitor her as constantly when so many others still needed (and appreciated more, Eowyn thought dourly) their more constant attentions.

That was enough for a spark of curiousity to be entertained, though, and so Eowyn lowered her legs from underneath her to the floor, subconscious lessons cringing at the fact that her feet were bare even as the thought was banished brutally to the back of her mind, her hands reaching to draw more comfortably the cloak of Rohirric green her brother had allowed her to keep (for some small comfort with him gone, though she'd never admit it) about her form. The fingers of her wounded hand shook, and Eowyn pursed her lips against the frustrated dread that caused her, before tucking the arm entirely into the sanctuary that the drapes still next to her provided. Clutched at them, even-- another small defiance against the prospective damage her wound might have permanently caused.

"Come in," she called finally, quietly, so as not to draw undue attention to the husky rasp that still threatened her voice.

'i've learned that strength is something you choose'


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Re: Heal the Past, Live the Present
« Reply #2 on: November 22, 2016, 12:50:12 AM »
The voice that bid him enter was gentle and low, no less steady and no less sure for its throaty timbre.  Faramir did as he was bid, slowly pushing open the door, hesitating on the threshold.  Éowyn’s chamber held a scent similar to his own - one that was almost medicinal, echoing the herbal ointments that lingered on his skin.  It seemed almost improper, for them to convene in the Lady’s private quarters, away from watchful eyes.  The Ranger was forced to remind himself that they were no common nobles and that, as far as any knew, this could be a purely diplomatic exchange.  Realising this, he relaxed, and allowed the door to close quietly behind him.

“Lady Éowyn,” he greeted softly, bowing despite the bright bloom of pain the gesture caused, his healing body protesting the movement.  Pale blue eyes settled on the maiden, even as he straightened, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.  The window where she held vigil acted as a frame, her green Rohirric cloak emphasising the narrowness of her shoulders and highlighting the inherent nobility of her features.  Morning light caught in hair that tumbled to her waist, all shades of honey and spun gold.  She was a fair, willowy creature, and it seemed to him that the shieldmaiden was also an embodiment of courage and beauty; a living, breathing reminder of all that was good in this darkening world.

“I trust I am not disturbing you?”  Faramir queried, stepping closer.  “Only, I wished to check that you are comfortable and that the room is to your liking.”  Last they spoke, the brave Rohirrim had sought to take up arms and once again ride with the army, now destined for Morannon.  It had been beyond the Steward’s power to grant this request, for in the Houses of Healing the word of the Warden was all but law.  At the very least - small kindness though it seemed - Faramir had been able to fulfil Éowyn’s imploration for a room that faced east. 

With that thought in mind, his pale blue eyes slid to gaze beyond the Lady, looking towards the horizon and towards Mordor.  “Most would prefer a garden view,” he murmured, the gravity of their present situation muting the playfulness that might have otherwise crept into the observation.
« Last Edit: November 22, 2016, 12:52:14 AM by Faramir »


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Re: Heal the Past, Live the Present
« Reply #3 on: November 30, 2016, 01:28:01 AM »
“Well met, Lord Steward.”
There was some praise to be given for the codes of etiquette, if only because they allowed neutrality of tone and expression without the risk of causing offence or engendering undue discomfort. Not, of course, that she imagined the man before her would ever seek to cause the latter of her in particular, but that small modicum of logic (and good will borne some from her previous interaction with him), but he had jaded experience and the caution of too many years of ill-news and ill-guests bringing ill-attention to her against him. It came with frustration for Eowyn, self-loathing at such weakness, self-disgust for holding it so unreasonably against another man who, even with kindness in his eyes, trod and spoke as softly as the Worm had…but she could not, no matter how she had tried, could not yet still the thud of apprehension against her ribs that was her heart beating with thoughts of fight or flight ruling it when in the presence of a man that deliberately showed interest in her company.
Lord Faramir’s bow, though, was oddly soothing. Only a little, but still something. Of course, the same code of etiquette that forgave her cautious and morbid thoughts was also what led him along, but there was something in the simple and well-learned gesture that spoke to the core of fragility that lingered within her, as if the vulnerability of baring one’s neck by bending so gave to her the power to choose and so the power to feel just a little safer. An absurd thought if spoken aloud, of that Eowyn had no doubt, but within her own mind, it made an equally absurd amount of sense.
Poor man, though, she thought wearily, and for a moment, the corners of the Lady’s lips twitched with part amusement and part sympathy at what he attempted so determinedly to hide. It was enough to soften a touch of the wary neutrality in her gaze, if not all, by the time the Lord Steward had straightened once more, though his last comment unfortunately brought shutters down upon her expression again, able to be observed in that brief moment between his words and her turning away to look out the window to that grim view, his prior queries left unanswered.
“I am sure whomever dwells in my previous room is thankful for such a view, my Lord.” It was said quietly after a long moment, though there was an edge of tartness that did not bother to hide itself. Or perhaps Eowyn simply did not wish to hide it, regardless of whether it might cause offence or if it was the done thing to speak sharply in this noble place. She reasoned some to herself, in the short moments after, that it was not unwarranted; she who had been kept here, left behind even as she healed well in body yet again by the very same brother she missed intensely, waited for with their men where they had gone in that easterly direction, had returned from the darkness of the Nazgul’s hold and what lay beyond because he had called for her to return to the waking world.
That line of reasoning, of course, fell flat in the end. For though it was easy to utilise amidst her more apathetic hours, the times in between where she felt keenly what she had lost, dwelt heavily on those last interactions she had had with men she’d known her whole life who were no more, and ached beyond the meaning of the very word itself for the great and flawed man who’s last words had been her own name—
It was only the very thread of her self-control that stilled the physical blow of that final thought and memory, and though her fingers clenched tightly into the folds of Eomer’s good cloak, Eowyn managed, with a sigh that seemed to expand her whole form in its deepness, to look at Faramir once more. Still a little more cautious than liked, but this time at least, there was a concerted attempt to grant him a more gracious expression. If only, of all things, for the sake of her Rohirric pride. Gay and cheerful of spirit indeed.
“I am one of those bothersome individuals who finds herself bored if exposed to such an environment too frequently. I would much prefer it if the gardens of the Houses of Healing retained their sense of wonder for me.
The curl upward of Eowyn’s lips appeared once more, and if worn and tremulous, the attempt was at least genuine. “You are welcome to sit wherever you please, my Lord. I imagine that lovely bow un-knitted a bruised and torn muscle or two.”

'i've learned that strength is something you choose'


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Re: Heal the Past, Live the Present
« Reply #4 on: November 30, 2016, 11:46:09 PM »
His observation had been insensitive, Faramir realised too late.  It was understandable that Éowyn would prefer to look to Mordor, to cast her eye over the vast plains in the hope of seeing their weary army – a blend of Rohirrim and Gondorian both, beneath banners of green and blue – returning to the relative safety of the White City.  Perhaps having taken offence at his lack of tact, the Lady turned away, but not before he saw how her fair features had shifted once more into an expression of impassiveness that almost bordered on cold.  His indiscretion earned him suitable rebuke, Éowyn’s voice carrying with it considerable bite.
This did little to discourage or dishearten Faramir, however.
“Of that, I am certain,” he responded with unshakeable politeness.  Those with unkindness in their hearts might remark that the trait was a characterless breed of genteel when, in truth, such manners were a cornerstone of the Ranger’s very temperament.  Whether due to his quietly spoken words or no, Lady Éowyn deigned looked upon him again several long moments later, a newfound softness in her noble features.  Faramir nodded faintly, to indicate his understanding, though her explanation rang hollow and almost self-deprecating to his ears.  It had less to do with tiring of spring’s dawning colours and slow-wakening buds and more to do with the preoccupation with those brave men currently absent, of that he was confident.
“You have a keen eye, Lady Éowyn, or perhaps my discomfort is painfully apparent?”  Faramir enquired, with a hint of a smile.  “I ought not to be surprised.  Beneath these garments is a body held together with little more than bandages and cotton thread.  Presently I am more ragdoll than man.”  Whatever rumour of good humour there existed in those words, the Ranger would make no earnest complaint.  By rights, he should be dead – either by the deep sting of enemy arrows, the fever that had raged in his blood, or by the fire of his father’s pyre.
How was it that his immeasurably strong and courageous brother had marched to an uncertain fate, only to meet his doom, while he himself had rode to what should have been undoubted death, only to survive?  There was no justice in that, no logic and little peace.  The line of the Stewards had come down to this – to him alone – the least loved and most uncherished of Denethor’s sons.
Dark days indeed.
Although Lady Éowyn bid him to sit, Faramir hesitated.  It seemed against propriety for a man to sit while a woman stood.  Yet they were in the Houses of Healing and away from prying eyes.  If ever there was a time where physical weakness was understandable and could be forgiven, it was here.  Hushed footsteps carried him to a wooden bench, where he perched carefully, a long hand resting lightly over his aching chest.  Once settled, his gaze was inevitably drawn to the window, to that disquieting horizon.  Even in the light of day, the sky above Mordor was sullied and ashen, all distant fire and smoke.  He would not allow it to steal his attention; not when there was a face fair and pleasant he could look upon instead, not when he could be reminded of goodness, courage and hope rather than grief, loss and fear.
“If ever you feel like indulging in that precious sense of wonder, I hope that you will call on me.  It would do my heart good to walk the gardens in your company.”  There was no command or expectation in the suggestion, only hope and sincerity both.  “I suspect we are both fated to tarry in these houses.”


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Re: Heal the Past, Live the Present
« Reply #5 on: February 19, 2017, 01:11:18 PM »
"You're familiar with rag dolls, are Lord?"

That was said with an almost perfect facsimile of his unshakable politeness, the kind of talent with mimicry that came from a culture that thrived on song and word of mouth. Though whether it was an actual retort with mocking intent was difficult to ascertain; Eowyn's profile was as entirely deadpan as her words had been, if perhaps a touch too shadowed under the eyes with weariness to think she had enough energy to engage in that kind of subtle, tactical warfare with another...that, or the tiredness could have easily been exasperation too, a feeling all too easily felt in the wake of both reminder their confinement and what lay beyond her window, made only heavier upon her shoulders by the wriggling discomfort for her that was being looked upon by any male not explicitly trusted yet several times over.

And yet something...indefinable enough, and yet definable enough to make itself known, seemed to win over even the set clench of teeth and the humourous pessimism that veiled tired hostility. It was an honest thing if nothing else, for though she still shifted in the manner of a creature unsettled where it was confined to cage or stable (soft, warm, plush confinement though it was), it laid honestly the less than kind aspect that had been part of her retort and with it, a look of genuine apology that had the odd effect of clearing, if only sparingly, the otherwise haunted determination amid the grim apathy that lingered in the Lady's great hazel-blue eyes.

"I am sorry, that was...needless. I am fed up with feeling both worn down and wound up, it matters not. I am sorry for being cruel to you." Eowyn paused, staring for half a moment down at her hands (disconcerted by her own honesty, for it was more than she had meant in the end), the manner in which her thumb was rubbing agitated, red marks along her arm...before consciously stilling the movement provoked by anxiety. A small victory, really, for at her most distracted, her most anxious, the tic could be positively self-harmful. It certainly ached later, more even than chafed legs after a long ride...perhaps because subconsciously, the sense of helplessness and frustration that came with the action weighed the discomfort of it down all the more.

"You need not worry about escorting me out of doors, though; you are liable to find me there without any need to fetch me from elsewhere." A small, sardonic smile curled and tightened gently shaped lips. "Scandalously clad and left to my own devices, no doubt. They have already given up their attempts to confine me, to their credit. They are wise for healers."

Another pause in which this time, Eowyn forced herself despite the twitch of her fingers ruthlessly quelled from any tic they wished to undertake to continue to gaze upon the man before her. The temptation to look away, so very like the horse who showed no desire to communicate whether from fear or anger or apathy, was still prevalent though, and in the end, Eowyn could only fight it by initiating dialogue herself this time. Quietly though, and as she continued to speak, almost hesitant, before almost stumbling at the end.

"There is one more request I would like to make of you. I wish...that is...may I be granted access to the libraries. It is only...if I am forced to tarry here in your city, I have no desire to do so and then have my brother return to find me half-mad in the head."

The mention of Eomer was the stumble point, as if too painful to contemplate from both the love she felt for and the anger she felt towards her sibling for abandoning her for glory and duty and likely death again rather than take her with him. It quelled the smile that might have come with imagining Eomer dealing with her half-cooked in the head too, but it also served to even the lady's speech some...though the hesitancy lingered. And with it...not shame, certainly not. But definitely a wariness of confronting judgement.

"I am not a swift reader, that I will tell you. Ink to paper is not a common method of communication in my Lord. But I can read nonetheless."
« Last Edit: February 19, 2017, 01:11:40 PM by Éowyn »

'i've learned that strength is something you choose'


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Re: Heal the Past, Live the Present
« Reply #6 on: April 16, 2019, 02:55:49 PM »
With her expression impassive and features unyielding, it was difficult to ascertain whether the Lady was teasing him harmlessly or if the question was asked with mockery in mind. Whichever it might be, Faramir weathered the potential hostility well, wishing only that he possessed greater wit so that he might parry the question quickly and humorously. Perhaps if his body did not ache - the throbbing pain a form of background noise that permeated every moment of every day - he might have given more than a low chuckle in response and saved Lady Éowyn from having to retract. With the apology, it seemed some of the tension bled from the shieldmaiden's battle-stricken body, though it was apparent that she remained far from content.

“There is no need for apologies, my Lady, for you have shown me no cruelty,” Faramir answered, a fleeting smile gracing his lips. “A wry sense of humour, perhaps, but nothing close to unkindness.” His gaze followed Éowyn's own, to the unruly digit that rubbed against the exposed skin of her arm, its path marked red, flushed and evident. The seemingly subconscious gesture put him in mind of jewel-coloured birds, kept in ornate cages wrought from silver or gold - such companions were often found in noble houses, so that their halls could trill with the sound of birdsong - and particularly those creatures who could not bear captivity and so spent their days plucking their beautiful plumage one feather at a time. The image stirred something sympathetic in him, even as Lady Éowyn halted her thumb, interrupting its destructive journey.

The gardens were a place of tranquility, but they were secondary to the Steward's desire to spend time with the Lady of Rohan. In keeping with the nature of their conversation thus far, Faramir struggled to gauge whether his company would be welcomed, for fierce independence wove itself into every word Éowyn uttered. However curious he was to know what the woman - and warrior - before him had meant by ‘scandalously clad’, he did not enquire. Surely she was not in the habit of wearing drapes out of doors, swaddled in one as she now was? Before he could puzzle over this detail any further, Éowyn regarded him with such plainess that Faramir was left to instead wonder what thoughts and opinions formed behind those intense hazel-blue eyes.

The request caught him off guard, unexpected both in its simplicity and by its very nature, given that he had lived his life under the false impression that the Rohirrim were a people whose words came only spoken, never written. “We cannot have your noble brother return to find your mind in any way addled...” Faramir conceded, mild amusement evident in the crinkle of blue eyes. That the Lady felt, in her own words, forced to tarry in Minas Tirith was commendable, in its own way. Here was the woman who had felled the Witch-king - a task of which no man, living or dead, was capable - and yet she still yearned to ride with brothers-in-arms to further glory on battlefields new. Clearly Éowyn had courage in abundance and was a breed far removed from the ladies of the Gondorian court. Boromir would have admired her, Faramir was quite sure.

“The libraries are yours to visit whenever you please,” he answered swiftly, the warmth in his words hinting at his fondness for the archives. In the days of his youth Faramir could often be found there, his nose buried deep in pages of parchment, fingertips stained with smudges of ink - even at such times when be ought to have been practicing his swordsmanship. “I would gladly show you - ” It was with books in mind that the Steward's blue eyes now landed on the one clutched in the Lady's hand. With the realisation that it was a tome discussing the Rohirrim - as its spine declared - Faramir felt an odd bloom of unease, knowing it would be written from a shamelessly Gondorian perspective. Whether it was favourable, dismissive or balanced would depend entirely on the hand that penned it. The offer to provide a tour of the extensive and sprawling library was cut short.

“Long have I admired your people, Lady Éowyn. Your stories are told and sung, lingering on the lips of all who can speak and echoing in the ears of all who listen, whilst many of ours…” the Steward paused, a touch discomfited, wanting to balance his love of Gondor with the understanding that her sons and daughters - and their methods - were not infallible. “Some are scrawled in books, known only to those who turn the pages. In the case of some opinions committed to parchment, that is for the better.”


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Re: Heal the Past, Live the Present
« Reply #7 on: September 21, 2019, 09:35:28 AM »
'No, it was definitely in foul spirits,' Eowyn thought drily, but even the most ebullient of her kith and kin knew when to cease over a point, no matter how contentious. Not least because it was a waste of precious time in an already full-paced society; it was also considered to be somewhat childish in Rohan to belabour a point. Having the last word was a hollow victory in the end, particularly if it was simply because the other person had given up; it bred resentment and discord in a culture that thrived so primarily on oral communication and open discourse.

Indeed, one only had to look at what Saruman, even through the mouth of another, had near done to the country of the horse lords not all that long ago.

He was quite intent on being polite though, this fellow, even or especially as kindly as he seemed. It was almost annoying, albeit in a way that made the Lady's mouth twitch despite her weary miseries, the shadow of a crooked dimple flickering and fading with unavoidable, if suspicious, amusement at the comparison mentally between what was before her and what she knew (and loved) best...for nobody could be so...saintly, surely.

(She hated how it provoked her curiousity too, even dully so.)

She hated too how her heart lifted at the Lord Steward's acquiescence to her request - both the agreement to let her roam and the clear fondness with which permission was given (even if she did not yet quite understand such warmth for a room of ageing, musty books). What Eowyn despised most though was the fact that she hated all of these at all, deep down though such defiance at her deprecation was. As if she had no leave to be so (she did not, and yet she did, and yet her mind warred with both). 'Courage in abundance, indeed.'

Courage in abundance...
oh, if only he knew the truth. It was the same truth that her brother could not acknowledge, for fear of his own broken heart as much as inability to understand, the same truth that even the Lord Aragorn, who numbered among the most compassionate and noble of men, did not wish to address even if he might see...'loving a shadow and a thought indeed.' It was so viable that she almost feared she might choke on it; these thoughts.

'No more despair.' Theoden's words whispered through the tumult of her mind even now without him here, sudden and distressing as said mind was with the thoughts her frank appraisal of Aragorn now threatened her with. But it calmed her just enough to belay the choking flutter of panic in her chest, so different and yet as awful as the melancholy and the apathetic resolve to die in battle, fail, and then try to die again that Eomer's denial of her presence at the Black Gate had prevented. The denial of ending her indefinable misery nobly and peacefully, even as it tasted now of the same acridity as the anxiety weighing on her chest.

But it settled her just the same-- Theoden just strong enough despite the whisper of him for Eowyn to incline her head instead in response to the tail end of the Steward's praises. Or deprecation, though his seemed subtler, less particularly fixated and more implied, than hers. Regardless, both were given a bland look in response, noncommittal in the newness of their interaction, and bland too in the hope that fingers twitching and stiffened posture threatening would follow the same calm.

"I suppose I will have to read them then, and let you know." Eowyn contemplated a tart comment, still not wholly convinced that another being could be so sincere and that he, might indeed, be assuming that none of the Rohirrim could read or indeed, write. He wouldn't have been entirely wrong if he had thought as such, but even at her worst, she was nothing if not wildly protective of her people. And yet if it was what he thought, he provided her no opening that would justify any such sharp remark from her, and at the very best she would only look a fool for overthinking.

And even with that preying on her mind, this man-- Faramir, had given her freedom...of a sort, not close to what she truly yearned for, but the fact that he had opened the door even a little, and without thinking twice, meant Eowyn was grateful.

Sincerity or insincerity, it was a tiring thing to ponder, and nor did Eowyn have any particular desire to provoke the conversation into prolonging itself much more; if only because the need to be alone was fast making itself known, as much to rest as to dwell on and then discard the panicked melancholy that still lingered. Lingered, like the fact that she had been all but dead barely under a seven day ago.

"It will have to wait, though. I am sorry, Lord Steward, but I fear I will become even poorer company if I do not rest when my body wills it."
« Last Edit: September 21, 2019, 12:59:04 PM by Éowyn »

'i've learned that strength is something you choose'


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