this beautiful war of ours (éowyn/faramir, pg-13)
this beautiful war of ours
éowyn/faramir, pg-13
Her wedding day is one of splendor and grandeur and all the finery she could never expect in Rohan.
The White City is aglow with celebration, the streets reveling in the arrival of this strange lady from the North called Wraithsbane who still carries the scars on her shield-arm like tokens of legend.
Dernhelm, she was.
Éowyn, she is.
The Queen, they call her.
And then she spots him: blue mantle draped over armored shoulders, the White Tree embossed on his breastplate; he smiles, but not at her and the glass in his hand remains ever filled.
He never looks at her -- not once
(still I would love you.)
“Are you well?”
He is in the infirmary after a minor scuffle with a band of orcs -- it is his duty to purge the forests of the remaining evil that wandered underneath its bloodstained boughs.
She stands in the doorway, just close enough to regard him, but far enough to still maintain a formal conversation. Golden hair tied back into a braid, she is clad in plain cloth, and no one would suspect her queenly status had it not been for the silver band on her finger: an heirloom exiled to the vaults for the entirety of an age.
A breeze sweeps through open windows -- and he can smell the fresh athelas abloom in the gardens.
Her voice is a wondrous thing, as if he was hearing it for the very first time. He has craved it so.
“I am.”
“I have been told Ithilien is a marvel in springtime.”
A smile lingers on her lips and those eyes -- there is no escape from those eyes -- are greyer than he remembered.
“Some would say that.”
“Why do you avoid me?”
“You are mistaken.” His throat tightens. “There is no avoiding a queen -- the price would be my head.”
“I do believe I have every right to venture here, lord.”
She dismounts.
“After all, my husband is King.”
“Éowyn.”
Her name passes through his lips for the first time in over a year.
She is in his bed -- but only because he cannot afford to covet her own.
The sheets gather about their waists and her hands memorize the back of an archer, scars both old and new painted on with the brush of a blade.
A storm gathers outside, leaves scatter and lightening cracks, sending ripples down their spines.
He is distracted, his eyes never leaving the locked door. He expects his arrest warrant any moment, even here in Ithilien where all is under his protection.
“Faramir.”
She catches his mouth with her own -- it will never be this easy.
éowyn/faramir, pg-13
Her wedding day is one of splendor and grandeur and all the finery she could never expect in Rohan.
The White City is aglow with celebration, the streets reveling in the arrival of this strange lady from the North called Wraithsbane who still carries the scars on her shield-arm like tokens of legend.
Dernhelm, she was.
Éowyn, she is.
The Queen, they call her.
And then she spots him: blue mantle draped over armored shoulders, the White Tree embossed on his breastplate; he smiles, but not at her and the glass in his hand remains ever filled.
He never looks at her -- not once
(still I would love you.)
“Are you well?”
He is in the infirmary after a minor scuffle with a band of orcs -- it is his duty to purge the forests of the remaining evil that wandered underneath its bloodstained boughs.
She stands in the doorway, just close enough to regard him, but far enough to still maintain a formal conversation. Golden hair tied back into a braid, she is clad in plain cloth, and no one would suspect her queenly status had it not been for the silver band on her finger: an heirloom exiled to the vaults for the entirety of an age.
A breeze sweeps through open windows -- and he can smell the fresh athelas abloom in the gardens.
Her voice is a wondrous thing, as if he was hearing it for the very first time. He has craved it so.
“I am.”
“I have been told Ithilien is a marvel in springtime.”
A smile lingers on her lips and those eyes -- there is no escape from those eyes -- are greyer than he remembered.
“Some would say that.”
“Why do you avoid me?”
“You are mistaken.” His throat tightens. “There is no avoiding a queen -- the price would be my head.”
“I do believe I have every right to venture here, lord.”
She dismounts.
“After all, my husband is King.”
“Éowyn.”
Her name passes through his lips for the first time in over a year.
She is in his bed -- but only because he cannot afford to covet her own.
The sheets gather about their waists and her hands memorize the back of an archer, scars both old and new painted on with the brush of a blade.
A storm gathers outside, leaves scatter and lightening cracks, sending ripples down their spines.
He is distracted, his eyes never leaving the locked door. He expects his arrest warrant any moment, even here in Ithilien where all is under his protection.
“Faramir.”
She catches his mouth with her own -- it will never be this easy.