Subject: Avoidance by Stefania B
Event:
Story Title: Avoidance
By Author's Name; StefaniaB
Rated PG
Genre Romance (Het)
Warnings: Mild sexual situations
The overhead braziers gave the wide corridor a golden glow. The air
smelled faintly of grease from the smoke. Faramir's dutiful squire
Bergil, son of Beregond, had been sitting in a chair near the outside
door. The boy rose when the Steward came in, deep in thought.
Now was not the time for a social visit, Faramir agonized, feeling the
strain of responsibility fight against his need to set things straight
with his wife. He was vaguely aware that Bergil was at his side,
dogging his footsteps as he paced down the hall.
She said she didn't feel anything when
Aragorn grabbed her. Faramir considered his wife's words.
But she certainly felt something afterward, enough to wish
Arwen dead. It did seem odd that Arwen was the only person his wife
had ever wished to die. Then again, her vile thoughts toward Arwen
happened before Eowyn tasted real battle.
Surely she wanted the orcs and Haradrim
on the Pelennor fields, not to mention the Witch King, to die as she
charged among them. But on the other hand, she didn't mention ever
lying in her bed hoping that unseen forces might kill the Witch King.
She probably didn't even know of Angmar's existence. She just snuck
into the Pelennor Fields and there the fiend was.
“Wild wife,” he muttered with no
small amount of pride as he entered the Great Hall of their manor
house.
"Yes, your highness?" Bergil
asked.
Faramir started. He didn't realize that
he had said anything. Bergil took his job so seriously. There was
little that the boy didn't notice.
“Have a messenger sent out to the
King," Faramir ordered curtly. "Tell him that Eowyn is
feeling poorly with her condition and that we will come tomorrow
morning, instead."
The youth turned on his heel, "Yes,
your Highness."
Faramir's wretched mood was broken just
then. "See here, Bergil, you don't have to call me highness.
I've yet to experience what makes princes high."
"I'll have that messenger sent out
right away, my Lord Steward," Bergil straightened up brightly.
"Better," the flummoxed
Steward admitted. "But, simply My Lord or even plain Faramir
will do." As Bergil's footsteps echoed down the end of the
hall, Faramir turned to see his wife standing quite still in the
archway. Her reams of golden hair swirled about her, partially
concealing her expanding waistline. Her determined mouth was turned
down slightly as the close-set blue eyes regarded him levelly.
And then she made her move. She bounded
up to him, grabbed his cheeks in either hand, and forced his head
down so that she could kiss him. At first, his arms were limp at his
sides as he refused to respond to the pressure of her lips on his.
But then, he gave in, and his arms slowly went around her waist with
a vast sense of relief. By his reckoning, her displeasures with him,
when they happened, tended to be short, hot, and fortunately not very
long-lasting.
Eowyn pulled her face away and regarded
him like a mother admonishing her child, “Your far-sightedness
failed you just now, sweet Husband. Didn't you know that I really
don't want to see them this evening for a variety of reasons?"
"I did figure that out," he
responded guiltily. "I pleaded your belly. Babies can be an
excellent excuse. But we still have to go there tomorrow. We can't
get out of it any longer." Faramir added.
She put her hand in the crook of his
arm and slowly escorted him down the corridor into the new Great Hall
of their manor. Recently completed tapestries depicting the Battle of
the Pelennor fields hung on the walls. Unused tables were pushed
against them. A comfortable, new-fangled day bed was set up parallel
to the great fireplace that warmed the huge room.
The March evening was turning cold. The
servants had ramped up the fire. Soon they'd pull out one of the
heavy tables and serve dinner for the Lord and Lady of the manor.
Wouldn't it be much nicer to have them set a modest tray of foods
right here by the fire, Faramir thought. He stretched himself over
the length of the daybed, using its solitary arm as a rest for his
upper back.
That daybed was wide enough for an
adult and perhaps a child, but not for two full grown people. So,
naturally, he took up all of it. "My dear Lord Steward,"
Eowyn squished down in the little space left below Faramir's
shoulders, her fingers playing with his soft lips.
"I will tell you all I can, if I
can find the words..." but she gasped a little, almost in relief
as he started nibbling on her fingers. “Oh stop, one moment you are
so serious, the next moment teasing. Move over a little while I tell
you how felt when we first met..."If I can remember it clearly, she added
to herself, hopefully. She marked how the tension seemed to be
leaving his muscles. Before he'd been tight as one of his bowstrings.
Faramir turned onto his back, almost
pushing her off the cushions as he held out his arms, “Then lie on
me, Wild Wife, for we'll otherwise be cramped for what I hope will be
a nice, revealing tale.”
“Our child and I will squash you,” she laughed gently as she gingerly
stretched out atop him, her back resting on his long stomach. With a
bit of a struggle, he managed to free his trapped arms to wrap them
around her, his hands resting over her breasts.
“I particularly like this change,” he noted appreciatively. “I hope that they won't become small when our child is born.”
Though she loved the touch of his hands
on her body, it was all she could do to keep from elbowing him in the
ribs. Her sweet, sensitive husband so hated war, though war had
consumed his whole life. He was not at all like the men of Rohan,
who thirsted for battle and fretted in the peace. However, when it
came to conjugal matters, her Faramir was but the same as any human
male of her experience. That is, he conformed quite predictably to
the tales of the Rohan warriors' wives she'd heard in her youth, and
her beloved manual, “Collected Wisdom of the Elder Women of
Gondor.”
“My breasts are full of milk and will
remain so until our child is weaned,” Eowyn said matter-of-factly,
proud of her hard-won learning. “I don't mind their larger size,
but they tend to hurt.”
Faramir's lips pressed against her ear,
“Then I shall massage them for you - Ooof!” This time Eowyn's
elbow dug deep in her husband's diaphragm, as she twisted onto her
side to look him in the eye.
“You wanted to know when I realized
that I loved you,” she challenged. “Do not distract me, or the
words may never make their way to my mouth.”
What a handful she is,” Faramir
thought as he contracted involuntarily to the blow. Eowyn's face,
slightly swollen like the rest of her body, seemed to gleam as she
hovered over him. How could he doubt her feelings?
If only she was comfortable in making those feelings known.
“I am happy enough to have you prove
your love right now,” he raised an arm, gently urging her to lie
down again. “However, if you truly intend to tell me your story, I
will happily listen until your weight overwhelms me. Talk, Wild
Wife.”