This story is rated «R», and carries the warnings «oral sex, outdoor sex ».
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04 March 2015 | 14732 words
Faramir shows Eowyn a green and lovely corner of their demesne she has never seen. Along the way they discover love and desire can conquer (most) fears. A Ranger, his Shieldmaiden, a cliff rated 5.2 and rope. A birthday gift for Annafan.
Thank you so much to JuneGloom and Wheelrider for beta’ing.
Chapter 4 and 5 now up! Its finally complete
T.A. 3020 Emyn Arnen
“A braid? Well of course I don’t mind wearing a braid, Nera. But why ever would the Prince request it?” Éowyn, Lady of Ithilien, stood puzzled and a little nonplussed. Her husband, who habitually wore whatever he had dropped upon the floor the night before, had planned ahead what she should wear that day? How truly odd.
Nera, their normally serene household chatelaine, looked equally surprised. “I know not, my Lady, only that he asked so this very morn and requested Guthild to lay out breeches and boots for you. Not riding wear mind, but short boots and a tunic, not your usual blouse.”
Éowyn, paused in the act of picking up the tunic, looked carefully upon the older woman’s face. She was not hiding something was she? Nera knew her husband better than she did, had known him for every one of his thirty-eight years. She was somewhat at a disadvantage, having known him for only one, yet that was sufficient in her experience to know that the one thing Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, did not do was fuss with clothing.
Her voice was muffled as she pulled the stiff garment over her head. “When was I to be ready for?”
“Mid-morning, my Lady, he said he would be back by then.” Up well before the birds, Faramir had apparently already gone with Beregond on some errand in the village. For once she wished that they could rise at the same time. She might have had a chance to find what all this was in aid of. He was up to something. She meant to find out what.
Nera gave a quick apologetic smile and bobbed a curtsey before gliding off to resume her work. Éowyn pulled on the soft dark breeches and leather tunic and wriggled her toes into the soft hide boots. With the ease of long practice she wound her waist-length, golden hair into a pair of smooth braids and coiled them up into a bun. There, out of the way as instructed.
Giving her handiwork a quick tug to make sure it was secure she scooped up her riding gloves from the dresser and went to find Windfola. At least the other male in her life was somewhat more predictable.
“‘Wyn, are you ready?” Faramir’s voice was warm and very loud, he must be near. She could hear the sense of anticipation in it, and the ringing of his boot heels on the stone floor.
“Oh!” She turned out of the sitting room right into his arms. Quickly he caught her shoulders and held her steady. He also had on an old leather jerkin and pair of decidedly faded breeches. He smelled faintly of pine and bow oil and smoke, the scent that clung to anything he had worn in his Ranger days.
Grinning, Faramir dropped a quick light kiss upon her lips. “Perfect… you are all set.” She could feel the low chuckle rumbling in his chest and heart beat strongly. His normally serious gaze was slightly hooded, grey eyes twinkling. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
“Set for what?” she asked, a little breathlessly. Mischief. That look she was learning to associate with the mischief her normally reserved and carefully composed husband was quite capable of undertaking.
“An adventure. You said you wanted an adventure.”
“I did?” What in Arda was Faramir referring to? Éowyn quickly racked her brain but nothing came to mind. This put her at a decided disadvantage: she knew that she could make an off hand comment and it would gone moments after. He never forgot anything.
“You did.” The grin broadened as her husband nodded and he reached for her hand. He was clearly not going to enlighten her. She found herself being pulled quickly along the hall toward the courtyard. Éowyn could hardly keep up; in his excitement Faramir took his natural pace, long legs eating up the distance.
Once outside, she frowned: it appeared most of the household was in on the escapade but her. Two of the young guardsmen, Bergil and Wil, stood waiting, placidly holding Windfola and Mithros, their own lighter mounts beside. Faramir gratefully took packed saddle bags from the cook and tied then onto Bergil’s horse. A pair of blanket rolls peeked out of another pack already tied behind the big grey. Most curious were the large coils of rope that lay upon the ground.
“But where are we going?” Éowyn looked upon the scene in surprise and consternation. This was no hastily planned morning’s ride. “To the river?” They had been there many times, that hardly counted as an adventure. Yet where else would they go and why would she need lighter boots?
Eyes positively dancing with excitement, Faramir shook his head and refused to answer, shouldering the long lengths of rope. He tied them carefully to Mithros’s saddle pack and then turned toward Windfofa, held out his hands, ready to give her a leg up.
She crossed her arms and refused to budge. “Bergil? Will?” The young guards flushed and turned away, busying themselves with needlessly retightening their girths. Will was very fair and she could see the tips of his ears were red.
A black eyebrow raised. The Prince of Ithilien crossed his arms. “That is quite unsporting, my lady. They are under orders to keep quiet.”
“Eryn Lasgalyn?” Éowyn turned to ask the cook, but the good woman had adroitly hustled back inside.
Mouth quirking, Faramir shook his head and gestured for her to mount once again. “You will not get it out of me so easily. If we do not start soon Éowyn, you will have less time to enjoy yourself.” He looked so smug.
Maddening man. Reluctantly she took Windfola’s bridle and let him boost her up.
As she settled into place, Faramir’s hand lingered for a just moment on her calf. Capriciously she backed away.
The clear grey eyes below her flashed darkly for a moment, but she raised her chin defiantly nonetheless. “Enjoy myself my Lord, at what?” Her tone was light, but its honeyed sweetness did little to disguise the steel behind. He knew full well that waiting for Mettare, and Haligmonað and birthdays made her crazy. This was torture and he was enjoying her discomfit far too much.
Faramir swung up onto Mithros’ back and wheeled the stallion round to face her. His voice, when he spoke was taunting. “That is for me to know, my impatient Shieldmaiden, and you to find out.”
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