06 May 2011 | 605 words
Series: Desperate Hours
Feedback: Please use the form below
Rating: PG-13, for a bit of romance
A/N: Set just after King Théoden’s funeral, in Rohan, which I am setting in the fall of 3019, later the same year that the Ring War ended.
She waited in the hall. It was nearly time for him to leave. And she had to see him, one last time. Alone. Around others…he was attentive but proper in all ways, even if the warm look in his eyes still made her shiver. But alone, she could convince him to be improper, and that was much more fun.
A door closing and opening, a friendly disagreement. The underlying note of sorrow, and worry, in his voice.
She stepped out of the shadows, which were safe and concealing now, scary no longer. Just enough for him to see the hem of her red dress, no more.
He was beside her in a matter of moments, kissing her deeply. His hands were on her hips, her hands were on his chest. A moment. No more.
“I’m late.” Faramir apologized, breathless. “I can’t… I mustn’t hold us up, more.”
“I know.” She knew why he was late, as well. Éowyn smiled, glad for the why, and glad he was late, so that they could manage one last moment alone together. But sorry, and worried, that he was worried. She frowned. “You should tell Aragorn, about the duel. It’s a bad idea.” And Éowyn knew from bad ideas. This was something like Éomer would plan, not her level-headed Faramir. But the reason… the reason was all Faramir. Misguided guilt. “You’re being foolish, you know. And if it gets you killed, I’ll be furious.” Éowyn added.
“Aye, my Lady.” Faramir’s gray eyes were still worried, but a bit amused, reassured… warmed, perhaps, that she cared.
“At least take someone with you.” She urged.
“Who would be stupid enough to come, knowing the King would disapprove?” Faramir asked rhetorically.
Éowyn paused to think. The sights and sounds of Meduseld, going back to normal after the funeral of her uncle, soothed her. Soon, in mere months, she would return to Gondor Faramir’s bride. And this would never be her home, again. But to be a bride her groom must live… and on some level, Éowyn was utterly practical. “Invite Prince Legolas.” She suggested. “He’s no stranger to bad ideas, and he’s been friends with Aragorn long enough not to fear his anger. And he’s your friend, too, or would be, if you let him.”
“I will ask.” Faramir agreed, and then kissed her again.
The sound of a throat clearing, and they sprang apart. “Nephew,” the Prince of Dol Amroth greeted Faramir mildly, “You’re late.”
Half an hour later, Éowyn watched as the last of the riders vanished, back in the direction of the white city. No tears were in her eyes, but her heart was heavy.
“So I used to watch him, when he and his brother sailed away, back up the Anduin. Not to return to Belfalas for another year, at the least.” Imrahil said gently.
Éomer was less gentle. “Oh, do come away, Éowyn.” He scolded her.
Éowyn did as he asked, for she loved her brother. But she was counting the days until her wedding, longing to be with Faramir, at the same time she mourned leaving Rohan behind.
Éowyn shivered again, and Éomer snorted, and draped his cloak around her. Éowyn thanked him, but it wasn’t the approaching cold. It was the approaching change, welcome though it was.
Éowyn of Ithilien, Faramir’s bride. Shiver.
NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]
Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at http://www.faramirfiction.com/Fiction/shiver. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!
Thank the author
The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: