Work Text:
The fields of Pelennor stretched beneath him, still scarred from the recent battles, patches of scorched earth trampled by men and beasts where lush green grass once grew. Ravens flew in formation, seeking traces of the putrid remains of defeated armies. Even Minas Tirith bore the scars of war. Faramir gazed, unseeing, at the devastation of these lands he had once loved so dearly. Leaning against the arch of a window in the palace of the Citadel, he felt everything was lost: his family, his city, his very Kingdom of which he was no longer even the Steward. Soon he would depart for Ithilien, leaving behind all this ruin. Immediately after the War, he hadn't had time to reflect properly on the true magnitude of the events, too occupied with the city's reconstruction, meetings with the new King and other commanders. He had rushed from one task to another, reassuring citizens and overseeing the revival of a life that resembled, at least in part, the one lived before the Siege. And then there was her, Éowyn, who had occupied his mind and heart, filling them with a happiness he had never thought possible. When he had kissed her on the battlements, oblivious to the eyes upon them—a gesture unthinkable for one so usually cautious and poised, so unlike his impetuous brother—he had felt as though he would never experience such perfect joy again. As if summoned by his thoughts, the White Lady joined him at the window. A small, pale, warm hand slipped into his, while her blonde head nestled against his neck:
'Are you sad, my lord husband?'
'Not sad, sweet Éowyn. Thoughtful, perhaps.'
Éowyn looked up at the face of the prince, this brave and steadfast man who had melted her heart, and she leaned forward to place a chaste kiss at the corner of his mouth, which lifted into a faint smile. Since discovering the taste of his kisses, Éowyn could not do without them. Faramir took her by the hips and pulled her close to savor her mouth with delightful fervor. When they parted, Éowyn grinned:
'You fear not my brother's wrath, nor the scandal of the ladies. They would say: here is the Steward of the King hiding in corners with his future bride like any stable boy!'
Faramir furrowed his brows:
'I would never wish for you to suffer the consequences of improper behavior because of me. I apologize...'
But the mischievous sparkle in her eyes convinced him she was teasing, and he understood Éowyn only meant to lift his darkened spirits. He let out an amused laugh:
'So fair and yet so audacious!'
They both looked out at the desolate plains.
'Soon we will depart for the Mark; I wonder if I should stay.'
'My people's traditions dictate that royal women take husband in Edoras. But if you wish, I can leave alone and wait.'
Faramir scrutinized Éowyn's face for any sign of discontent.
'I would never wrong you so, Éowyn, nor could I bear Éomer's wrath. He would seek me out across all the lands of the West to avenge his family's dishonor.'
'Indeed, he would!'
Éowyn chuckled.
'No, Lord Aragorn has granted me dispensation. We will depart for Rohan as planned, and there I will wed the fair White Lady.'
Faramir risked placing a kiss on her neck and relished in provoking a sweet shiver. He moved away from the full view of the window and gently pushed Éowyn against the wall. She sighed and toyed with the black hair of Faramir:
'And you will take possession of your bride.'
'Yes, I will.'
He answered seriously, his dark eyes gleaming as he wrapped a golden strand around his finger. Éowyn stole a small bite from his earlobe, whispered:
'And I will have the love of my husband.'
'You shall have all of your husband.'
Faramir replied in a low voice with a mischievous smile that pulled at his lips. Éowyn chuckled: she was a girl who had grown up among horses and nothing had remained hidden, not even in the season of love. Yet she felt a fiery sensation. Hands intertwined, mouths intertwined, the two betrothed waited for a long time against that wall. Finally, an amused Faramir managed to pull away from Éowyn's sweet lips:
'Now go, my Lady, before we truly cause a scandal.'
She tenderly caressed his face:
'Do not worry too much, sweet Faramir.'
And she hurried away, light and swift, almost as if she had been nothing more than a dream of the Steward's tortured mind.