Summary:  An answer to A'mael Taren's March Challenge: "Did Éowyn truly love Faramir?  Write a story in support of your opinion."

Author's Notes:  I haven't written a smidgen of romance since "The Stone and the Steward," so bear with me here.  This is a little different than your typical prose.

There is a very brief allusion to another fandom in this story.  Faramir cookies to anyone who spots it.  Raksha already has.  :)

A special thank you to Clairon, who yet again has taken the time to beta my story.


The Simple Things

By Lady Wenham


It's the simple things.

It's the way he smiles at her.  World-weary eyes never failing to shine with benevolence upon her.  Genuine.  Encouraging.  Healing.  He smiles even when his spirit is crushed by the weight of the dead and by obligations he never asked for.  That gentle smile never wavers as he articulates kind words of compassion – never for himself – only for her.

It's the way he holds himself.  Tall and upright.  Proud but humble.  A prince, but a man wholly devoted to even the least of his people.  He has a quiet confidence that speaks clearly of his nobleness and worth.  She often finds herself straightening her posture when in his company, inwardly challenging herself to become more like the gracious man before her.

It's his effortless dignity.  Complete submission and love for his king.  The silent tears of grief he sheds for his father and brother.  Understanding that she does not need his protection but quietly offering it nevertheless.  All these things he does in silence, completely unaware how vociferously his actions speak for his character.

It's his imagination.  A poet.  A scholar.  A musician.  He walks in worlds others cannot imagine.  When she sees him quietly regarding the morning, she can almost see words and notes and rhymes dancing around his head.  His grey eyes sparkle at her curiosity when she asks him to share his thoughts.  He always does.

It's his hands.  Long, tapered fingers – ever calloused and tan, despite the fact that is no longer a soldier.  He loves to press his hands flat upon her stomach and trace maddeningly slow circles around her navel.  Not once has she ever had reason to fear those gentle hands.

It's his mouth.  Warm and sweet.  Lips pressing a lazy trail of kisses down the side of her neck.  Verse and adulation upon his tongue.  Quiet whispers in the night that soothe her uncertainties.  Never an untruth upon his lips.

It's the way he adores their children.  Laughter and encouragement.  Open arms stretched wide in unconditional love, in comfort, or in the desire to simply hold his children near.  He passes on wisdom to their eager ears and teaches them the value of all life.

It's the small gestures.  A kiss each morning and night, predictable as the dawn.  A cup of tea placed before her after a difficult day, fixed just the way she likes it.  Lemon, no sugar.

It was never some colossal deed or declaration that captured her heart.  He never strove to be more than what he was in her eyes.  He never had to.  His love for her was never about causing the pitter-patter of her heart or the feel of butterflies in her stomach; those things came all on their own.  His love was expressed the little things he did – things that spoke unmistakably of his abiding devotion to her.

It was always the simple things . . . and that was precisely how she knew she loved him back.


The end.

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