A/N: This will be a four-part story/reflection from Faramir's POV, based on the beautiful song "Wonderful Tonight" by Eric Clapton, which I was listening to last night. (It's not from my generation, but I love it anyway. ) It will detail just one ordinary night, and I hope I've made it sound suitably like Faramir. For some strange reason, I'm not expecting a lot of reviews for this-- I wrote it simply for pleasure and practice, because I'm only learning how to write well. That said, it would be nice to get some feedback, since it's the first time I've ever written something like this.

Each chapter will be based on one stanza. Enjoy the first one.

Wonderful Tonight


It's late in the evening
She's wondering what clothes to wear
She puts on her makeup
And brushes her long blonde hair
And then she asks me
"Do I look all right?"
And I say, "Yes, you look wonderful tonight."

You Look Wonderful

We are connoisseurs of celebrations, Éowyn and I. When dark times are past and all the world is filled with light and hope, it would seem that festivities are an inevitability. And I do not regret it—as I once said to the Halfling Frodo, it is long since we had any hope, and to now have such joy that overflows in merrymaking is a cause for wonder to me.

Though we are only midway through the first year of our marriage, my lady and I have established a tradition of preparation for such festivities. We depart for separate chambers—I hastily don my garments and a surcoat, and await her on the stairs. When she finally emerges, utterly transformed by one of her ladies-in-waiting, I catch my breath, pronounce her beautiful beyond imagining, and offer my arm for her to take. And together, we sally forth to brave the court of Minas Tirith.

I do not know why I wish to depart from tradition tonight. A certain thoughtful mood has taken me, and I find myself entering her chambers after dressing. Woman-like, she has not even chosen a dress to wear—several discarded selections lie on the floor, and her maid looks aggravated enough to scold me for heightening the predicament.

My lady is characteristically self-possessed; she dismisses her distressed maid calmly, and addresses me.

"Is my green dress not suitable?"

"Like cool grass in the sunlight," I answer, thinking of her golden hair, bright as the sun.

She smiles and nods gracefully, and I cannot help but marvel at the wonder of it all—that the Darkness has passed, gifting me with my own sun, my joy and light, my love.

She modestly disappears behind a silk screen, and I stare at my reflection in the mirror on her dresser, trying to discern the reason, the defining quality (and here I smile as I remember Master Samwise, wisest of gardeners) that makes me worthy of such happiness. For hopelessness and despair brought—on its very wings—a new-found chance, did it not? A chance nurtured in green gardens, where the sun yet shone…

Éowyn drifts in from behind the screen, floating on emerald as green as the plains of Rohan. To call her beautiful would be an insult, for she is not simply an ornament to be hung on my arm and admired. As she seats herself at her dresser, head tilted, and pulls a brush through her hair, my heart aches to convey to her the depth of emotion I am slowly rediscovering tonight.

She continues to brush her long hair, and I content myself with watching her every gesture hungrily, for to lose a second would be to lose something precious indeed. When her tresses finally hang loose and neat at her back, she stands up and asks me casually,

"Do I seem decent, Faramir?"

The realization that, so naturally, we turn to each other for evaluation, affects me surprisingly. I do not dare speak for a while, and am pondering my answer in any case. I had long ago discarded beautiful as too weak a word, for it does not encompass the lovely complexity that is my wife.

Finally, I smile warmly, lovingly. "You look wonderful tonight."