Chapter Text
The grand halls of Minas Tirith were alive with celebration, resplendent in the light of a new dawn. The War of the Ring had ended, and the world was rejoicing in a peace hard-won. Aragorn had been crowned king, and the shadow that had long darkened Middle-earth was at last dispelled. In the Great Hall, the sound of merriment echoed—laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets as everyone present celebrated the beginning of a new age.
Yet, amidst the joy and revelry, two figures slipped away unnoticed. Eowyn, the White Lady of Rohan, her heart alight with a thrill she had rarely known, tugged gently at Faramir’s hand as they ran down a dimly lit corridor. Her golden hair streamed behind her like a banner caught in the wind, and Faramir could not help but smile, his heart full at the sight of her. They had been playing this delicate game of cat and mouse throughout the evening—stealing kisses, brushing hands, and exchanging secret smiles whenever they could.
But now, at last, they found refuge in a quiet, seldom-used chamber deep within the citadel. The heavy wooden door creaked as it swung shut behind them. Eowyn wasted no time, her arms wrapping around Faramir’s neck as she pulled him into a kiss, fierce and full of longing.
Faramir responded in kind, his hands finding their place at her waist as he deepened the kiss. For a brief, precious moment, all thoughts of duty and decorum were cast aside. The weight of their titles, the expectations of their people—none of it held sway anymore. Here, in this quiet dining room, there were only the two of them, lost in each other’s embrace, oblivious to the world beyond.
Eowyn laughed softly against Faramir’s lips, her breath warm as it brushed his skin. “I have never felt such happiness before,” she whispered, her eyes alight with mischief.
“Indeed,” Faramir replied, his voice a low murmur, rich with affection. He gently brushed a stray lock of her golden hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek as though reluctant to part from her. “Yet we must be wary, for your brother—”
“Eomer be damned,” Eowyn interrupted, her tone playful but resolute. “Let him rage if it pleases him. I do not care.”
As if her words had summoned him, a distant crash echoed through the corridors of the citadel, followed by a roar of frustration that reverberated through the stone walls. Eowyn’s eyes widened briefly in alarm, and Faramir, unable to suppress his amusement, stifled a laugh.
“It would seem your brother is more vigilant than we thought him to be,” Faramir remarked, his lips curving into a grin.
Eowyn bit her lip, a flicker of excitement and concern passing across her face. “Perhaps we should—” But before she could complete her thought, Faramir silenced her with another kiss, his hands sliding up her back and into her hair, threading through the silken strands.
“There are hundreds of chambers in this hall alone,” he whispered against her lips, his voice soft and reassuring. “We need not worry. There is much time for us.”
Eowyn chuckled, allowing herself to relax in his embrace. “You are far too confident for your own good, my lord,” she teased, her voice a tender murmur against his lips.
Faramir smiled, his breath warm against her skin. “Too reckless for my own good, you mean! But I lay the blame at your feet. Never before have I been so foolishly reckless—until I met you,” he replied, his hands gently exploring the soft curves of her body, drawing her closer until no space remained between them.
The world beyond them seemed to vanish, lost to the shadows of the citadel, as they found solace in each other’s arms. Eowyn’s hands roamed across Faramir’s chest, her fingers tracing the firm lines of muscle beneath his shirt. Faramir’s hands slid higher beneath her skirts, eliciting a gasp of delight from her as he kissed her deeply, with all the passion he had held in check.
All thoughts of the celebrations, of furious Eomer, and of propriety melted away. There was nothing left but the heat of their bodies, the intoxicating feel of Faramir’s lips against hers, and the sound of their quickened breaths mingling in the quiet room.
So lost were they in each other’s embrace that they failed to hear the heavy footsteps approaching, or the voices growing louder just outside the door.
~o~O~o~
Eomer's heavy footsteps echoed ominously down the stone corridors of the citadel. His face was a storm cloud, dark and brooding, as he stormed through the halls, his heart pounding. With each door he encountered, he kicked it open with a force that sent splinters flying, his voice booming through the ancient stone walls.
“Eowyn!” he roared, the sound reverberating like the roar of a lion.
A small group of Rohirrim followed at a cautious distance, their faces a mixture of concern and barely concealed amusement. They had seen their lord in such a state before, but never with such ferocity. It was in a brother's nature to be protective of his sister, but the circumstances were different when said sister was the slayer of the Witch-king of Angmar.
Not far behind, Aragorn and Arwen exchanged worried glances as they trailed in Eomer’s wake, noting the trail of destruction he left behind. The doors that hadn’t been torn from their hinges stood ajar, creaking on their frames, and the occasional startled servant hurried out of sight, eyes wide at the sight of the enraged King of Rohan.
“Eomer, wait!” Aragorn called out, his voice cutting through the echoes of Eomer's rampage. But his words were swallowed by the sound of another door crashing open as Eomer flung it wide, only to find another empty chamber. With a growl of frustration, Eomer spun on his heel, his eyes blazing with an almost savage determination, and pressed onward in his search.
Arwen, her steps light and swift, quickened her pace, her keen elven senses picking up sounds that others would miss—the faint, muffled sound of laughter, followed by a soft moan that made her pause, one brow arching in mild surprise.
“Eomer,” Aragorn tried again, this time more urgently as he drew closer to the furious king. “You must stop this. Faramir is an honourable man; there is no need for such wrath. They wish to wed, after all.”
But Eomer would not be calmed. His roar echoed through the halls like a wild beast's cry. “I did not give my blessing to that! Over my dead body!”
Marshal Élfhelm, struggling to keep pace with his lord, tried to reason with him, his voice steady despite the situation. “My liege, I assure you that Lord Faramir’s intentions towards your sister are most honourable! I have met the man; he is decent and upright!”
Marshal Élfhelm endeavoured to sound as convincing as he could, though he was well aware of the precariousness of his task. After all, it wasn’t entirely false. Despite the public displays of affection between Faramir and Eowyn such as scandalous kisses up on the wall for everyone to see, and the lustful glances they exchanged, their intentions were indeed honourable—they wished to be wed. The trouble lay in the fact that neither had sought Eomer’s blessing beforehand.
However Eomer paid little heed to the Marshal’s words, his fury blinding him to all reason. The thought of his sister being swept away, filled him with an anger that threatened to consume him. He was determined to find his wilful sister, even if it meant tearing apart the entire citadel.
Eomer was deaf to reason. “Honourable, you say!” he snapped, his eyes ablaze with fury. “Do you take me for a fool? I have seen the way he gazes at her!” The words choked in his throat, his anger nearly suffocating him. Without another word, he spun on his heel and continued down the corridor, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword.
Arwen, sensing the urgency of the situation, leaned close to Aragorn and whispered with quiet intensity, “You must stop him! They are but a few doors away and… most ardently engaged.” She placed particular emphasis on the last words, leaving no doubt as to the nature of the 'engagement' she referred to.
Aragorn’s eyes widened slightly at Arwen’s words. He knew Eomer’s temper well, and could easily envision the disaster that would ensue should the enraged king find Faramir and Eowyn in such a state.
Without hesitation, Aragorn quickened his pace, stepping forward to place himself between Eomer and the next door. “Eomer, stay your hand!” he called out, his voice both commanding and light. “Didn’t you boast that you would best me in a contest of drinking? What better time than now? We have much to celebrate!”
But Eomer was unmoved by Aragorn’s words, his gaze fixed like steel upon the door before him. Ignoring the attempt at diversion, he kicked the door open with a forceful blow, only to find the room empty. Yet this chamber was larger than the others, and Eomer took his time, searching behind the curtains and even beneath the bed, determined to leave no corner unexamined.
Meanwhile, the corridor grew more crowded as curious onlookers gathered, their faces a mixture of amusement and unease at the scene before them. Though unsettled by the king’s behaviour, most chose to observe from a distance, not wishing to become embroiled in the unfolding chaos.
Sensing the mounting tension, Arwen stepped forward swiftly, her voice gentle but resolute. “Eomer, I beseech you, be at peace. Lady Eowyn has proven her strength against the mightiest of our enemies. She needs no protection of yours in such matters.”
Eomer’s jaw tightened as he looked down at her, his breath coming in short, angry bursts. “That may be,” he conceded, his voice thick with frustration, “but she does not know how to guard herself against the deceitful, wicked lies that this Gondorian weaves and dresses as words of love!”
Aragorn stepped forward, placing a firm yet gentle hand on Eomer’s shoulder. “Faramir is my Steward, Eomer,” he said, his voice calm. “I would not choose a man of deceit to stand at my side. He is a man of honour, one who has endured much and has no need for falsehoods. His love for Eowyn is true.”
Eomer’s gaze wavered as he looked into Aragorn's eyes, the fire within him dimming slightly. “We shall see,” he muttered.
Yet, as Eomer turned and strode from the room he had just searched, Arwen’s keen senses alerted her to the peril that lay just moments away. She realised with a sudden clarity that it was only a matter of seconds before Eomer would discover his sister in a most improper state, with Faramir, unarmed, standing against the fury of a brother's wrath.
Sensing the impending disaster, Arwen moved with the swift grace of her kind, subtly and deftly snatching Eomer's sword without his noticing. Her movements were light and precise, a silent act of intervention. But before she could utter a word of caution, Eomer, driven by an uncontrollable rage, reached the next door and, with a mighty roar, kicked it open.
The scene that met his eyes was one that would be etched in memory for years to come. Eomer’s face twisted into a mask of pure fury as he took in the sight before him. Inside the brightly lit room, Eowyn lay upon the dining table, her skirts hiked up around her hips and her bodice pulled down, revealing far more than was proper. Faramir’s shirt hung open, his hands imprudently high beneath her skirts as he kissed her neck with fervent passion.
For a moment, time itself seemed to hold its breath, the very air thick with the tension of the inevitable. Eomer’s fists clenched at his sides. The room, once filled with the warmth of lovers’ embrace, now stood on the brink of chaos, awaiting the explosion that was sure to come.