Elven Haven

"I can just go," you thought, casting a quick glance back at the great hall, alive and alight with the merry cacophony of a thousand revelers that would surely last until dawn. The two hours you already spent mingling to the best of your limited ability had to suffice, and it was doubtful your presence would even be missed. 

But the call of a deep voice stalled your retreat, loud and commanding and instantly recognizable even across a distance as it shouted your name. The soldier in you succumbed to the instinct to obey your Marshal, to honor the oath you had sworn on your knees years ago. 

The flickering flames of nearby torchlights reflected against the carved silver panels of the breastplate he donned over his lavishly embroidered tunic. Famously handsome even when caked in blood and grime, Eomer was breathtakingly resplendent bearing the regalia that befitted his station. King Eomer now, you reminded yourself, as you dipped your head in a bow. 

“My lord.”

“Is something amiss? Why did you leave?” His narrowed eyes upon you were penetrating, his tone demanding rather than concerned. Lying to someone you had spent practically every single day of your adult life with was difficult, and even more so with an addled brain, so you knew you had to mince words carefully.  

Fortunately, you had years of practice doing exactly that. 

“I underestimated the potency of their vintage, and downed one cup too many.” You scrunched up your features in a grimace that just slightly exaggerated your pain. “I thought it best to excuse myself and retire for the night.”

“Perhaps if you rested a while and ate some food…” He rested a hand lightly on your shoulder. “It is much too early and the quarters would still be empty. I know you detest fraternizing, but just sit at the table with the rest of our men.”

You released a graceless guffaw and a puff of wine-tinged breath. “Half of them are already deeper in their cups than I, and getting sloppier by the second. I finally had to remind Héothain of his manners the second time he tried to sneak a hand down the front of my dress.”

“He did what?” Eomer’s sudden growl awakened you to your own carelessness and slip of the tongue. Smooth-cheeked Héothain was the youngest and newest addition to the Éored, and remained sorely lacking in experience with women. He should not be held accountable for his awkwardness amplified by insobriety. 

“It was a silly mistake that caused no harm,” you insisted, pulling back as Eomer attempted to lead you off by the elbow. “Two sprained fingers taught him a lesson he shall not soon forget.” 

Eomer glowered at you but remained silent for a pause, as he did whenever running through courses of action in his mind. “Then you can come sit by me at the King’s table.”

Your laugh in response to that suggestion was shrill and nervous, as he looked so serious making it. “I most certainly cannot… my lord.” You stated your defiance firmly, baring a toothless pertinacity against your leader, and underneath it a silent plea that the friend in him would understand. “There is no place for me amongst such esteemed company and truly, there is nothing in the world I would enjoy less at this moment.” 

You sighed and braced one hand below your rib area, massaging a spot where the corset dug into a still-tender battle injury. 

“Please. Let me go back to my room where I can be rid of these dreadful garments.”

“No.” The immediacy and sharpness of his refusal made you blink in surprise. “Not until you explain yourself to my satisfaction.”

“Pardon, my lord?”

“Hah, there! That is what I am speaking of.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand--”

“When did you cease to call me by my name in private conversation? Or last bother to converse with me at all?!” You took too long to answer, and he barreled on, hazel eyes flashing with the sudden rise of agitation. “Let me enlighten you, since I recall it well. It began after Theodred’s death, accompanied by a host of other changes in your behavior towards me that you think I have not noticed!”

You scrambled to concoct a rebuttal, another feint to keep him from uncovering your secrets. Alas, your dulled mind had frozen completely in the face of the horse-lord’s fury, which had never been directed at you in such a manner.

“You are misreading things, my lord, or else imagining them. I cannot say that I--”

“You cannot even look me in the eye these days of late!” Eomer snapped. “Nor can you stand to be in any room I am in for long.” He threw out his arm in the direction of the great hall. “Even now you rebuff any attempt I make to spend time with you.”

“I…I…” You stammered, rendered helpless before his unexpected wrath, cursing yourself for the poor timing of your inebriation. How could you put up your shields when your mind was struggling to pick out your own lies from the truth?

“If you are angry with me, I would have you admit to it now. I will no longer be played for a fool.”

Indignation pooled in your gut, crawling upward until it deepened the coloring of your already flushed face. “I confess to nothing! For what cause do I have to be angry?”

“Because you loved him!” Eomer erupted. As you gaped at his outburst, he gripped a fistful of his hair, and took in one sharp breath, steeling himself. “You loved Theodred,” he finally said, in a voice gone cold and quiet. “And you place blame on me for his death.”

The fire in your belly flared at the terrible accusation. “Theodred was murdered by Saruman, and only a traitor would fault you for that vile cur’s deed.” You shook a finger at him emphatically. “I am no traitor.”

“Did you love my cousin?”

“Of course I did,” you said stoutly. The prince’s demise plagued you still, for you had been the one to spot Theodred’s body amongst the corpses that littered the fords. And after he’d been borne away to Meduseld, you never saw him alive again, and all you could do was weep in the privacy of your quarters, which you did for weeks, mourning the loss of so much more than a dear friend and mentor. 

“No one has ever shown me greater kindness than Theodred.” You held a hand over your heart as a different ache rose in you. “He believed in me at a time when no one else would, not even you." 

Eomer had fallen silent, but you saw his cloaked shoulders rise and fall, broad chest heaving in the manner so familiar to you. It was the way he looked on the battlefield, where his blood ran hottest, and he was fighting to balance out the genteel lord and savage killer that both resided within him. He was so thoroughly upset with you. 

“If I have made you feel like your cousin’s fate was in any way your fault, I am truly sorry,” you said. "But what sort of questions are these, and why are you asking them now?"

His gaze flicked back in your direction, leaden with anguish. "You should know why."

“I am telling you I do not, my lord, and I must beg you to explain why you are speaking so cryptically."

“You wish for me to explain in words something I have been trying to show you for years now?!” He gave a strangled laugh and raised his eyes and hands to the night sky. "Bema…"

“It is as though you never really see me,” he muttered, almost as though speaking to himself. “Here I am, standing right in front of you, and you do not see me!"

But you did hear his mumbled complaints, and suddenly it was all too much. Your sickening weariness, your aches both physical and emotional, your befuddlement caused by the six drinks and this man's unhinged raging as he launched yet another ludicrous accusation at you.

"Not see you?" you repeated, and something about just saying it rammed open the gate behind which you had caged up every real thing you ever wanted to say to Eomer, Son of Eomund. 

"If such a thing were possible, I would wish it upon myself immediately!" you exclaimed. "But you are all I ever see, even when I do not wish to! Even when I flee from your presence, I can never escape a face that refuses to leave my thoughts!" 

Oh Valar, no. STOP. Panicked, you bit down on your lip to imprison the words fleeing your mouth, so hard you tasted blood. But Eomer suddenly moved forward, encroaching on the space you desperately fought to maintain for your own protection, and his hazel eyes locked into yours to wrench away the last of your defenses. 

"It hurts too much, can you not understand?!" you cried, managing one step back. "To remain in the presence of the one thing you most desire but will never have, to be taunted by a dream that will never be fulfilled, to watch as it falls into the possession of another while you can do absolutely nothing!"

He spoke your name, his voice oddly hoarse, and shame finally came crashing down inside you. Your hands flew up to hide your face and suddenly he grabbed your wrists, tugging your arms away only to replace your hands with his own, warming your cheeks with his calloused palms. 

“Then see me now,” he ordered. “And know I have always understood how that feels. What great fools we have both been all along to deny ourselves our true desires.”

“Eomer, what--” The stroke of his thumb over the corner of your mouth drove the rest of the words away, and the parting of your lips and flutter of your eyes gave him the approval he sought. 

His kiss tasted more glorious than they did in a thousand daydreams combined. It did not surprise you that he was completely unlike the other men you had kissed before. Whereas lesser men were greedy and sloppy in their hunger, the caress of Eomer’s mouth was deep and languid, almost worshipful in its exploration of your lips, as though he aimed to savor every small sensation and intended to carry on doing this with you forever. 

His one arm looped around your waist to hold you covetously against him; his broad left hand traveled from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, his long fingers burying themselves into your hair, tips grazing your scalp. It fired up a new heat in you that you had never felt before, not with such raw intensity, and a tremulous whimper escaped your throat. 

But the sound of your own pleasure was your undoing, for it triggered an alarm in your head, one that caused you to break away from Eomer’s passion. You mumbled against his lips the words you had conditioned yourself for years to think around him. 

“My lord, I cannot…”

He paused, his eyes still dazed and unfocused, caught in a state of bliss--one that you caused, you realized with a shiver. “You cannot… what?” he said thickly. Without waiting for an answer, he dipped back in eagerly to trail his mouth up your jawline, his tongue skimming the tender pulse underneath your ear. 

You gave a small cry and pushed against his chest with more force, immediately waking his attention. His arm around your waist remained stubbornly secure however, and it took you physically prying the powerful limb off for you to slip free. Either due to shock or lingering delirium, Eomer did not resist. 

“I cannot…” Your voice broke even as you clung to your resolve. “I cannot have you.”

His heavy brows furrowed. “What?” Within seconds the confusion lifted to uncover his dismay, layered with anger. “You would speak lies and nonsense again, after everything I told you?”

“It is the truth, Eomer!” You started backing away already, stepping faster and faster as he began to move and reach out for you. “You can never be anything more than a dream to someone like me. I cannot have what is already taken.”

“Taken? What--wait! No!” He started to run, but you had already turned heel and were sprinting full-speed towards the Citadel Gate. You had always been faster on your feet; there was no hope of him catching up if you refused to heed his orders. “Stop!”

His shouts of your name faded quickly, drowned out by the noise of the milling crowd you plunged into and the thunder of your own frantic heartbeat. You slowed to a walk but kept a quick pace, weaving haphazardly through the throng and on and on until you’d descended at least two levels. Only then did you duck into a side street and survey your surroundings.

Your escape succeeded. Neither Eomer nor any Rohirrim were anywhere to be found, at least for the moment.

You collapsed upon the nearest doorstep, exhaustion and aches finally overcoming you. As the chaotic whirlwind within you settled, so too did the reality of what just occurred sink in. 

Eomer desired you, perhaps even loved you as you did him. But the King of Rohan’s love was not for you, a common soldier, to take. You had known that all along, and he did too. It was unkind of him to give you such false hope. 

Raising your fingers to your swollen lips, you felt the ghost of his perfect kisses on them, and finally burst into tears over yet another memory that will grieve you until your trampled heart could bear no more.

To be continued...

A/N: Part 2, written in Eomer's POV, is in progress, but will not be posted until this hits a decent amount of notes. XD

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Your eyes dropped back to the letter, letting yourself drink in the familiar, messy cursive across the page. Faramir had not written any more letters since the previous week. You sighed and folded the letter back into its envelope.

That evening, one of the last warm nights before the chill of autumn set in, seemed like a lifetime ago. Faramir, inviting you to one of the court balls, his strong arms around you while you danced, his shy smiles and soft eyes. Faramir, leading you away from the crowd, pausing in some moonlit courtyard, speaking such tender words your heart ached. 

Faramir, swallowing your rejection, avoiding your eyes, retreating back into the night. 

You shook your head and blinked back the tears in your eyes. It was for the best. Even if the hollow ache in your chest would never lessen, even if you would never read another one of his letters. 

Faramir had always been too optimistic, too gentle and kind. How could he not realise what would happen if he were to be with you? You were nothing more than one of the city’s librarians, scarcely more refined than the merchants at the markets. What did you know about court, or etiquette, or politics? Did he not realise that you did not belong in his world? That he would eventually grow tired of the hushed words and gossip. That he would lose patience for your social missteps or grow bored by your lacklustre education. 

Your parents had done their best, apprenticing you out to the library in hopes that it would better you. And while unfettered access to all sorts of books and atlases certainly did, it was nothing compared to what the nobles received with their private tutors and infinite time. You rubbed your forehead. There were only so many books you could read between manning the desk and reshelving the stray books.

“Daydreaming again, girl?” Cirion appeared from behind a shelf, a grey eyebrow arched.

“No, sir,” you said and tucked the letter into your pocket.

He came up to the desk and leaned against it. His keen brown eyes narrowed under his bushy brows. “I know that look in your eyes. I have known you for years now, child. What is it that troubles you?”

“It is nothing.”

“Was it that ball Lord Faramir invited you to?” You looked away and busied your hands with straightening out the paper on the desk. “Were they cruel to you, girl? Up there in the Citadel. They didn’t say anythin’ about your dress? It was a mighty fine one, even if a bit old.”

“No one was cruel,” you muttered. There had been some murmurs, some subtle glances, but nothing more. Even Queen Arwen was pleasant and friendly towards you, asking questions about the library, delighting in your little stories of mishaps and misadventures. If anything, you had been the cruel one. Faramir’s glassy eyes, downcast and forlorn, flashed into your mind. “I do not wish to speak about it, sir.”

“Alright, child. But you have done enough for the day.” He gestured towards the shelves. “Take one, and go read in that little tower you love.”

You nodded and he took your place behind the counter. You walked between the shelves and paused at the section where Faramir had stood and spoke with you, recommending titles and discussing Gondorian legends. Your heart twisted, seeing the ghost of him there, leaning against the shelf, handsome in his steward’s uniform, open book in his large hands. You pulled down one of the books he had recommended and clutched it to your chest. 

Even if you could not have him, you could still have this. An invisible connection weaved between words and stories, knowing you were reading the words he had read too. 

You ducked through the rain, rushing from awning to eaves, until you made it to the tower. It was an old guard’s post, and was used for nothing more than storage. The worn stairs were still functional and you climbed up them, emerging onto the roofed area at the top. 

Your heart stuttered at the figure with his back to you. Broad shoulders, light brown hair. Faramir. What was he doing here?

He turned at the sound of your feet on the stone and his lips tightened at the sight of you. His grey eyes shifted from uncertainty to unease, and finally settled on something mournful. Your chest tightened. 

“My lady,” he greeted.

“My lord.”

You blinked, drinking in the sight of him. His strong arms, clasped in front of him, his pale pink lips, his changeable grey eyes. You did not think you would see him again, would not get another chance to admire his form or hear his low voice. 

Faramir cleared his throat and took a step towards you. “You come here to read?”

You nodded. “It’s quiet, peaceful.”

“I did not mean to intrude. I was looking into the items stored here.” He gestured down towards the storeroom. “I will not disturb your peace any longer. Please excuse me.”

He strode towards the stairs  and you took a step to the side, swallowing as he passed you. You caught a whiff of his scent, soap and leather, and the faintest hint of lemon from the perfume oil you knew he favoured. You sucked in a greedy breath, willing your heart not to break as his footsteps grew fainter. 

How did you come to this position? Squeezing your eyes so tears would not leak from them, clenching the fabric of your dress as the chasm in your chest widened? 

You thought back to the day he walked into the library and asked for your help with locating some books. He had come back again and again, lingering between the shelves with you, pausing by the desk to chat, filling the room with his quiet chuckles. 

He had started the correspondence, sending a letter to the library, asking for your opinion on one of the legends he knew you had read about. From then it had been endless, the discussions on stories morphing into discussions of life. How intelligent he was, insightful in a way that was almost unsettling, but warm. You could almost hear his voice echoing off the page, the gentleness of his tone coming through the penned words. 

You felt for the letter in your pocket, running your finger over the sharp edge of the envelope. 

It was better this way. 

--

Faramir traced your words with his fingers, careful not to smudge the ink. The fire crackled in his office and the rain pattered on the roof. The heady scent of dirt and damp wafted through his window. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. How was it possible that the very thing that used to lift his heart, rent it in two now?

He was so sure, had been so sure, that you felt the same. Did he imagine the fond look in your eyes? Or the way your fingers would always graze his when you handed books to him, how you would smile at him then look away, your cheeks flushing. 

He had been lost to you the moment he had stepped into the library. There you had stood, eyes bright in the dim of the alcove, smile playing about your lips. Your dress had been made out of plain fabric, the cut simple and pragmatic, but you had filled it with your lovely figure and had worn it with a quiet pride. And when you had turned your gaze to him…

He groaned and swallowed the lump in his throat. 

He thought of your laugh, loud and full, so different from the reserved titter of the court. How you would offer your theories and ideas on the legends, fresh and novel compared to what the noble scholars thought. How you did not shy away from contradicting him or teasing him in your letters. 

You were like a yellow dandelion growing in between the cracks in the cold white stone.

Perhaps he was forever destined to admire from afar, never to touch, never to hold. But even that was a torture. When you had stumbled upon you earlier in the day, it was as though lungs would not work and his throat would not loosen. How beautiful you looked, damp strands of hair framing your face, book clutched in your hands. 

Where had he gone wrong? What could he have done better?

He shook his head. It would do him little good to think like the lovers who thought they could convince another to love them by their actions. The heart had no control over what it longed for. It was no fault of yours, or his, that you did not feel the same. It was simply something that was. And that was both a relief and a source of pain, knowing there was nothing he could do about it. 

The most he could do was to leave you alone, to not give you the impression he was hounding your steps. Even if it meant he had to send page boys to the library to fetch books for him, even if it meant avoiding the markets in the evenings where he knew you bought honey cakes or fruit. 

Would you go on to love another? Would another man take you in his arms and press kisses to your lips? The thought made his stomach churn. 

Someone knocked on his door and he hid your letter in a drawer before calling for them to enter. 

Arwen swept into the room, her dress flowing with the movement, with a small smile on her face. Faramir stood, glancing at the papers scattered across his desk and the stack of books in the chair opposite his. “Queen Arwen, forgive the mess, I was not aware you were coming.”

She laughed and shook her head. “There is no need for that, Faramir. This is not an official call.”

A smile tugged at his lips and he gestured for her to sit on the chairs near the fire. “To what do I owe this pleasure, my lady?”

“I am curious about the lady you brought to the ball the other evening.” Her gaze was soft, but with an edge of something that made him shift in his seat. “She was delightful company, and her knowledge of books and libraries extensive.”

“Indeed.” He cleared his throat. “She is the best in the city.”

“I am glad to hear that you hold her in such high regard. I am concerned about our library here in the Citadel.” He nodded for her to continue. “Our librarian had to leave us temporarily. Some affairs he needed to attend to.”

Faramir frowned at that. If the librarian had to leave, he would have told Faramir, written a letter at the very least. “Is he alright?”

“We have given him all that he needs. However, the library now sits vacant. Would you be able to send a letter to the lady and ask if she would like to fill his place?”

He blinked at her. How could he explain what had happened to her? And would it not be unprofessional of him to disregard Arwen’s request simply because your presence around the Citadel would cause him more suffering? 

“I… We are not on as good terms as we were before. Perhaps it would be better if another wrote to her.”

“I understand,” she muttered, and Faramir felt that she did. “Will her presence here bother you?”

“I would not allow my personal grievances to stand in the way of what is needed. I am more concerned that my presence would trouble her.”

“Why do you say that, Faramir?”

He sighed and glanced into the fire, deflating in his chair. He had not intended on spilling his heart to her, but he could feel his resistance fraying. Was this one of the magic of the elves? “She does not feel the same. I do not want her to feel as though I am entrapping her in some way.”

Her voice grew low and soothing. “Do not give up hope, Faramir. I have seen the way she looked at you, how she smiled while you danced with her. Perhaps there is something else that is causing her reticence.”

“Something else, or someone else?”

Arwen smiled at him like one would at a troubled child, filled with amusement and sympathy, with gentleness and wisdom. “Her eyes would not leave you for the whole evening. I do not doubt that she feels for you, and you alone.”

His heart swooped in his chest. Was there some truth in what Arwen said? You had been so firm in your rejection, and he had been so miserable in the face of it, that he did not think to ask why. Perhaps Arwen was right. 

He held onto that sliver of hope, let it soothe the ache in his heart. 

“Be that as it may, I do not believe she will take well to a letter sent by me.”

“I will send one instead.”

“Forgive me, my lady, but I do not think she will take well to that either.”

Arwen laughed, bright like a bell. “We shall see, Faramir, we shall see.”

--

You gaped at the high stone ceilings, following the arches down to their polished columns. Bookshelves, sturdier than those in the city library, lined the room in neat rows. The air was perfumed by some faint sweet scent and it mingled with the familiar musky smell of books and paper. A fire had already been lit, and it burned merrily in his hearth. 

“Will you be able to handle this, my lady?” Arwen said, a smile on her face. 

“Yes, I… Of course, I will do my best, Your Highness.”

“Please.” She giggled, a sound you did not expect to hear from the queen. “There is no need for such formalities while we are alone. ‘My lady’ will do.”

“Yes, my… my lady.” 

She stepped further into the room and you took her in. She was beautiful, radiant in her luxurious silks, glowing in the morning light of the room. How could you compare to someone like her? To anyone at court? You glanced down at your simple cotton dress. It had been the best day dress you could find in your wardrobe, and even then it felt plain in the face of marble statues and endless halls. 

She glanced over her shoulder at you and pierced you with her blue eyes. “You know there were some here who objected to me.”

You gaped at her. Who would object to someone like Arwen? 

“I am an elf, foreign in this land of men. Our customs are different, our ways unimaginable.” She smiled to herself. “Aragorn was upset, but such things do not bother me.”

“Why?” You whispered, stepping further into the library. 

“People only speak unfounded ills of others if they feel threatened.”

Her words washed over you and you stared at her. Why did it feel as though she understood what was in your heart? As though she saw straight through you with those shifting blue eyes? 

“Aragorn once believed he was unworthy of my love.” She turned to face you, gaze never wavering. “That was not his choice to make.”

You swallowed, fighting the urge to fist your dress with your sweaty palms. Her eyes drifted away and her smile brightened. “I will leave you to your work.”

Arwen swept out of the room and left you with her words. What did she mean by that? Was she aware of what had transpired between you and Faramir? 

You collapsed onto the cushioned chair behind the desk. Had you been unfair to Faramir by denying him your reasons? By not giving him a choice? But he had not even asked, had so quickly vanished from the courtyard. Perhaps his love for you was not as strong as you thought it was. And yet his words…

You sighed and rifled through the neat stack of papers on the desk. Everything was in order, strangely enough. From Arwen’s letter it sounded as though the previous librarian had to leave on urgent business. You ran your eyes down the filled ledgers and logs, and glanced at the empty tray of books to be reshelved. If you had to leave the library in a hurry, things would not be nearly as organised as they were here. 

You brought out Faramir's letter from your pocket, your fingers ghosting your name on the envelope. What should you say when you see him? How should you act? 

The door burst open and Faramir strode into the room. You shot up from the chair. He walked up to the desk, but his jaw worked once he came to a stop in front of you. His cheeks were flushed and his breaths short. Did he run to the library? 

“My lord—”

“My lady—”

He chuckled and gestured for you to continue. What were you going to say? Your eyes lingered on his lips, and the distance between the both of you felt insurmountable. Was it possible that you could have him? Did he still want you? Your pulse quickened and you swallowed. 

“How… can I help you, my lord? Is there something in particular that you’re looking for?”

“You.”

You blinked at him, jaw slack. 

“Please, allow me to speak. I assure you I am not here to repeat what I had said that evening.” Your stomach dropped. Had his feelings changed? You gave him a hesitant nod and he continued. “You do not have to answer if you wish, but I must ask why you had… rejected me. I will not hold what you say against you.”

You glanced down at your hands, noticing the letter you failed to hide sitting on the desk. Faramir’s hands rested in front of yours, no more than a palm span away. If only you could take his hand, could lace your fingers through his. 

“You kept my letter,” he muttered. “You carry it with you. I… I do not understand.”

Your hands curled into fists and the corners of your eyes burned. Even if Arwen’s words had not persuaded you, the broken tone in Faramir’s voice was enough to force the words from your lips. “We cannot be together, Faramir. Did you not notice the looks people gave us that evening? Did you not hear the words that circulated after?”

“I saw them, and I heard them. But I do not care about them.”

Your head snapped up, eyes meeting his. Your voice came out desperate and strangled. “Faramir, I am poor and I am lowly and I have nothing to offer you.”

“I would not say you have nothing.”

“Faramir, I am not—”

“Do you love me?”

“…What?”

His eyes bore into yours, begging, pleading. “Do you love me?”

What could you say to that, except the truth? 

“Yes,” you whispered.

He rounded the desk and took your cheek in his hand. You breathed in his scent, the lemon mingling with the musk. His eyes were glassy and a relieved smile broke out across his face. A tear leaked from your eye and he brushed it away with his thumb. He leaned down, pressing a light kiss to where your tear had dripped. Your eyes fluttered shut, relishing the softness of his lips. They were hot, searing against your cool skin. 

“Faramir,” you whispered, fingers curling into the front of his robes. 

He drew back and beamed at you. “I cannot believe I nearly let you go so easily. I was ready to leave it be, to nurse my broken heart in silence.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Queen Arwen. She spoke to me the other evening, when she came to me about the news of our librarian.” He let out a long breath. “I hope he is alright.”

A laugh bubbled up in you. “I think he is more than alright. I suspect his leave was due to Queen Arwen herself.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Do you not think it is suspicious? His sudden departure following our… troubles? And the library is far too organised for it to have been left in a rush.”

His smile widened. “Did she speak to you as well?”

You nodded. “She reminded me that the choice of whether I was worthy of your love was yours and not mine.”

His brows drew together and his eyes darkened. “What could make you think you were unworthy of my love?”

“The court, my low birth, the gaps in my education.” 

“Did you think I would care about such things?”

“I don’t know. I did not want to find out. I did not wish to have your love and lose it when you realised how different we are.”

He gave you a lopsided smile. “Are we different? Truly? I reread your letters, every sentence, every phrase. There is no other who knows me like you, who understands the way you do.”

You thought of the small stack of letters you kept in your bedside table at home. “I reread your letters as well. I felt it was the only way I could feel your love for me after that evening.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead and another to your cheek. “There is no need for that now. I am here, and I can give you as much as you desire.”

“How will we face everyone? How do we go from here?” You thought of Cirion, his wrinkled eyes, his easygoing smile. “Would I have to stop working at the library?”

He shook his head. “I will not deprive you of the work I know you love. As for the rest, we will figure it out.”

He reached up and clasped your hand in both of his, laying it to rest over his heart. You leaned into his warmth, nudging his jaw with your nose. Perhaps it would be alright in the end, alright if you faced it with Faramir. Everything paled when compared to his love. You could learn which forks to use, could ignore the stares and whispers, could study more subjects. 

But you could not be without him, not ever, not again. 

He turned his cheek and captured your lips in a kiss. He pulled back and smiled. “Will you say it one more time? Please, just one more time.”

“I love you,” you whispered. “I love you.”

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