for drinkupmehearties

[shieldofrohan]

It has been most of a month now since Jack came to Gondor's shores, a good two weeks since Faramir returned to Ithilien. Éowyn has meant, every day, to tell him the truth; every day, she has shied away from it. It isn't out of fear for her own sake, or Jack's, but when she comes to speak to Faramir, sees the familiar lines of his face and the gentle look in his eyes, she can't bring herself to hurt him that way. She keeps telling herself the time will come, must come, that she isn't avoiding it but only waiting. Deep down, though, she knows full well there's never going to be a right time, that she'll never tell him if things go on this way, and perhaps Jack was right, perhaps that's for the best. She's kept away from Jack for the most part, giving his care over to one of the serving-men of the household, and she's certainly never repeated the mistake of that first morning back in Ithilien. Faramir knows something is wrong, she can tell that much, but perhaps if she just lets it lie, tries to get back to normal...

It would be easier if everything else went back to normal around her. But it doesn't. It takes her a few days to be sure, to count off the days and know she isn't just being paranoid, that she really ought to have bled by now. She keeps hoping for a day or so after that, but when she comes back from her afternoon ride, strips down to change into a dress, and finds her underthings still clean, hope shrivels to despair.

Faramir is out, luckily. Éowyn dresses as quickly as she can, and tries to steady herself, to wipe away the tears that haven't quite spilled over, before taking a deep breath and heading out into the hallway. Jack's guard is outside his room, and looks at her with clear concern, but when she dismisses him, he goes without argument.

She locks the door behind her, not lingering in the doorway this time but crossing right over to Jack and grabbing his arm. The tears are threatening again, and there's a light in her eyes that isn't remotely one of happiness. "Jack. Listen to me."

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[drinkupmehearties]

Jack had anticipated a knock at some point, weeks ago, when word had spread that Faramir had returned. He'd assumed that it'd only be a matter of time until he was led out, then, to face Faramir and whatever consequences that might come his way.

But the days had continued to go by without incident, and Eowyn had all but vanished again with no word. Left to entertain himself in the interim, Jack filled the time as best he could -- whether by poring over his ragged map again and again, studying each inch and script on it, or by enjoying the occasional respite given to him in the form of supervised trips outside. He trusted Eowyn's judgment of both Faramir and the King, and with hope in that had also begun to mentally map out his next steps once the Pearl was back in his possession.

While there wasn't much to be said about the company he was given, Jack knew it could've been worse. He'd been left to languish in much, much worse prisons before, for much longer than this. He figured a comfortable room with treks out for fresh air wasn't bad at all, really, in the grand scheme of things.

When the door opens this time, Jack doesn't initially pay much attention -- he's instead busy practicing tying a mooring hitch knot out of a piece of cloth that he'd found. It's only when the door closes, then locks, that his head jerks up. He doesn't have much time to realize it's Eowyn before she's grasped his arm, and it only takes a glance to see the troubled look in her eyes. His brow creases, worry lining his expression. Something was wrong.

"What's amiss?"

switching accounts seemed appropriate here

[nearamir]

Perhaps two hours have passed since Éowyn left, when the key clicks in the lock and the door opens. It isn't Éowyn in the doorway, though, but Faramir. He's still dressed in the clothes he rode out in, forest-green and well-worn, his hair still braided back for riding. His swordbelt is buckled to his side, but the sheath is empty, as are his hands. His face is always grave, but now it is positively stony, his lips pressed together, something fell and distant in his eyes.

With a brisk wave of his hand, he wordlessly signals the guard beside him, who steps back into the hallway and closes the door behind him, leaving the two men alone. It's a moment before Faramir speaks, but it's not a silence that invites interruption.

"I will not ask if what she says is true," he says at last, his voice soft and more sad than angry. No need for preamble: from what Éowyn told him, he's sure Jack knows exactly what he means. "Only this - and answer me truly, for I am sick to the bone of falsity. Did you come with this in mind?"

[nearamir]

Eowyn and Faramir slip away an hour or so later; slip out from under the covers, dress quickly, and head out into the hallway, hands joined, like furtive lovers afraid of being caught. The door locks behind them, silence ebbing back to fill the darkened room.

Morning comes, bright and clear, light sharp as a knife. When Jack wakes, he'll find himself alone, but there is a cup and a tray of food covered with a cloth on the table nearby, and a fire in the grate, so someone has clearly been there. He'll be left to his own devices for several hours: only in mid-afternoon does the door open.

Faramir steps inside, papers under one arm, a slight redness to his cheeks, and clears his throat. "I trust I am not interrupting aught?"