scrap of Éowyn/Faramir wedding fic
Jun. 4th, 2019 09:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anghraineApparently I wrote this in 2013?
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Éowyn married twice.
The first ceremony was in Edoras, of course, loud and merry. Her kin and some of Faramir’s, and their friends, and the marshals and great captains, and lords and ladies of the Mark who could not be neglected whether she liked them or not, filled Meduseld nigh to bursting. The tables creaked under all the food and drink, for Éomer stinted nothing. Even the eldest of the eldest had never seen a more splendid feast.
Éomer and Éowyn had already said their farewells and wept together, the evening before, so there was nothing to taint the wedding feast. Their laughter that day was warm and unforced, and Éomer smiled even when he took Éowyn’s hand in his, the great hall falling silent as they rose to their full height. In the tongue of their fathers he said,
“Éowyn my sister, Lady of the Riddermark, is it your will that Faramir son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, should be your husband?”
“It is,” said Éowyn, smiling at Faramir, and he lifted his eyes to her with a look of bright happiness, “and I will swear that it is so before Béma and the gods.”
Prince Imrahil and Faramir stood, the former accompanying his sister-son in place of the Lord Denethor. Éomer then turned to Faramir. Now he asked for his oath, neither in the language of the Eorlingas nor the Common Speech all in that hall spoke, but in carefully-practiced Elvish. He and Éowyn had decided on that months ago, for Faramir preferred that language, and it seemed proper that both should swear in the words most natural to them.
“Ha aníron,” Faramir said firmly. “Gweston nan-Velain.”
Legolas and the Elves with him nodded approvingly, as Éomer set Éowyn’s hand in Faramir’s. Elphir of Dol Amroth sprang up clapping, immediately followed by everyone else in the hall, shouting, stamping, cheering. The roar of their voices and applause filled Meduseld, her ears ringing with it—Faramir smiled into her eyes—and Éowyn’s heart had never been lighter than when she took the two small steps that brought her beside him and Imrahil.
Then began the singing and dancing, after the fashion of both their countries. The lutists plucked merry tunes on their tunes and Éowyn swung, whirling, from Faramir to Éomer to Legolas to Imrahil to a supremely dignified Gimli, and back again. Then Faramir’s cousin Aerin, sister-daughter of his father, strung her harp and sang in the other tongue of Gondor and the Elves, the one that even Éowyn’s grandmother had scarcely ever used, and was soon joined by Erchirion and Lothíriel, and then by the Elvish folk. The others all danced to that too, more slowly, for which Éowyn was grateful; she was growing tired, and the wedding garland over her head kept falling askew.
Afterwards, as the sun began to dim, there were the tales to exchange, the skalds and loremasters each doing their best to surpass one another. Nobody spoke of defeats that evening, but only of great victories and greater joys: the love of Beren and Lúthien, and the fall of Ancalagon at the hands of Eärendil, and at greatest length, the ride of Eorl the Young.
-
Éowyn married twice.
The first ceremony was in Edoras, of course, loud and merry. Her kin and some of Faramir’s, and their friends, and the marshals and great captains, and lords and ladies of the Mark who could not be neglected whether she liked them or not, filled Meduseld nigh to bursting. The tables creaked under all the food and drink, for Éomer stinted nothing. Even the eldest of the eldest had never seen a more splendid feast.
Éomer and Éowyn had already said their farewells and wept together, the evening before, so there was nothing to taint the wedding feast. Their laughter that day was warm and unforced, and Éomer smiled even when he took Éowyn’s hand in his, the great hall falling silent as they rose to their full height. In the tongue of their fathers he said,
“Éowyn my sister, Lady of the Riddermark, is it your will that Faramir son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, should be your husband?”
“It is,” said Éowyn, smiling at Faramir, and he lifted his eyes to her with a look of bright happiness, “and I will swear that it is so before Béma and the gods.”
Prince Imrahil and Faramir stood, the former accompanying his sister-son in place of the Lord Denethor. Éomer then turned to Faramir. Now he asked for his oath, neither in the language of the Eorlingas nor the Common Speech all in that hall spoke, but in carefully-practiced Elvish. He and Éowyn had decided on that months ago, for Faramir preferred that language, and it seemed proper that both should swear in the words most natural to them.
“Ha aníron,” Faramir said firmly. “Gweston nan-Velain.”
Legolas and the Elves with him nodded approvingly, as Éomer set Éowyn’s hand in Faramir’s. Elphir of Dol Amroth sprang up clapping, immediately followed by everyone else in the hall, shouting, stamping, cheering. The roar of their voices and applause filled Meduseld, her ears ringing with it—Faramir smiled into her eyes—and Éowyn’s heart had never been lighter than when she took the two small steps that brought her beside him and Imrahil.
Then began the singing and dancing, after the fashion of both their countries. The lutists plucked merry tunes on their tunes and Éowyn swung, whirling, from Faramir to Éomer to Legolas to Imrahil to a supremely dignified Gimli, and back again. Then Faramir’s cousin Aerin, sister-daughter of his father, strung her harp and sang in the other tongue of Gondor and the Elves, the one that even Éowyn’s grandmother had scarcely ever used, and was soon joined by Erchirion and Lothíriel, and then by the Elvish folk. The others all danced to that too, more slowly, for which Éowyn was grateful; she was growing tired, and the wedding garland over her head kept falling askew.
Afterwards, as the sun began to dim, there were the tales to exchange, the skalds and loremasters each doing their best to surpass one another. Nobody spoke of defeats that evening, but only of great victories and greater joys: the love of Beren and Lúthien, and the fall of Ancalagon at the hands of Eärendil, and at greatest length, the ride of Eorl the Young.
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on 2019-06-05 06:03 am (UTC)no subject
on 2019-06-05 06:11 pm (UTC)