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The war of the ring has not been over long enough to avoid seeing ripples of it everywhere, for most of Minas Tirith to still bear a wound rather than a scar. But it is starting to heal. Faramir can see the king's work - her work - start to apply a balm to the city and help it be restored. Chaos is beginning to ebb away as well, and now when Faramir walks among the lower levels of her people the most 'disruptive' force is children playing and shrieking as they run around the streets. Safe enough to let their guard down as they play.
It is also safe enough for Faramir to be able to slip back from her role for a few hours of the day, to instead focus on herself as a person and not the Stewardess of Gondor.
Not that it is always easier play the part of Faramir. Especially now, although the choice is still lighter than many she has been asked about recently. A proposal of courtship. Somehow, it has been easier to deal with numbers and paperwork in the past days than to spend time thinking about it. Paperwork can be done in any place, as well. There is no easy place for Faramir to think about the offer; the gardens in the Houses and the streets of Minas Tirith are far too public for such a thing, but pacing in her room feels stifling as well. The office of the Steward has not yet been cleared for Faramir either, and she can think of little worse than entertaining romantic interest while trying to organise Denethor's things and last thoughts.
In her mind, the King's Garden had felt like a fitting compromise when her feet had needed somewhere to carry her. Now that Faramir is here, she realises the little part of irony in the statement. Yet it is free of guards, and of almost all prying eyes. For long years this place has only been the Steward's garden, had been no one's garden for a long time after Finduilas, and suddenly it gains two new owners. Faramir wonders if Aragorn and Arwen have walked in this place yet; did they enjoy the little piece of wilderness and Ithilien carved within the city of stone? Or did they find it too false?
Despite the vibrancy of the plants, Faramir doubts that this place can hold up to Imladris. But, as she lifts her skirt a little to avoid it catching on drooping ferns, she reflects that this is a garden in the kingdom of men. That it was her mother and family who tended it, alongside choice servants. The original planning going so far back that even Faramir cannot find archival records of its first construction and merely of later upkeep.
If she accepts the deal, will this be where she walks with them? It is not the first time a thought like this has come into Faramir's mind, but it is the first time she allows it to stay there. To linger. To realise that it does bring blush to her cheeks, and that when she breaths the blush is not just of shame or paranoia that someone has seen.
For a moment the walls of the garden seem to fall away to every person in Minas Tirith, and the red blooms on her face even more. On her neck and on her hands. Then, as some breeze blows, one of the few trees has its branches brush up against stone and the world restores to an enclosed space. Faramir begins to pace again, trying to focus on the walk and the repetitiveness - not the fact her cheeks feel like they are burning.
Eventually almost all of it subsides, save the offer still in Faramir's mind. And a little pinkness around her face.
Now that it has tugged her lips up as well, the fluster seems more tolerable. It is something that she can explore with less fear and instead can simply think on. The smoothness of a petal as she leans down to touch it feels instead like a hand for a moment. Of the softness of another's touch (for Faramir still has a few callouses on hers where they could not take away her bow, and simply from age). She lets the petal rest in her hand for longer than she needs, her fingers curling around to cup it gently, and some distant daydream makes itself known for a moment. If only in an imagined warmth from the flora.
"Do you have a particular favour of roses?"
Faramir starts a little, at both the sudden voice and the person it belongs too. Shuffling in her grip, she lets go of the flower and instead turns to see Lady Arwen. Faramir is already kneeling, so instead settles for dipping her head even lower, "My lady."
"There is no need for that." Arwen's voice contains a smile, and she walks closer into the garden - that she is nearer to Faramir than its entrance. "Besides, if we have to use titles I feel that yours will outrank mine."
"You are to be Aragorn's queen." Faramir says, more softly than forceful. "And you are the daughter of a lord."
Arwen's gaze finally settles firmly on Faramir, instead of being divided between her and the garden. "You are the Stewardess of Gondor. My lady."
She only inclines her head a little, but Faramir can feel her cheeks begin to tint again. Her hands to be tainted as well. It could be played off as fluster from the compliment, but she knows that Arwen is far too clever for that. She knows that Arwen is aware of why she will blush. The topic still feels odd to approach, and so Faramir tries o settle on something more friendly. What she would talk about to other ladies in passing. "What do you think of the garden? Although I know it cannot hold up to Imladris, or Lothlorien."
"I enjoy it." Arwen reaches out to touch one of the flowers, grass and ferns next to her gently pressing against her skirt, "There is an authenticity to it that is rare to find. And you should not be so quick to disparage your work in favour of the elves. Great beauty can be found in men, as well."
Arwen holds her gaze as she finishes, before it dips to the flower in her palm. Faramir can feel the tint become darker, before breathing and trying to dispel a little of it. "I am glad. It will become yours, soon."
"It will?"
"Yours and Aragorn's: this is the King's Garden."
Arwen speaks casually, "I would hope that we are allowed to invite other people here as well."
"If you wish to." The words are more of a struggle for Faramir.
Silence settles between the two of them, and Arwen begins to look at the rest of the garden. Starts walking further inside it, with Faramir quick to walk by her side and wait for more of her judgement. They make it mostly through the garden, and Arwen looks as if she is about to move closer to one of the few benches. Faramir instinctively moves forward to keep up, before Arwen stops and turns to her instead. "Would you walk with me here, if I asked you too?"
The question has to be more than that. "I would."
Arwen tilts her head slightly, and her eyes shimmer in the sunlight, "Would you want to walk with me?"
Instead of letting silence come again when Faramir's answer does not come, Arwen prompts again, "By my side?"
Faramir knows why she is asking fully. Tries to find a way to separate this question from what she was offered only a few days ago. A place with Arwen and Aragorn. A place as more than Stewardess. There is no neutral answer, but Faramir tries for one, "It would be an honour."
"You would not be the lucky one." Arwen's words are so quiet, and yet Faramir can hear them with perfect clarity.
And then, she feels them. The sensation is one of almost familiarity, except she has never felt it like this before. A gentle ask for Faramir to bare a little of her mind - a portion of her soul - as Arwen offers the same connection. At first she thinks it is foreign because it is an elf trying to do so, because Faramir has met so few people with this gift; that must be why it is so secure, as well. Then she realises it is foreign because of the emotion. The solidity that Faramir feels, the certainty of what Arwen is offering to her, is one of love. It is such a gentle and tender thing, with warmth and a quiet confidence to it. A moving thing, that dances gracefully but dances to try and put its arms around her. To hold her so much closer.
What Arwen gives her is far too much and is Faramir's everything.
She can only hold the gaze for a little longer, before her head twists away to try and avoid it - and her eyes seem strangely misty. Her cheek a little damp, as well as pink with colour that descends through her. The love still seems to be there, for once Faramir has felt it once (has opened herself to it) she can never truly shut out all forms of bond. (She does not think she could with this one, even if she could others.) The love is not only in her mind, either. Once it has been made so obvious, it can be seen in the physical world as well. In the way Arwen gently waits for Faramir to catch her gaze again, and her arm hovers to give Faramir warmth.
"I cannot walk with you."
"Why can you not?" Arwen's hand reaches out around hers, soft as rose petals yet far more warm. Faramir can feel the love through this touch as well. "What reason prevents you, save the chance you do not want too."
"It would be-" Faramir tries to hold her gaze, then falls again. Her hands burning and tensing in Arwen's hands, even if she cannot slip them out. "My lady-"
"Do you wish to push me away?" Arwen's words are not just words again, and Faramir is sure that Arwen can feel her longing even when she tries to pull it back in. Can feel how greedily it reaches.
Faramir cannot form the answer with her mouth, with words. The shake of her head is almost imperceptible as well, but she knows that Arwen must be able to feel it. The deep, all-consuming part of her that calls no and for her to come closer. For Faramir's start of propriety to slip away and be as honest as Arwen is.
For a moment Arwen lets the two of them stand there. Then she reaches in closer, gently presses her lips to Faramir's and waits for her to kiss back. The tension keeps Faramir rigid for a moment, her eyes flickering closed at the touch, before suddenly she is kissing back. Before the two of them kiss each other, and this time it is Faramir that reaches out to Arwen in the midst of it. That it is her love that rings strong and true, reaches out to the movement of Arwen's and asks to be held. Promises that it will cherish her queen just as much as Arwen could.
As the pull away from each other, Faramir can feel Arwen keep the bond open. Arwen speaks, "Will you walk with me, when I ask you?"
"Of course."
"Will you be mine?"
The question feels almost too soon, but Faramir knows that it is not. She has known what Arwen would ask, or would hint to, when she saw her arrive at the garden. Faramir knows the answer to her question as well. The word is breathed out tenderly, "Yes."