So here is a very short vignette, 447 words. Mostly a written tone poem, I suppose. Super G rating.
She is young, so young. Galloping across the plains, tumbling among the grasses, adrift, intoxicated in a sea of simbelmynë. Her face is bathed in sunlight.
Éowyn grasps at the shreds of the dream, but on vaporous legs, they vanish. Her face still feels warm. Has someone pulled open the curtains and she slept through it?
Less of that Dwarvish liqueur for you, young lady, she chastises herself, but with no accompanying headache, the admonition carries little bite. She still smells simbelmynë, but they're in residence at Gondor…
"Is she awake?" she hears, boyish glee carrying the words from the doorway.
"Only one way to be certain," Faramir answers, instilling awe in his tone.
Éowyn decides to play along, but turns to her side so she can see her subjects approach.
"Mama?" the dearest voice says, and then Elboron is crouching bedside, fragrant items atop a tray in his small hands. "Are you awake?"
"That, or this is a splendid dream indeed."
A bird, far up in the air, lazily drifting in the cerulean sky.
Éowyn shakes her head, sorts out her reality, where she is, how best to love these two men in her life. Her man. Her boy.
"Please, come up here. What have you done? Is this…"
Faramir's smile could light up the darkest night. Her heart aches with the love she has for him at this moment.
"Yes. Plait bread made with millet from Rohan."
"And special herbed goat's cheese," Elboron says, proudly presenting his baked offering.
"And the flowers."
Éowyn takes the tray and places it beside her, inviting husband and child into her arms, nuzzling first one dark head and then the other.
"I have not yet done enough to deserve this much happiness," she murmurs into her beloved's ear.
"You have done perfectly enough," Faramir replies, turning his head so he can kiss her, so gently.
"It is the commemoration of the Celebrant Bequeathal," Faramir continues, his grey eyes a haven for her to become lost in. "You knew I would not forget. I want Elboron to celebrate his lineages equally."
"I want to eat the bread," Elboron declares, and so it is done.
A long time later, bathed in moonlight, Éowyn rests her head on Faramir's chest, listening to his heart.
"I never, in all my dreams, thought I would know such happiness, such richness as this," she breathes, wonder blooming in her heart, embracing old fears so they transmute into love.
"I am better than a dream," he says, reverence infusing unusual qualities, overtones to his voice. "I am real. And I am yours."
One breath, and two. And on and on and on.
"And I am yours."