A/N: This will be a four-part story/reflection from Faramir's POV, based on the beautiful song "Wonderful Tonight" by Eric Clapton, which I was listening to last night. (It's not from my generation, but I love it anyway. ) It will detail just one ordinary night, and I hope I've made it sound suitably like Faramir. For some strange reason, I'm not expecting a lot of reviews for this-- I wrote it simply for pleasure and practice, because I'm only learning how to write well. That said, it would be nice to get some feedback, since it's the first time I've ever written something like this.

Each chapter will be based on one stanza. Enjoy the first one.

Wonderful Tonight

-

It’s late in the evening
She’s wondering what clothes to wear
She puts on her makeup
And brushes her long blonde hair
And then she asks me
“Do I look all right?”
And I say, “Yes, you look wonderful tonight.”

You Look Wonderful

We are connoisseurs of celebrations, Éowyn and I. When dark times are past and all the world is filled with light and hope, it would seem that festivities are an inevitability. And I do not regret it—as I once said to the Halfling Frodo, it is long since we had any hope, and to now have such joy that overflows in merrymaking is a cause for wonder to me.

Though we are only midway through the first year of our marriage, my lady and I have established a tradition of preparation for such festivities. We depart for separate chambers—I hastily don my garments and a surcoat, and await her on the stairs. When she finally emerges, utterly transformed by one of her ladies-in-waiting, I catch my breath, pronounce her beautiful beyond imagining, and offer my arm for her to take. And together, we sally forth to brave the court of Minas Tirith.

I do not know why I wish to depart from tradition tonight. A certain thoughtful mood has taken me, and I find myself entering her chambers after dressing. Woman-like, she has not even chosen a dress to wear—several discarded selections lie on the floor, and her maid looks aggravated enough to scold me for heightening the predicament.

My lady is characteristically self-possessed; she dismisses her distressed maid calmly, and addresses me.

“Is my green dress not suitable?”

“Like cool grass in the sunlight,” I answer, thinking of her golden hair, bright as the sun.

She smiles and nods gracefully, and I cannot help but marvel at the wonder of it all—that the Darkness has passed, gifting me with my own sun, my joy and light, my love.

She modestly disappears behind a silk screen, and I stare at my reflection in the mirror on her dresser, trying to discern the reason, the defining quality (and here I smile as I remember Master Samwise, wisest of gardeners) that makes me worthy of such happiness. For hopelessness and despair brought—on its very wings—a new-found chance, did it not? A chance nurtured in green gardens, where the sun yet shone…

Éowyn drifts in from behind the screen, floating on emerald as green as the plains of Rohan. To call her beautiful would be an insult, for she is not simply an ornament to be hung on my arm and admired. As she seats herself at her dresser, head tilted, and pulls a brush through her hair, my heart aches to convey to her the depth of emotion I am slowly rediscovering tonight.

She continues to brush her long hair, and I content myself with watching her every gesture hungrily, for to lose a second would be to lose something precious indeed. When her tresses finally hang loose and neat at her back, she stands up and asks me casually,

“Do I seem decent, Faramir?”

The realization that, so naturally, we turn to each other for evaluation, affects me surprisingly. I do not dare speak for a while, and am pondering my answer in any case. I had long ago discarded beautiful as too weak a word, for it does not encompass the lovely complexity that is my wife.

Finally, I smile warmly, lovingly. “You look wonderful tonight.”

We go to a party
And everyone turns to see
This beautiful lady
Who’s walking around with me
And then she asks me
“Do you feel all right?”
And I say, “Yes, I feel wonderful tonight.”

I Feel Wonderful

We cut an impressive figure, Éowyn and I, and I am not ashamed to say so. We are both blessed with height and noble bearing, and a certain indefinable stature that marks us as the Lord and Lady of Ithilien. Perhaps encounters with the Witch King of Angmar leave their mark; perhaps the frost that touched us both lent us strength visible to others. I am not unhandsome, and my lady is the fairest that walks this earth.

Yes, we cut an impressive figure, Éowyn and I. I have always known this, therefore I am at a loss to explain why the fact that men stare as we go by surprises me. Even after we have paid our compliments to the King and Queen—in which it is expected that eyes will be upon us—they gaze. And it troubles me for reasons I know not.

I observe them carefully, those who gaze. But why do they not see that I am watching them as closely as they watch us? And I suddenly perceive with my clear sight that men stare, and that they stare at Éowyn.

Éowyn! My lady love, my wife? A surge of indignation threatens to overcome me completely. Even as I struggle to conquer my unruly emotions, I recognize a strange feeling I have not experienced for longer than I can remember—the bite of jealousy. I am by temperament a serene man, but to realize that others are, perhaps, nearly as smitten with my lovely wife as I am—I say nearly, for none could be in awe of her as I am—is an unpleasant revelation.

She smiles at me with the corner of her mouth, and I am suddenly ashamed by my selfishness. As if she were simply a prize to be jealously guarded! No, Éowyn was never such to me. She was once—is still—like a queen (and here I smile once more, recalling my words to her on that fateful day upon the walls of Minas Tirith) to my eyes, lovely, unapproachable, as far-off as a snow-capped mountain, who would delight me if only by bestowing a kind smile upon me.

And I am a lucky man, far luckier than any who loved her, or called her beautiful, or followed her with their eyes, as men still do. For she did not only smile at me, but married me, loved me.

And as I recall that she is my sun, I suddenly understand that I must share my light with others. The world would be a gloomy place indeed if the sun shone only in one area: unbearably hot in one location, darkness covering the rest of the earth. This discovery brings me such a feeling of peace that I am astonished I do not float up into the air, towards the vaulted ceiling.

All is right with the world once more—I even deign to smile at one of those who stare at my attractive wife. He immediately blushes and looks away.

Éowyn is looking at me strangely; perhaps she senses my peculiar mood, though she cannot understand how far I have traveled in these past few minutes, and how many revelations I have made.

“Are you quite well? Perhaps we should retire early…”

How can I explain to her how peaceful I feel, and how perfectly, palpably content I am to hear the concern in her voice? I say, simply, “No—I feel wonderful tonight.”

A/N: To my way of thinking, tonight is just a night of deep reflection for Faramir, causing him to act and even think in ways he wouldn't normally. If he was a woman, I'd compare it to being hormonal, LOL. So, if you say jealousy over men staring at Éowyn isn't like Faramir at all, you might be right-- except for this night.

Thanks for reading! A review would be lovely.

Edit: "Chandelier" changed to "vaulted ceiling" since, as someone was kind enough to point out, they probably didn't have chandeliers in Middle-Earth-- at least, not at that time.

I feel wonderful
Because I see the love light in your eyes
And the wonder of it all
Is that you just don’t realize
How much I love you

The Wonder Of It All

We are graceful partners, Éowyn and I. Not through prodigious skill on the dance floor, but because we move as though we are one, as if we share the other’s thoughts and were created for the sole purpose of dancing together. We weave among other dancers, but always find a way back—we spin a beautiful web around each other, and delight in it.

As we dance, cutting a path through the other couples, we are encased in our own bubble, such as the ones children blow through reed stalks by the Anduin, but ours is far more beautiful, for it has two lovers at its heart.

Blissfully unaware of anyone else, I survey my wife. Her loose hair is flying, cloaking her in a golden waterfall, and her white arms elegantly curve as she turns. She is laughing as pleasurably as a little girl, and I treasure the sound, for I know full well that such laughter was once rare indeed, and what is once lost may be lost again… And I resolve never to allow her laughter to vanish as long as it is in my power to prevent it from doing so—and indeed, even when it is beyond my power.

It is a foolish notion, perhaps, that the Bane of the Witch King would need a mortal man to ensure her happiness, but are we not all fools in love?

Desiring to hear her speak, I quietly address her as we whirl past each other. “My lady, are you tired? We have been dancing for quite a while…”

Her cheeks are rosy. She shakes her lovely head and answers, “Faramir, how could I ever tire of dancing with my husband?”

And I find myself as completely in love with her as ever.

We continue to step with the music, and each pace that pulls me away from her causes a strange lack of enthusiasm. But with each pace that draws me nearer her, a wild joy takes me, and I dance with graceful abandon.

If we are all fools in love, then I am the greatest fool of all.

I have not given her an answer, and she is gazing at me, awaiting it. But what words can describe how much I love her, how I wish I could dance endlessly so long as I danced at her side? How can I tell her how utterly overcome I am by the tenderness shining in her eyes?

Now she is watching me uncertainly, perhaps unsure as to why my reply is so long in coming. “Faramir?” she ventures tentatively. “Are you feeling quite well?”

I am suddenly acutely aware of the dancing couples surrounding us, and sadly remember that bubbles, though beautiful, eventually vanish. An impulsive desire to kiss her, here and now, ruined bubble or no, takes me, but I know full well that it would be an impertinence. I content myself with stepping near her and taking her hand, all thought of dancing forgotten.

“I am wonderful,” I hear myself say. “I have a life and happiness with the one I love, and am slowly realizing the full enormity of it, the wonder of it all. I feel wonderful!”

I care not that several guests hear me, just as I cared not that our first kiss was in the full view of the city. Her answering radiant smile is the only thing in this great room that holds any charm for me.

I may be a fool, but I am a happy fool.

A/N: Poor Éowyn. She's really not sure what's going on with her husband tonight, and had to ask him twice whether he was feeling well. But she's glad to hear him speak to her in so free a manner, all the same.

This is possibly my favorite chapter, but I'll reserve judgment until I've written the fourth one. :)

A/N: This one's for Deandra, who never fails to leave me a lovely, thoughtful review, and has (unknowingly) cheered me up more than once. If all readers were like her, the world would be a happier place. Really. :)

It's time to go home now
And I've got an aching head
So I give her the car keys
She helps me to bed
And then I tell her
As I turn out the light
I say, "My darling, you were wonderful tonight."
"Oh, my darling, you were wonderful tonight."

You Were Wonderful

We often walk in silence, Éowyn and I. It is not through lack of topics to discuss, or unease—rather, we are comfortable in each other’s presence, trusting in the warmth of our own love that has no need for superfluous words.

Tonight should be no different—save that Éowyn is well and truly perplexed by my peculiar behavior.

“Faramir, does aught trouble you?” she asks softly, as we ascend the stone staircase towards our chambers. “A strange mood seems to have taken you this evening.”

I wish, with all my heart, to tell her of my discoveries this evening, but (and most uncharacteristically, I might add) I am lost for words. I have not the skill to put into speech my lovely revelations, and I turn instead to look at her, to read the wonderful concern in her eyes, to find the courage to explain.

Due to my inattention, I trip on the last stair and sprawl on the floor. To my deep and utter humiliation, Éowyn does not laugh, as she ordinarily would have, but crouches down at my side, alarm written on her face. I know full well that she does not fear any injury, but is anxious that I have stumbled at all, an occurrence that happens to no self-respecting Ranger of Ithilien, least of all its Captain and Prince.

“Oh, Faramir,” she says in a frightened voice, “what is it that troubles you? What—”

I put a finger to her lips. “I am merely weary, love, but nothing extraordinary has occurred, I assure you. Shall we retire and forget this evening in slumber?”

Her eyes are wary, but she nods and allows a small smile to escape her as she assists me up and we walk towards our chambers, hand in hand. Even as I silently reflect that to forget this evening would be a great loss, she laughs. “To think of you, my lord and Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, stumbling upon your own stone steps!”

I glory in her laughter, though I am its subject, for the promise I made myself while we were dancing hangs weightily upon my heart.

As we don our night-garments, I ponder on this odd evening: On the one hand full of wondrous thoughts and realizations, and on the other a night of abject mortification at my expense. And I wonder—was this night truly worth it?

My eyes flicker towards my wife, who is quietly brushing her hair in gentle mockery of the start of the evening, and I smile. Was there not only one answer to such a question?

Now she turns to face me, and there is an expression of determination on her face, one the Witch King surely beheld as she calmly threatened to slay him. She takes a deep breath, and I watch her in trepidation.

“Faramir,” her voice does not tremble, “is anything amiss? Have I acted in a way not to your liking? Am I the reason for this?”

I consider the questions carefully. There is nothing amiss; she has not nor ever acted in a way that was not to my liking; but she is indeed the reason for my strange behavior tonight. How do I explain?

My mind flashes back on the events and my thoughts of this evening, and I realize that there are many things I could tell her: That she is my sun, and that her warmth lights up a room, whether she knows it or not; that beauty is only the first of her qualities, for she is far lovelier and greater than any woman who hung as an ornament on her lord’s arm; that she is a queen who has blessed me by deigning to smile; that I wish for her laughter never to vanish; that she has rendered me, the stern and wise Steward of Gondor, a happy fool.

And then I realize that my love does not require so many statements, for we walk in silence, Éowyn and I, trusting in the warmth of our own love that has no need for unnecessary words.

I smile, and draw her near, and tenderly press a kiss to her white forehead, silently assuring her that all is well, even as I say warmly, lovingly,

“My love, you were wonderful tonight.”

A/N: Yeah, okay, I take it back. This one's my favorite chapter. I had more fun than I suspect I should have making Faramir trip on the stairs-- it's lovely to see him so helplessly in love! And rest assured that Éowyn is well-satisfied with Faramir's answer.

I'm pretty happy with how this story turned out-- and I hope you're happy with it, too. You know how you can tell me if you are, or aren't? By leaving a review. ;)

Thanks to everyone who's stuck with this fourshot, and Happy Mother's Day!