Apples

Éowyn always loved his homecomings after long days or even weeks in the White City. She could not accompany him at every instance, having matters to attend to in Emyn Arnen, and he always tried to bring her something from these trips. Something very nice…

He was back, and not empty-handed. She gasped as he pulled a cloth off a basket of golden sweet-smelling apples. Ithilien trees were still saplings, and it would take long years before there were baskets of apples from their own orchards…

As usual, he read her thought almost before she had time to finish it.

‘My love, we shall have to please ourselves with apples from elsewhere until the garden I promised you starts to yield fruit,’ he smiled, lightly kissing her temple.

‘Besides,’ he whispered, leaning to her ear, ‘I thought their colour would suit the gold of your hair. I had red apples offered to me, but they would be simply wrong.’

She chuckled, leaning into his embrace.

‘Tell me, Faramir… how could I have resisted you for so long after we met?’

His face grew serious again as he lifted her chin gently and answered, ‘Things need time to ripen. Like apples.’