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Chapter Text

Éowyn finds Merry at the training grounds, testing his new sword. His movements are deliberate, yet graceful. Nevertheless, Éowyn  guesses that his arm still troubles him even as her sword arm still troubles her. He does not yet move with the quick precision that he possessed before they fought the Witch-King. Though Éowyn  approaches him as silently as she can, he still looks up at her well before she is standing next to him. For a second, his expression shifts from weariness to the bright joy that he seems to so often wear when looking at her.

For a moment, an echo of that joy fills Éowyn ’s own heart.

But then, Merry’s expression shifts again to a sort of guarded wariness. Still, he lowers his sword and performs a rather dramatic bow accompanied by a grin. “My lady,” he says.

“Sir Meriadoc,” Éowyn  answers, her voice strangely formal to even her own ears. “How is the new sword?”

Now that she is closer, Éowyn  can see that Merry has been practicing for some time. His linen shirt is drenched in sweat, his curls cling wetly to his neck. Éowyn  watches a rivulet of sweat roll down his neck and then his chest – the top two buttons of his shirt being undone. This is hardly scandalous. Most Rohirric men would have practiced their swordsmanship completely bare-chested in such warm weather. But Merry’s hand still flies to his neck and he buttons the top two buttons quickly and without comment.

“The new sword is wonderful, my lady, though I am hardly a fit judge of such things. We hobbits are more interested in pies and pipeweed than in swords and axes, as a rule.”

“Still,” Éowyn  says. “You have used your sword better than many a Man twice your size.”

Merry looks bemused. “If you say so, my lady. Tell me, how go the wedding preparations?” 

Éowyn  attempts to hide her surprise. This is the first time that Merry has brought up Éowyn ’s impending wedding to Faramir, though he has known about it for several weeks. “I wouldn’t know. I leave the details to heads better suited to such things as dresses and cake flavors.” 

“Well, I’d certainly be glad to help with those cake flavors, if you find yourself overburdened.”  Merry pats his stomach.

Éowyn  knows that she is supposed to laugh and make some clever rejoinder to this statement, but she cannot bring herself to do it. She suspects that Merry often hides his true feelings behind such wry little pleasantries. “How does your arm heal?” she asks instead.

Éowyn  herself heals slowly. She is out of danger of dying, but she cannot yet swing her sword – even slow, practiced movements such as Merry was doing earlier would be too much for her. At times, the entire right side of her body feels cold, so very cold. She is suddenly assaulted by a memory of Merry’s warm little mouth upon her neck, trailing kisses down to her breast. For a time, she had thought he was the only thing that could put warmth into her.

Merry shivers, as if the mere mention of his arm is enough bring back that dreadful cold. “It’s healing. Not as quickly as I’d like, but I can do this now.” 

Slowly, he lifts his sword over his head and holds it there for several seconds before lowering it. Éowyn  notices for the first time that the sword is of Rohirric make – though of course it would be with Merry being an esquire of Rohan.

Éowyn ’s own sword arm feels numb, her very fingers move only stiffly. She could not have managed to lift her own sword in such a manner. “May I see your arm?” she asks.

Merry hesitates only a moment before sheathing his sword and holding out his arm for inspection. Éowyn  kneels, heedless of the state of her gown. She takes Merry’s arm, turns it over, and runs her fingers slowly up to his elbow. He must be healing, for he feels hot to the touch. Éowyn  wonders if her fingers feel cold to him. His skin is browner than hers and wonderfully soft. Éowyn  can see the blue lines of his veins against his wrist. Merry shivers, but whether from the cold of Éowyn ’s touch or for other reasons, she cannot say.

Slowly, she bends down and presses her lips against Merry’s wrist. She lingers, fancying that she can feel the beat of his heart against her lips. She can taste his sweat and even the faint flavor of pipeweed that she has so often tasted on his mouth.

Merry is very still. “Éowyn . Is this what you’ve come for then?”

Merry’s voice is soft, but Éowyn  cannot interpret his tone. He somehow manages to sound angry, resigned, excited, and longing all at the same time. She finally withdraws and looks into his eyes. 

“Is this why you have sought me out?” Merry’s voice is now a whisper.

For a time she’d had them both – Merry and Faramir. And she never thought she would be that sort of woman – the type of woman to dangle two lovers along at the same time. She’d always been boyish and different from other ladies, but she’d always thought herself honorable as well. Besides, she’d barely given a thought to the men who sought to court her when she’d lived in Meduseled. Grima Wormtongue’s increasingly bold insinuations had made her cautious of such things.

She wants him. And she senses that will come with her if she but asks, despite having similar misgivings to her own.  But it would be wrong. It was bad enough to bed with both Merry and Faramir when she was not formally tied to either of them, but now that she is betrothed – no, it would be wrong.

She drops his arm.

 ***

Éowyn  often felt that she viewed her life from a remove. It was as if she was standing upon a hill, looking down at herself, her family, her friends. The joys and sorrows of those around her were visible, but distant – they could not touch her. Éowyn  felt that way as she readied her children to dine with the king and queen.

In all honesty, she didn’t so much help her children get ready as she watched them ready themselves. Elboran and Elithiel were only twelve years old, but they were both, to Éowyn ’s mind, unusually competent at preparing themselves for fancy dinners. When Éowyn  had been that age, she’d been muddy and windswept nearly half the time – and she’d dressed like a boy more than half the time. Eomer had been little better. He’d spent more time in the saddle than on two legs and their uncle had often claimed that he dressed like an urchin.

But Éowyn ’s children didn’t have much of wild Rohan in them. They were cultured, conscientious Gondorian children with clean fingernails and sweet voices. They were not bold, rough Rohirrim and sometimes this made Éowyn  feel cut off from them, as if she’d birthed children who were not her own.

Éowyn  caught Elithiel admiring her own reflection in the household’s one mirror in the parlor. She turned and smiled sheepishly when she realized that her mother was standing behind her. “How do I look?” she asked.

Éowyn  smiled. They’d had an argument about Elithiel’s dress – Elithiel had insisted that she needed a new dress for “an audience with the king and queen.” As if taking dinner with Aragorn and Arwen was a formal audience! Éowyn  and Faramir had often dined privately with the king and queen even before Elithiel and Elboran were born. After Faramir’s death when the children were five years old, they’d dined with the king and queen nearly every evening for a time. The dinners had become less frequent of late, but Elithiel hardly needed a new gown for the occasion.

“You look lovely,” Éowyn  said. 

Elithiel frowned at her reflection, turning this way and that. “It’s yellow. I always look so dreadful in yellow, Mother. It clashes with my hair and makes me look pale.”

Elithiel’s coloring was nearly identical to Éowyn ’s own, but Éowyn  had never once considered the possibility that yellow was an unflattering color on herself.

“It’s more gold than yellow,” Éowyn  said. “And it’s a very nice dress.” 

Privately, though, Éowyn  began to question her refusal to purchase Elithiel a new dress. There was something that wasn’t exactly becoming about it. It had been perfectly lovely when Elithiel had gone in for her fitting three months ago. Éowyn  had even had the sleeves made a bit long, knowing that Elithiel was shooting up in height quickly. But now, the dress didn’t quite suit – Éowyn  realized, with a start, that it was because the dress was cut for a little girl, but Elithiel was beginning to develop a woman’s figure.

Éowyn  was pondering the possibility of instructing her daughter to don her second-best gown, when Elboron came bouncing down the stairway and into the parlor. In coloring and appearance, Elboron was much like his sister, but he hadn’t developed her early maturity. Elithiel and Elboron were twins, but over the last year and a half, Elithiel had shot up until she stood nearly a head taller than her brother.    

“Yes, yes, you look beautiful, I’m sure,” he said, with a grin at his sister. “But we should hurry or we’ll be late and that would be much ruder than Elithiel scaring the princesses with an ugly gown.” 

Elithiel punched her brother playfully on the shoulder. Éowyn  looked over her son, but could no problems with his dress or appearance. He wore a handsome grey tunic that fit him well – unlike Elithiel, Elboron wasn’t yet constantly outgrowing his clothing. His hair had been carefully combed and coiffed to an extent that would have been considered feminine in Rohan, though it was currently the standard among noblemen in Minas Tirith. Both of Éowyn ’s children looked a good deal like Faramir, but in Elboron the resemblance was so close that it sometimes hurt Éowyn  to look at him.

“You’re right,” Éowyn  said. “We will be late if we don’t hurry.”

Elithiel was still frowning at her reflection, pulling at her sleeves as if wishing that they were longer. “I still hate this yellow dress.” 

Éowyn  sighed. “It’s too late to change it now. Pella doesn’t have time to press a different dress for you. But perhaps we can look into getting you a new one tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Mother!”

It wasn’t a long walk from the Steward’s Quarters to the Citadel proper where they were to sup with the King and Queen. The Steward of Gondor had ever maintained his own Quarters – attached to the Citadel and yet set off from it by a long, narrow courtyard. When Éowyn  had first come to Minas Tirith, she had found the tall buildings stone buildings unwelcoming – Rohirric structures tended to be low and long – but she had eventually gotten used to the Citadel, particularly after restorations ordered by the King in the second year of his reign widened many of the windows and gave the place a lighter, airier feel than it had possessed in Denethor’s day.

Éowyn  breathed a sigh of relief when she was informed by an attendant that she and her children were the only guests of the King and Queen this evening. She had suspected as much – it wasn’t so unusual for Aragorn and Arwen to invite Éowyn  and her children to a private dinner, but Éowyn  hadn’t been sure and she hadn’t particularly felt like handling foreign dignitaries or fawning nobles this night. She’d spent the better part of the day volunteering her services in the Houses of Healing and felt far too tired for such nonsense.

Dinner was set in the King’s private dining room rather than in one of the larger dining halls. It was a strangely cozy room – at least, cozy by Gondorian standards. It was not too large and the ceilings were not as high as much of the Citadel. Thick rugs lined the floor and Éowyn  wished, not for the first time, that she could walk on them barefoot, for they looked wonderfully soft. A fire roared in the fireplace, making the room pleasantly, sleepily warm.

 The King and Queen had two daughters, both of whom were seated at the table. Haleth would be ten years old by now – nearly of an age with Éowyn ’s own children – but because of her elven blood, she appeared younger, perhaps no more than seven summers. Meren was five and looked closer to her actual age – she also looked so much like Aragorn that Éowyn  found it comical at times.

Elboran and Elithiel managed to bow and curtsy nearly perfectly, though the effect was rather ruined by Meren sticking her tongue out at Elboran. Elboran paused only momentarily before returning the expression.

“Elboran,” Éowyn  said in half-hearted rebuke.

But Arwen laughed. Éowyn  had always found Arwen’s laugh to be strangely musical. “Nay. Do not reproach your son, Lady Éowyn , for the princess started the teasing.” 

“Still,” Éowyn  said, trying to make her expression stern, though she was near laugher herself. “Elboran is the elder and should know better.”

Éowyn  dropped into a curtsy of her own and with a nod from Aragorn, she and her children were seated. The first course was some type of soup that seemed to be mostly broth. Éowyn  had been hungry, so she hid her disappointment in the lightness of the fare as best she could. Aragorn made the usual small talk and then quizzed Elboran and Elithiel on their lessons. Both of Éowyn ’s children were attentive students and answered the king’s questions with as much dignity and grace as two twelve-year-olds could reasonably be expected to muster. Finally, Aragorn turned to Éowyn .

“We have not seen you at court of late, my lady,” he said. “Warden Palen tells me that you have been much occupied with your work in the Houses of Healing.” 

Éowyn  swallowed the last bit of her soup. Palen was the new Warden of the Houses of Healing and he always seemed to tolerate Éowyn ’s presence there willingly enough. Éowyn  could remember when he was still just a nervous apprentice healer during the war.

“It has been a difficult winter with the sickness in the city. I like to think I can be of some small help.” 

Servers came to remove their soup bowls. Aragorn raised his eyebrows. “You’ve been more than a small help or so Palen tells me. But you mustn’t overtax yourself. It would be good if you left time for your friends.” 

“I like to spend my days doing something useful,” Éowyn  said. The type of nonsense that most courtiers occupied themselves with did not interest Éowyn  in the least. She’d always hated attending court even in the comparatively informal halls of Meduseled. In Gondor, she often found herself making excuses to be elsewhere.

“Politics can be a bore,” Aragorn said, with a frown. “But I wouldn’t call them useless – rather, a necessary evil.” 

Éowyn  thought that he might feel differently if he had ever had to spend the bulk of his time among the ladies of the court, but she had just enough tact to keep from expressing this view aloud. She knew that Arwen was quite protective of her ladies. And she supposed that it wasn’t exactly fair to criticize women she didn’t know well just because she had little in common with them.

Dinner was finally served – a great roast dripping with juices and served with a thick, creamy sauce. The children, however, seemed most entranced by the radishes which were cut into absurd little shapes – stars, flowers, ladybugs, and even birds. Éowyn  didn’t want to think of the effort that the chef must have put into creating such things.

Aragorn seemed determined to continue their conversation. “Faramir was always quite good at the political side of things. He helped me a lot in those early years.” 

It had been long enough since Faramir’s death that Éowyn  could now speak of him without too much pain. She smiled, fondly. “I think it always surprised him that so many of the lords and people of the city respected him as much as they did.”

“I look forward to the day when Elboran will be old enough to take his father’s title,” Aragorn said, with a glance down the table at Éowyn ’s son. The children were absorbed in some conversation of their own and weren’t paying a bit of attention to their elders.

 Éowyn  frowned as she watched her son chatting animatedly with the princesses and making Meren giggle. It didn’t surprise her that Aragorn would mention such a thing. Elboran was nearly thirteen and Gondorian lads were considered adults by fifteen, though Elboran wouldn’t inherit his title until much later. Aragorn had hinted several times that Elboran should begin learning more of the responsibilities of a Steward. Éowyn  had been reluctant to allow this, though she couldn’t quite say why. Perhaps it was because Elboran still seemed very much a child to her. Or perhaps it was because Elboran spending more time at court might mean that Éowyn  herself would be expected to do so.

 “Or perhaps not quite so soon,” Arwen said, with a gentle smile in Éowyn ’s direction. As usual, the Queen seemed to possess the uncanny ability to read Éowyn ’s thoughts.

Aragorn’s chin titled downward ever so slightly. “Still. We had hoped that you and the children wouldn’t be quite so busy this summer.”

Éowyn  stopped in the midst of eating a sliver of roast pork and she set her fork carefully upon the table. What was this about? Aragorn wasn’t usually so interested in her comings and goings, however much of a friend he was. He was simply too absorbed with the business of being King.

Once again, Arwen seemed to anticipate her thoughts. “The King is trying to bring you around to a point diplomatically, but since neither you nor he excels at this type of indirect conversation, he is making a bad job of it. Estel hopes that you will have time this summer to spend with our friends the periannath.”

Éowyn  froze. All four of the children immediately looked in Arwen’s direction, suddenly interested.

“Naneth, are we really going to get to meet periannath?”  Meren very nearly bounced off her chair in her enthusiasm.

“Mother, I want to see hobbits,” Elithiel had forgotten her adult airs and was very nearly as gleeful as little Meren.

Éowyn  wasn’t surprised. The children in the city were universally fascinated by stories of the hobbits. Most of them weren’t old enough to remember the war or the feats of bravery that the hobbits had performed, but they’d all heard the tales. Perhaps it was the fact that most of them had never seen hobbits or perhaps it was the small size and mischievous nature of the hobbits that so captivated children. Either way, Éowyn , like most parents in Minas Tirith, had spent a great deal of time listening to her children beg for bedtime stories about hobbits. But unlike most of the other parents, Éowyn  had once known at least one hobbit extremely well and such conversations always made her feel unsettled.

She was glad of one thing, though – the questions of the children gave her time to school her own reaction to this news. She put on what she always thought of as her “mothering face” and answered her daughter.

“They aren’t animals on display in the city square, Elithiel, and they won’t thank you for gawking at them as if they were. Of course we will speak with the hobbits – if we are in Minas Tirith at the time of their visit, that is. I had planned to spend most of the summer in Ithilien. We haven’t visited Emyn Arnen in years and it was your father’s city. Elboran, especially, should visit it. He’ll be Prince of Ithilien in just a few years.”

Elboran and Elithiel both slumped in their chairs, though Elboran tried to put a brave face on it. Éowyn  didn’t blame them. It wasn’t strictly true that she’d planned a trip to Ithilien. When she’d moved to Emyn Arnen with Faramir shortly after their marriage, she’d assumed that she would prefer the remote town to the bustling city life of Minas Tirith. But Emyn Arnen had always managed to unsettle her – it was too close to the taint of Mordor. Plants grew well enough, but Éowyn  often fancied that she could taste something foul on the air. Sometimes, when she looked to the east, her right arm and shoulder would grow cold and numb.

Faramir had died in Emyn Arnen and this had only increased her distaste for the place. After her husband’s death, she’d brought his body to Minas Tirith to be entombed beside his ancestors. She’d never returned Emyn Arnen, deciding to bring her children up in the city. But it was true that Elboran should visit Ithilien more often and she supposed that this summer was as good a time as any. If this had the added benefit of allowing her to avoid Merry, then all the better.

“But surely you can tarry just a few weeks?” Arwen asked. “I agree that visiting Emyn Arnen is a worthy pursuit, but it will still be there come autumn. You could even winter there if you wished.” 

“It is not what I’d planned,” Éowyn  said, barely disguising her impatience. “But then, I was not aware that any hobbits were visiting the city until a few moments ago. Which of our friends are we expecting?”

“Merry and Pippin and some members of their families,” Aragorn said, raising his eyebrows slightly. “We haven’t yet announced the visit in the city, but I expected that Merry would have mentioned it to you in a letter. You two do write to one another, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Éowyn  felt tightly coiled. She wrote to Merry only very rarely – in fact, she thought that her last letter to him had been her rather formal condolences upon the death of his wife over a year ago. Éowyn  had never been a great one for writing letters, finding it a slow and stilted form of communication. She barely found the time to answer Eomer’s long letters and he was constantly complaining that she did not pay proper attention to her correspondences.

“But he didn’t mention his visit?” Arwen asked, studying Éowyn  carefully. “I hope that I’m not prying.”

Éowyn  looked at the Queen, sharply. “You’re not. Perhaps he would have said something to Eomer and expected Eomer to pass along word to me. Those two are always writing one another long letters.”

“Mother hates answering letters,” Elboran put in. “She always puts it off for as long as politeness will allow.”

Arwen smiled at this. “Yes, I seem to remember your mother’s short letters from when you lived in Ithilien. But no matter. Now that she knows the hobbits are visiting the city, she will surely want to make some time for them.”

Arwen, for all her refinement, often spoke in the tones of one who was not used to being contradicted. Éowyn  supposed that she wasn’t, being the daughter of the great Lord Elrond and now the Queen of Gondor. Éowyn  was still thinking of how she might go about correcting the Queen’s assumption when Aragorn spoke up.

“I had especially hoped that you would be here for Merry. You know that he lost his wife last year and I think it would help him to talk to someone who has gone through the same thing, as you have. And you and Merry used to be so close – what was it that you called him? Your little brother?”

If Éowyn  had been drinking her wine, she would have risked choking. But she had lost her appetite for both food and drink. Little brother. She had called Merry that once and she could still remember the look of hurt that had come upon his face before he’d quickly banished it behind hobbitish good humor.

“We were very close upon a time,” Éowyn  admitted.

Aragorn seemed to expect her to say more. When she did not continue, he sighed and tapped his fingers against the table. “You have not gone with the court when we’ve visited Arnor. You cannot have seen Merry since his last visit to Minas Tirith and that was almost ten years ago.”

Éowyn  shook her head. “Nay. Faramir and I were at Emyn Arnen when last Merry and Pippin visited. That was the year of the famine in Ithilien and we could not leave. No, I have not seen Merry since the four hobbits left Gondor shortly after the war.” 

Aragorn’s eyes widened.  “Really? That long ago? Then you should certainly stay and visit with Merry and with Pippin as well. It would do them both good to see as many familiar faces as possible. People in the city regard them as legendary heroes and while this is certainly deserved, I believe that the hobbits find it a bit daunting.” 

“Yes, Mother, I would very much like to meet your friends,” Elithiel said. Éowyn  looked at her daughter, skeptically. While Elithiel’s words were polished, her tone was that of a wheedling child. Elboran didn’t even bother to disguise his pleading looks. If they’d been in their own home, he would probably be pulling on her sleeve and begging by now.

Éowyn  sighed and threw up her hands in defeat. She couldn’t very well be expected to fight her King, her Queen, and both her children on this score.

“Very well. We stay.”

Her children’s enthusiastic response almost quelled her misgivings.

Chapter Text

Éowyn pins Merry to the ground, one hand wrapped around his sword arm and the other pressing against his chest. The grass is cold and wet beneath Merry, but he barely notices, being more entranced by the feeling of Éowyn ’s surprisingly muscular thighs straddling his belly and the sight of Éowyn ’s lovely face mere inches from his own.

She lingers over him – perhaps a moment too long, perhaps not – before laughing and rolling off. Merry lies on the ground for a few heartbeats. He is not quite winded, but he feels like a stunned animal all the same.

“That was better,” Éowyn  says. She picks her sword off the ground and examines it with a workmanlike eye. “But you should have parried quicker the first time. And you should have anticipated that I would tackle you as soon I lost my sword. You are a particular target for that type of brute strength attack because of your size. A larger opponent might try to pin you to ground when he wouldn’t attempt the same against a Man.”

“Oh,” Merry says. He is still lying flat on the ground and looking up at Éowyn from an angle.

She glances over, studies his face. “I don’t mean to insult you. You have some skill with the blade. I am used to sparring with men who are larger than me, so I speak from experience.” 

Merry pushes himself into a sitting position. He looks around to see the Rohirrim going about their business at the camp, not paying Éowyn or Merry any attention whatsoever. Apparently, lasses wrestling hobbits to the ground isn’t interesting enough to draw their attention. Or they are ignoring the two of them out of some form of politeness.

“I’m not insulted. I know that I’m small. And my previous tutor gave me much the same advice.” 

Éowyn raises her brows. “Your previous tutor?”

Merry stands and brushes himself off. “Boromir of Gondor taught Pippin and I to spar. I wouldn’t even know which end of the sword to hold if it weren’t for him.”  

Éowyn smiles and Merry feels his heart beat faster. He scolds himself. He should be learning swordcraft, not mooning over this tall, grim Woman as if she were a pretty hobbit lass at Summer Festival!

“I’ve met Boromir a few times. He twice visited Meduseled on behalf of his father, the Steward. He was a great, tall man with much skill in battle by all accounts. I was sorry to hear of his passing.”

Merry clears his throat as he searches for the right words to say about Boromir. His mind can’t help going over Éowyn ’s admiring description of Boromir again and again – a great, tall man with much skill in battle, she’d said. Merry doesn’t know why such a description should distress him. It is an accurate enough picture of Boromir, after all. 

“He tried to save me from capture,” Merry says, at last. “Me and Pippin. That’s how he died. He was a very brave man.” 

Éowyn looks down at him. Her braid is coming loose and the wind captures the stray locks of her long, blonde hair and blows them in front of her face. She wets her lips.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

Merry looks down at his toes, as much to stop himself from gaping at her as to express sorrow for Boromir, though of course he does feel sorrowful about Boromir. He still dreams of that day when Boromir died. The day the fellowship was broken. Merry knows that Éowyn is looking at him expectantly, but he doesn’t know what to say.

“War is cruel,” Éowyn says, at last. Her eyes seem not to see the men and horses nearby nor the low, wooden buildings that seem to be favored by her people. She looks off into the distance, as if her eyes can see things that no one else’s can. “It separates friends and lovers. Orphans children. Takes young people from their families too soon.” 

Merry shivers, though the day isn’t cold. He doesn’t know Éowyn terribly well, but he already knows that she can be gloomy when the mood strikes her – even for a Big Person. Big People are a gloomy bunch, in Merry’s view, though there is a hard sort of courage in them. But he shouldn’t judge – he might be gloomy himself if he’d spent as much of his time thinking about battles and bloodshed as Éowyn or Boromir.

“I know little of war,” he admits.

Éowyn gives him a sharp look. “You’ve faced orcs.”

“Barely. And I could have been killed any number of times if it weren’t for my friends.” 

Éowyn ’s eyebrows arch upward and she gives him a slow smile. Merry treasures her smiles for their rarity. “Spoken like a true warrior, Meriadoc Brandybuck. Pick up your sword. We could both use the practice.” 

Merry grins at her and picks his sword off the ground.

***

“Merry. Merry.” Pippin’s whisper invaded Merry’s sleep.

Merry let out a long sigh and instantly regretted it because it would demonstrate to Pippin that he was now awake. Pippin’s voice hadn’t held the type of urgency or alarm that would cause Merry to reach to for his sword. Instead, there was a restless, curious undertone to Pippin’s words that Merry knew well. Ever since Pippin was just a faunt, he’d often had sleepless nights. And sleepless nights for Pip usually meant that he woke up Merry with his many musings and questionings. Marriage and fatherhood had apparently done little to quell this impulse in Merry’s cousin.

Merry opened his eyes and saw stars. It was still the middle of the night, just as he’d expected. “What is it, Pippin? Speak softly. We don’t want to wake the lads.” 

Their children slept soundly in the space between them. Barry, Merry’s youngest, was curled into the crook of Merry’s arm, looking babyish in his sleep. Theo, Merry’s eldest, was snoring rather loudly (a habit that Pippin insisted he had inherited from his father) while Pippin’s son Farrie was stretched out, his long Tookish limbs akimbo. Further away, Merry could hear soft snores of the various Tookish cousins who had decided to come with them on the journey along with the heavy footfalls of the Men who guarded them.

Merry had put up only the slightest objection to the guards. The King’s Road was safe, it was true, but they were travelling with the boys and one couldn’t be too careful. He and Pippin might be quite able to handle anything that came at them, but doing so with three faunts in tow was another matter. They’d almost brought Pippin’s daughter as well, but Diamond had changed her mind at the last minute and had kept little Camellia at Tuckborough. Merry suspected that there was a story (and likely an argument) behind that decision, but he hadn’t pressed Pippin for details. Pippin could be remarkably circumspect when it came to his marriage – unlike almost every other topic.

“We’ll be in Minas Tirith by tomorrow,” Pippin said, speaking in a soft voice as Merry had instructed.

Merry groaned. So this was to be one of Pippin’s rambling nighttime conversations. “If all goes well and the weather is fair. But we won’t get anywhere if you are falling off your pony from lack of sleep, Pip.” 

“I’ve been thinking, Merry. Worrying, I suppose, about all the things I failed to think about while we were planning for this journey.”

Merry stifled a laugh. “Surely you aren’t worrying that you’ve left the kettle boiling back at the Great Smials at this point.” 

Merry glanced at his cousin and was gratified to see Pippin smile briefly at the sky. “Nothing so dire as that. I was just thinking that we’ll see all our old friends and everyone we knew during the War. It’s likely to be a bit overwhelming. Especially with our lads tagging along. Not to mention the Took cousins.” 

 “Seeing our friends again was rather the point of the journey,” Merry said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. The directions in which Pippin’s mind turned at night were often a mystery to him.

“I know. It’s just some friends might prove a little more difficult than others if you catch my meaning.” 

Merry sighed and looked at Pippin. “I don’t catch your meaning, Pip. Stop trying to be mysterious – you’re no good at it, you know.” 

Pippin turned and faced Merry. “What about Éowyn?”

Merry stopped breathing for a moment. Then, he affected a laugh. “What about Éowyn ? I suspect that she’ll be there, though I haven’t heard from her lately. Have you?” 

“Me?”  Pippin asked with a laugh. “No. Éowyn doesn’t write to me as a rule.”

“Well. There you go, then.” 

“I’m worried about you, Merry.” 

“Pippin,” Merry said with a groan. “Don’t worry about it. I barely think of Éowyn anymore.” 

“You barely think of her?” Pippin asked. “So that means that you do think of her?”

“Well, I haven’t completely forgotten about her existence. But I haven’t as much as laid eyes on her since shortly after the War. If she’s in the city then we’ll speak with one other – likely awkwardly – secretly marvel at how much the other has changed in all these years and then go our separate ways.” 

Pippin shifted and worried at his lip. “I still remember how you looked at the wedding. I can’t believe that she asked you stand beside her for the ceremony! You were pale, grabbed at your arm – I thought it might kill you.” 

Merry felt the blood drain out of his face. “I was ill. It had nothing to do with the ceremony.” 

Pippin raised both eyebrows to make the face that he always made when he was skeptical about something.  “I didn’t know what to think at the time. I wish you’d told me about you and Éowyn sooner than you did.”

“Keep your voice down,” Merry said, though Pippin was whispering. Some of the Took cousins had keen ears. He rather wished that he’d never confessed everything that happened between himself and Éowyn  to Pippin. At the time, he’d felt that he had to tell someone or he wouldn’t be able to stand heartache of it all. When he was younger, he would have talked about such a thing with Frodo, but Frodo had been dealing with his own problems by then.

“I just want to make sure that you’ll be well. I know that you still have nightmares and that your arm troubles you from time to time. I want to make sure that seeing Éowyn doesn’t make you …”

Merry sighed as Pippin trailed off. “Doesn’t make me what? Faint dead away? That’s unlikely. It was a tween-ish fancy that I had for Éowyn. Seeing her again won’t distress me. Goodness! We’ve both been married and had children and been widowed since we last saw one another.”

Pippin sighed and looked back up at the stars. “If you say so, Merry.” 

Pippin was only silent for a few moments. “Merry?”

“Yes, Pippin?” Merry heard more than a note of annoyance in his own voice, but he knew that his cousin would ignore it.

“You weren’t a tween during the War.” 

Merry blinked, wondering where Pippin was going. “No. You were the tween. What’s your point?” 

“How could it be a ‘tween-ish fancy’ if you weren’t a tween?” 

Merry shook off his blanket, grumbling.

“Where are you going?” Pippin asked, sitting up.

“For a walk.” 

Merry strode away from his surprised cousin, still grumbling and searching his pockets for his pipe. The country here was nearly flat, but Merry walked to the top of the one nearby knoll and sat down. He faced Minas Tirith which now appeared as a bright light in the distance. A fast pony could probably get him there in an hour or so, but it would likely take their small group the better part of the next day. He felt both impatient to get there and wary of what he’d find when he arrived. In truth, he’d thought about Éowyn more than once during the journey and that felt disloyal to his wife, who had died just two years ago. It wasn’t that he had any expectation that he would resume his old dalliance with Éowyn  – such a thought was laughable, to be sure. But knowing that he would see her very soon put her at the forefront of his mind.

He held his pipe in his hand, but he didn’t seem to have a pinch of pipeweed anywhere on his person. He must have left it in his pack.

“Here you go,” a soft voice said at his shoulder. Merry tensed, thinking that Pippin had returned to continue their argument – but no, it was cousin Reginard. Merry took the offered pipeweed gratefully and allowed Reggie to light his pipe for him. Merry looked at Reginard and shook his head, ruefully. He’d jumped at the chance to bring Reggie on this journey mostly because he thought the older, rather distinguished hobbit would be a steadying influence on Pippin and the children. But Reggie had leaned into this “adventure” with a thoroughly headfirst Tookish attitude. He’d even allowed one of the Men in their party to pierce his ear. Merry couldn’t understand what the fool was thinking of – when they returned to the Shire, he’d be the only hobbit there with a pierced ear.

Merry huffed as he looked at the offending earring gleaming in the darkness. It was a twisting, golden thing that formed a cuff just below the point of Reggie’s ear. The boys had been endlessly fascinated by it – Merry suspected that Farrie would get his ear pierced as well if one of the Men would do it for him. Reggie, seeing Merry’s stare, touched his ear self-consciously. Merry wondered if it irritated the skin.

“I heard you arguing with the Thain,” Reggie said. “I didn’t hear what it was about.” 

Merry gave a small laugh. “That’s certainly for the best. Your Thain was being overprotective – and a bit nosy, if I do say.” 

“I hope it wasn’t a serious argument.”  Reggie was smoking easily beside Merry. This was why he’d approached Merry, then – as the Thain’s right-hand hobbit, it was Reggie’s job to smooth over disagreements. But since Merry had been handling Peregrin Took since he was born, he often found Reggie’s patient attempts to manage Pippin’s small gaffes to be tedious.

“It was nothing. Mostly, I was grumpy that he woke me up in order to dredge up some ancient history.” 

“Ancient history? The Troubles then?” 

“Among other things.” 

Reggie stretched, looking thoughtful. It was getting daylight – so much for the notion of getting anymore sleep that night. “You know. I don’t think I ever really appreciated all that you and the others did in the wider world. The Men talk about you as if you were heroes of old – I’ve never heard Men speak of hobbits in such tones.” 

Merry knew that Reggie had known very few Men before this very journey. Most of his experience of them would have been with the brigands during the War. Still, Merry couldn’t deny that he was correct.

“Frodo deserved that sort of recognition. Sam too, though neither of them particularly enjoyed it.”

“And you and Pippin do not deserve it?” Reggie asked, with a sidelong glance.

Merry sighed. “I don’t know.” 

“My friend Branfin says that you killed one of those Black Riders.”

“I stabbed him in the ankle, maybe. The Lady Éowyn really finished him.” 

“Meriadoc Brandybuck!” said a booming voice behind him. Merry turned and, to his delight, saw his old friend Gimli walking toward them in the dawning light. 

“Gimli! When did you get here?”

“Yesterday evening. Aragorn sent a party ahead to greet you and show your folk into the city and, being in Minas Tirith, I volunteered to go along. I had every intention of greeting you properly, but your relations informed me that you had already turned in for night and had given strict instructions that you weren’t to be disturbed.”

Merry  laughed. He had gotten little enough sleep on this journey between organizing their travels, trying to keep a gaggle of Tookish cousins focused, and dealing with a hundred small mishaps. Yesterday evening, knowing that they were getting close to the city, Merry had rather curtly instructed his cousins not to disturb him unless there was some dire crisis and had then rolled out his bedroll and fallen straight to sleep. It hadn’t even been dark.

“But Pippin should have known that you were an exception, surely,” he said. “I shall have to scold him for not waking me.”

“He was only following your instructions,” Gimli pointed out. “And he and your cousins fed me a good supper. You must have been very tired indeed to skip you supper, Meriadoc.”

“Well, I knew that I would make up for it with a large breakfast,” Merry said. “I take it you’ve met my cousin Reginard, here?” 

“Indeed I did,” Gimli said, with a brief bow in Reggie’s direction. “But did I hear you telling him that you did little in the War besides stab a Ringwraith in the ankle.”

Merry flushed, aware of Reggie’s keen eyes upon him. “Well. It’s true, isn’t it?”

Gimli huffed. “You hobbits. Always undervaluing your achievements.” He turned to Reggie.  “You should know that Meriadoc here helped slay the Witch King of Angmar – and that is, by no means, as small a task as he makes it. It was once said that no Man could do as much. And that’s far from the only brave thing that Merry did during the war.” 

“Really?” Reggie asked, looking far too interested for Merry’s liking.

“I had my moments,” Merry said, raising his eyebrows in Gimli’s direction. “But now that it is dawn, we should stop all this nighttime introspection and see to getting some breakfast. If the King sent an envoy, then I should greet him as well.”

“I shouldn’t worry about too much about the envoy if I were you,” Gimli said. “Pippin acquitted himself most admirably in greeting the King’s party. What have you been putting in the lad’s tea to make him so grown-up and courtly?” 

Merry noticed that Reggie straightened himself and flushed with pride at these words. He seemed to consider Pippin’s manners his personal charge. Merry suspected that Gimli had greatly endeared himself to Reggie with these words.  

  “Well, he is Thain of the Shire now,” Merry said. “But enough. It’s breakfast time, I say.”

The dined on sausages and eggs which was a good deal better than some of the food that they’d had on parts the journey when they hadn’t been so close to farmland. Merry himself had become used to travel rations, but the faunts had been less than impressed. Farrie, in particular, had been most vocal in his disdain for dried jerky. Merry supposed that the lad wouldn’t be Pippin’s son if he weren’t overly concerned about the quality of his breakfast.

Merry made his apologies to the envoy who seemed to take it in stride. Honestly, Merry was still more than a little miffed that Pippin hadn’t seen fit to wake him for such an arrival, but had woken him for nighttime musings on the past. Nevertheless, Merry managed to set aside his annoyance with his cousin for the sake of appearances, and the party set off towards the city rather earlier than he had expected they would. He supposed that everyone was eager to finally get to the city and so there were few stragglers in their morning routine.

Merry ended up spending a pleasant enough morning in the saddle, answering Barry’s many questions about Minas Tirith. Privately, he was amazed at how much Minas Tirith had changed in the ten years since he’d last visited. He wouldn’t have thought that a city made of stone could have altered itself much, but it seemed to possess an entirely different character than it had during the War – even from a distance.

The settlements around the city, which had been almost completely destroyed during the War, were now more numerous than ever. They passed stone house after stone house, some of them as much as three stories tall. Many of the houses had pleasant little gardens attached to them which reminded Merry a bit of home. Plenty of people came out to watch their party pass by and Merry saw many a child point at Barry and himself seated upon Merry’s pony.

Pippin, as usual, was relishing the attention and spent most of the morning waving to the folks. Merry heard the cry of Ernil i Pheriannath go up more than once. The Tookish cousins were looking at everything with wide eyes. Merry didn’t blame them. They still weren’t fully used to travelling in the lands of Men. Theo and Farrie were walking along behind one of the supply wagons with their heads very close together. Merry spared them a suspicious glance or two – those lads could get into mischief when they set their minds to it – but he otherwise left them to their devices. All together, Merry liked to think that they made a fine party. 

They reached the gates of the city by late afternoon and paused just inside to dismount their ponies. Merry saw that Gimli and the envoy had their heads together and he supposed that he should expect some sort of formality at this point. Barry was now tugging on Merry’s arm, impatiently. The faunt could probably use a nap.

The envoy – Merry thought his name was Childrick or Trildrick perhaps – bowed low before them all as if he hadn’t been riding with them all morning. “Sir Peregrin, Sir Meriadoc, and honored guests -- on behalf of the King Elessar and Queen Arwen, welcome to Minas Tirith.”

There was an attempt at applause, though Merry noted that most of hobbits either looked tired or were glancing eagerly about the city as if they wanted to wander off down some side street to explore. Merry picked up Barry and balanced the faunt on his hip.

“We know that you are all tired and will soon be escorting you to your lodgings. But I first wanted to explain the layout of the city to those who have never been here before.” 

Merry’s attention wandered. He’d heard the Men of Minas Tirith explain the circles of the city many times before. He knew it was something important for newcomers to understand – it was devilishly easy to get lost in this city – but he wasn’t much interested in hearing it again. When the envoy had finished, Pippin stepped forward. Merry noted that their party had now attracted a large group townspeople who were positively gaping at them all.

“Thank you for that explanation Trillic,” Pippin said. “I know that we’ll all be very grateful when the time comes to explore the city.”

At talk about exploring the city, Merry began to look around absently for his eldest son. There used to be a Man in the Fourth Circle who put on the most marvelous puppet shows and it was the sort of thing Theo would like. There were lots of things in Minas Tirith that Merry was eager to show his sons – it was a great city that easily dwarfed even the largest hobbit towns –

It took Merry a minute to realize that Theo wasn’t standing with the group.

Merry sat Barry on his feet, much to faunt’s chagrin. Merry looked around for a moment longer to confirm his suspicion that Farrie was nowhere to be seen as well. This quieted some of the panic that was growing in his chest. If both boys were missing, then it was likely that they’d run off together to look at the city rather than some darker trouble. Still, Merry had to take several deep breaths before he sidled up to Pippin who was still making a speech.

“Pip. Pippin,” he said, in a low urgent voice.

Pippin stopped talking and turned an irritated gaze on Merry.

“Theo and Farrie are missing.” 

“What?”

“Theo and Farrie. They aren’t here.”

Pippin’s head whipped back and forth, looking for the boys among the assembled hobbits just as Merry had done a moment earlier.

“Is there some problem, Sir Peregrin?” Trillic asked. Though Merry had spoken quietly, it seemed that the Man had heard.

Pippin’s face had grown uncharacteristically grim, though he kept his tone light. “It seems that we are missing two of our party. Ah, well. They wouldn’t have the Tookish blood if they didn’t get themselves into trouble somehow. We shall have to split up and search for them.”

***

Éowyn sighed in relief as she swung open the door to Vedra’s shop and the little bell on the door rang cheerfully. She’d been afraid that she’d waited too late and the Vedra would have closed her shop, but it seemed that this wasn’t the case. Éowyn rarely made it down to the Third Circle, but Vedra sold the best seed cuttings in the city and Éowyn was willing to make an exception for her. Today, she fancied some basil for her little backyard garden and it would be too late to plant it if she waited much longer. Summers in Minas Tirith were long, but they weren’t endless.

Vedra smiled when she saw Éowyn. “My lady. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“I’ve just come for a little basil for my garden, Vedra. How have you been? How’s business?” 

Vedra immediately began to look over the herbs growing in one of the long windows. Éowyn watched the other woman work, admiring her colorful headscarf. Vedra had Southron blood and she utterly ignored the rather drab fashions of Minas Tirith in favor of the bright colors and patterns of the south. She was rumored to be rich enough to dress like a noble, though her small shop hardly suggested wealth.  Her boldness often made Éowyn want to dust off some of her Rohirric dresses and wear them to court.

“I’m well enough, my lady. And business is good in general, though I must say that it is awful today. The whole city has been buzzing with the news that the pheriannath will be arriving soon and I’m afraid that folks aren’t particularly interested in buying trowels and herbs from the likes of me on such a day.” 

Éowyn laughed, a bit uneasy. She’d just come from the Houses of Healing where, indeed, everyone had been talking of the hobbits’ arrival. People seemed to consider her some sort of expert on hobbits and so she’d been asked several questions. She’d hoped to escape such talk here. She would be seeing the hobbits on the morrow at the welcome feast that Aragorn was holding in their honor, but she was trying not to think too much on it.

“Ah, here we are,” Vedra said, picking up a fine looking basil plant. “Two, my lady?” 

“It seems that you know my gardening needs all too well,” Éowyn said.

Vedra prepared the cuttings and handed them to Éowyn and they continued to chat as Éowyn paid. The bell rang and Éowyn looked up without much interest to see another patron – a man of middling years – walking into the shop. She turned back to Vedra.

“Oh – my lady,” Vedra said. “Your hair is caught.”

Éowyn moved her hand, only to realize that she had managed to tangle her hair on a button on her sleeve. She huffed in annoyance. Her hair had been properly braided and pinned back, and now she was tearing it loose.

“Here, let me help you,” Vedra said, reaching for her hair. Between the two of them, they managed to untangle Éowyn. She touched her hair, gingerly, to find that the left side had come almost completely undone. She was aware that the man in the shop was standing nearby, his hat in his hand. He was looking at her, not Vedra. At first, Éowyn had assumed that he must be gawping at her predicament, but as she looked more closely at him, she realized that he had the look of a man who wanted to say something.

“Yes?” she asked.

“My lady, I don’t mean to interrupt, but the lad who works for the smithy said that he saw you come in here. And, well, I thought that you might know what to do.” 

Éowyn attempted to regain some of her composure. The man looked at her uncertainly. He clearly knew who she was, though she didn’t exactly cut the picture of a great lady in the simple dress that she had worn to the Houses of Healing.

“What do you need?”

“There are little pheriannath in the street, my lady. They should be taken to their parents.” 

Éowyn raised her brows. “You do know that the pheriannath are not children?”

She had run into people who had the idea that hobbits were children several times and she found it unbelievably irritating.

“I’m fairly sure that these ones are. If we could find a guard, perhaps --”

Éowyn frowned. She supposed that it was possible that there were somehow unattended hobbit children in the street – she knew that Merry and Pippin were bringing their sons on the journey and there might well be other children among the party of hobbits. Without thinking much about it, Éowyn strode past the man and Vedra, exited the shop, and walked into the street.

 Right away, she saw a crowd of people gathered near the smithy’s booth and she began to push through them. She heard one or two murmurs of “Lady Éowyn,” though it seemed to her that rather fewer people recognized her than when she usually went into the city. Sure enough, at the center of the crowd were two tiny hobbits lads, both of them finely dressed in the strange manner of hobbits. Éowyn vaguely remembered that the little vest-like thing was called a weskit. The smaller, darker of the two was wearing an odd little hat made out of some type of velvet. Both children carried as many pastires as they could hold and the smaller of the two seemed intent on cramming them into his mouth.

The taller of the two had light curls and was talking animatedly. He had to be Merry’s son. He just had to be. He had Merry’s look – but more, he had Merry’s way of speech and of carrying himself. Éowyn was less sure about the other lad – she supposed that he was the right age to be Pippin’s son, Faramir, but if that were so, he didn’t look much like his sire.

“—and then we travelled through the Gap of Rohan. It was horribly rainy, but the King’s men did their best to keep us lads entertained. There’s this Man named Branfin who can juggle marvelously. And he pierced my cousin Reggie’s ear. Papa was rather angry about that. But my cousin Farrie, here,” he nudged the other lad with his elbow, “would have liked it if Branfin had pierced his ear as well. He – oh, hello!”

This last was spoken to Éowyn who had gotten closer to the lads than the rest of the crowd and had gone down on one knee to better speak with them.

“Hello,” Éowyn said. “That sounded like a fine story you were telling, but I was just wondering where your parents are.” 

“Probably still back at the city gates,” the lad said. “They were giving lots of speeches and Farrie and I decided that it would be nice to just have a look at Minas Tirith for ourselves. They likely haven’t noticed that we’re gone.”

“I see.”

How old would these lads be? Eight? Nine? Éowyn tried to imagine the scolding she would have given her own children had they snuck off by themselves in a strange city at that age.  She decided that she would have fainted with shock that Elithiel and Elboran had done anything other than what was expected of them.

 “Though, it is getting rather late,” the lad said, frowning.

“How on earth did you make it all the way to the Third Circle by yourselves?” Éowyn asked. It was a long, complicated journey from the city gates to the Third Circle.

“Oh, we hitched a ride on a wagon,” Farrie spoke up for the first time. “The Man driving it was very surprised to find us in the back when he stopped. But we gave him a few silver coins and went on our way.”

“And are you enjoying the city?” Éowyn asked, amused despite her best efforts to maintain a stern demeanor.

“Oh, yes!” Farrie said. “We saw lots of horses and a great many Men and Women. And we saw a Man making a sword. And a Man who was selling sweets in a booth gave us all these.  He seemed very pleased for us to have them and he didn’t even charge us!”  Farrie held up the pastries in his arms. His tone made it clear that he thought this was the highlight of their little adventure. Éowyn could well imagine that the man who gave them the pastries was glad of it – he would probably tell his grandchildren about the time he fed the pheriannath one day, and he would have thrown the pastries out at the end of the night anyway.

“I’ve not met many Big Women,” the other lad said. He was now munching happily on his own pastry. “Do you often wear your hair like that?” 

Éowyn’s hand flew to her hair and she groaned, realizing that she hadn’t managed to tidy it up before running into the street. She heard a few titters from the crowd and glared at the onlookers. Vedra, who had apparently followed Éowyn, shrugged eloquently.

“No, I do not. But I think that it is high time that we found your fathers.” 

The lad’s eyes widened. “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure that Farrie and I can manage on our own. We’ll just go back the way we came …”

“You most certainly will not,” Éowyn said. It was nearly dark and these lads weren’t much bigger than toddlers, though of course they acted older. Many bad things could happen to them, but the image that kept coming to Éowyn’s mind was of one of them running in front of a cart and being crushed.

“I don’t know the way we came,” Farrie said, in a helpful sort of voice.

“Quite,” Éowyn said. “Theodoc and Faramir, is it? We will have to have some people search for your fathers.”

Theodoc’s eyes widened. “How do you know our names?”

It suddenly occurred to Éowyn as odd that she’d never met these two lads, the one named for her uncle and the other for husband. She was still thinking of how to answer Theodoc’s question, when there was a disruption in the crowd.

“Theodoc Brandybuck!” a high, clear voice called out over the crowd.

Éowyn’s stomach flopped and she looked up to see the crowd parting and Merry Brandybuck striding towards them. There were two other hobbits with him who Éowyn did not recognize, as well as a Man in the armor of a guardsman. Merry carried another hobbit child in his arms who was even smaller than Theodoc or Faramir.

“Of all the ridiculous, harebrained, Tookish things that I have ever seen! The moment we arrive in the city is the very moment that you two go wandering off. What if you had been kidnapped? What if you had been hurt? I --”

Theodoc had been slowly edging behind Éowyn’s skirts. Merry stopped short as he seemed to notice Éowyn for the first time. His face went red and he sat the smaller lad on his feet. He didn’t seem to know what to say and neither did Éowyn.  They were spared further awkwardness when the littlest boy walked up to Theodoc, who was still hiding behind Éowyn, and kicked him in the legs.

“You promised to take me with you!” he exclaimed.

“Ow! Barry!”

There ensued a brief scuffle between the two brothers in which Éowyn was obliged to pull Barry off his brother. It reminded her of the way that Éomer’s sons would scuffle with one another or, if she were being honest, of some of the fights that she’d had with Éomer during her own childhood. Éowyn sat little Barry back on the ground in front of his father who was still quite red-faced.

“Enough out of both of you,” Merry said. “You’re hardly giving the people of Minas Tirith a good impression of hobbits. Why, they’ll think we’re all savages if you don’t let up soon.” 

He turned to Éowyn and gave a small bow. “My lady. Do I have you to thank for rounding up these miscreants?”

This was not at all how she had pictured her first meeting with Merry going.

“No, no,” she said. “I was simply in the neighborhood buying some cuttings.”  She realized that she had somehow held onto one of the basil cuttings despite her role in breaking up a hobbit fight and she held it up to illustrate her point.

“Basil, yes,” Merry said. “Bit late for the planting.”

Éowyn suddenly remembered that Merry was the one who had started her interest in gardening and she flushed. “Yes. But I think I can still get some good out of it if I plant tomorrow.”

Éowyn wasn’t sure what she should do next. She was painfully aware of her messy hair and of the growing crowd. This story would be the talk of the city by tomorrow morning. Even if most of the folk hadn’t recognized her, they would have recognized Merry immediately. He was dressed in Rohirric style and his appearance had changed little since the War.

“Merry,” one of the other hobbits said. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Oh, yes. Right,” Merry said. “Lady Éowyn, these are my cousins, Beryl Took and Edelard Took. And you’ve already met my son Thedoc Brandybuck and Peregrin’s son Faramir Took, unfortunately. And this little one is Boromir Brandybuck. Hobbits, this is the Lady Éowyn.”

It struck Éowyn as a rather perfunctory introduction and not at all in Merry’s usual style. The awkwardness of the situation had clearly put him off as much as it had Éowyn. Both of the older lads had gone wide-eyed upon hearing Éowyn’s name, but it seemed not to register with little Boromir who simply stuck out his hand.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said.

Éowyn was confused for a moment until she realized that Merry had once taught her this custom. She shook the lad’s tiny hand. “And I’m very pleased to meet you, Borormir.”

“’is Barry,” the lad said.

Clearly, this little ritual had made an impression on Faramir Took, who stuck out his hand with a “pleased to meet you,” as well. His hand was incredibly sticky from the pastries. Éowyn shook it anyway.

Then Theodoc, who was the only one of the lads who seemed slightly abashed by Merry’s scolding, stepped forward to shake hands as well. Then, even the two older hobbits decided that they would like to shake Éowyn’s hand as well. Éowyn saw that though they were not children, they were both really quite young, perhaps no older than Pippin had been during the War. Éowyn studied Beryl Took in particular, for she had never seen a female hobbit before. She looked about as Éowyn would have expected – small and plump with an air of mischief about her. Her dress was embroidered with flowers and cut in a style entirely unfamiliar to Éowyn, but it suited her. Interesting. Éowyn could remember wondering what hobbit ladies looked like during the War when she used to wonder what sort of women Merry was used to … but no, it would not do to think of such things now.

For his part, Merry had the look of a person barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes. “Yes. Well, now that we’re all acquainted --”

“Let me through, let me through!” There was a disturbance in the crowd and it parted to reveal Peregrin Took, another older hobbit with an earring, and Gimli the dwarf.

“Ah, you found them,” Pippin addressed this comment to Merry. “I was beginning to get really wo--”

He stopped abruptly when he spotted Éowyn, but recovered much more quickly than Merry had. He put on a rather forced smile and bowed low. “My lady Éowyn. I should have known that you would somehow sniff out our lads and look after them. It seems that we have much to thank you for. I’m afraid that our lads’ Tookish nature gets them into a good deal of trouble at times. Though I must say that the Brandybucks are not as innocent of mischief as they’d like to claim.”

This was all spoken in a loud, carrying voice. Pippin was playing to the crowd – an ability that both he and Merry usually excelled at, but which seemed to be evading Merry at the moment. The comment on the Brandybucks was clearly an invitation for a clever rejoinder from Merry, but Merry didn’t take the bait.

 “I did little, Sir Peregrin,” Éowyn said, making her own voice carry a little. “I was simply in the area and was pleased enough to listen to your sons recount some of their adventures.” 

Now Gimli spoke up. “No doubt any lad would be pleased to recount his adventures to so splendid a lady.”

Éowyn had to look twice at the dwarf to make sure he wasn’t making fun of her. Gimli was dressed as if for court while Merry and Pippin were wearing the livery of Rohan and Gondor respectively. The other hobbits were dressed in the fashion of hobbits, but their clothing was fine. Éowyn, on the other hand, was wearing a worn dress and shoes and her hair was falling down. She hardly looked a splendid lady.

“Indeed,” Pippin said, but Éowyn thought that she could detect a hardness in his voice. Pippin had often been rather cold to Éowyn which seemed the opposite of how he treated everyone else. Éowyn had long ago decided that he must know about Merry and herself. It had rather surprised her when Pippin had written to her to ask permission to name his child after Faramir, but then he’d always adored Faramir. And Faramir had adored Pippin.

Barry tugged on Merry’s sleeve. “Papa, is it supper time yet?”

Much of the tension was broken and there was general laughter.

“Past supper time,” Merry said, with a wry smile. “Though it looks as if your brother and cousin have already spoiled their suppers. I dare say that there will be no dessert for them.” 

This was met with objections from both Theodoc and Faramir, though Éowyn had personally witnessed each of them consume more sweets in ten minutes than she ate in a full day.

It was Pippin who turned back to Éowyn. “My lady, I fear if we do not feed these lads, then we will have an uprising on our hands. Do you need an escort back to the Citadel? I’d be happy to see you back to your quarters.”

Éowyn fought back annoyance. As if she needed Peregrin Took to escort her through this city that she’d lived in for the better part of a decade! But she knew that he was only being proper. He was a knight. She was lady. It would have been strange if he hadn’t offered her an escort, especially as it was the edge of dark. Though Éowyn couldn’t help but think that the friendlier, more hobbitish offer would have been to invite her to supper. And was it her imagination or was he trying to maneuver her away from Merry?

“That won’t be necessary, Sir Peregrin,” she said. “For I often walk through the city without an escort. But I should be getting back. My own children will be worried about me.” 

Pippin bowed, theatrically. Éowyn chanced a sidelong glance at Merry, but he was busy reassuring his youngest son that supper would be forthcoming. Éowyn managed to extract herself with only a few more pleasantries exchanged. The crowd applauded as they went their separate ways as if they’d just been witness to some type of show. Éowyn flushed. This would surely be the talk of the city by morning.  

Chapter Text

The Houses of Healing have amazing baths. They are one of the few pleasures that Éowyn has allowed herself to appreciate since being brought into the city of Minas Tirith. Warmed baths are a rare luxury in Rohan, even among the upper classes. The baths in the Houses of Healing are not only warmed, but accompanied by a number of salts and soaps, many of which are said to have a healing effect. Éowyn feels a chill almost constantly now, though it is spring and not unseasonably cold. The warm waters of her bath wash against her skin and seem to bring her back to life. This is the only time that she isn’t cold.

She’s not sure how she notices his presence behind her, lingering near the doorway. Perhaps some small shift in the air.

 “Come in,” she says.

She doesn’t turn, but listens to the soft, near silent padding of his hobbit-feet against the tile floor. She breathes faster. There is certainly no reason to be shy after all that passed between them the night before the battle, but she sinks deeper into the water anyway. He will be able to see little enough of her. There are bubbles.

Merry comes to stand beside the tub, his face red.

“I’m sorry. They told me to find you here. I didn’t know that you would be bathing.”

“Hm. Well, it hardly matters. Still, you’d think that the healers would have concern for my virtue.”

She tries to make her voice light, but Merry seems serious for once. He bites his lip.

“They don’t think of me as a man, Éowyn.”

They look at one another for long moments. Éowyn feels trapped in his gaze.

“Will you wash my hair?” her voice comes as a whisper.  

“Yes.”

He moves closer to the tub and picks up the little bottle that contains a type of soap used especially for hair. There is no such soap in Rohan and Éowyn had been skeptical when the healers explained its use, but she likes how soft it makes her hair feel. Merry pours some of the stuff onto his hands and begins to work it into Éowyn’s already wet hair. His hands tremble.

“That soap smells amazing,” Éowyn says into the silence.

“I think it has lavender in it. And some other herb that I can’t identify.” 

“You have knowledge of herbs and such, then?” 

 “Enough to know lavender when I smell it?” Merry’s voice holds some amusement. “Yes, surely. My mother always kept a fair herb garden at Brandy Hall and I learned from her perhaps more than most folk know. But many hobbits have knowledge of plants and herbs and gardening. One of the few things we’re known for.”

 He continues talking along these lines for a few minutes as he carefully washes her hair. He often comes to her room and speaks to her in this way about his home and all the people he knows there. Éowyn finds his chatter to be strangely comforting, almost cozy. It takes a few minutes for him to work the soap into her long hair, but Éowyn notes that his sword arm seems to be functioning better than her own. She can barely move her fingers most days.

“Your hair needs rinsing now,” Merry finally says.

“Use the basin.” Éowyn gestures to the water basin nearby.

Merry nods and then picks it up and dips it into the tub. Éowyn tilts her head back so the soap won’t get in her eyes as he Merry pours the water over her head.

“Why did the healers send you to find me?” she asks.

“What? Oh!” He sits the basin carefully aside. “They’ve made up a new concoction for you. They already used it on me and I think it may be the best yet.”

He takes a little pot out of his pocket of the type that the healers use to hold their salves. They’ve tried any number of different salves, lotions, and oils to treat the coldness in the right side of Éowyn’s body. Some have a limited effect.

 She looks at him and sees that he is holding up the salve like a prize. She hesitates just a moment before standing. His sharp intake of breath is gratifying. Merry has never seen her naked before – it had been dark that night in the tent. He doesn’t look away or fumble or stutter as she now realizes she had expected him to do. There is a slight flush to his cheeks. His eyes slowly move over her body. Éowyn had never before realized that her own body could give her such a feeling of power over a man. She likes it.

She steps out of the tub and picks up a nearby towel. She begins rubbing herself down, pretending not to look at Merry, but really sneaking glances out of the corner of her eye. She drapes the towel about her waist.

“I want you to put it on me,” she says.

Merry nods. Éowyn lowers herself to the stone floor and sits, her legs stretched out to one side, still naked from the waist up. Merry opens the little pot and a wonderful smell fills the room. Éowyn sighs as Merry begins to rub the stuff up and down her right arm.

“That feels amazing,” Éowyn says.

“Doesn’t it just?”

Éowyn notes that while Merry’s fingers seem to be working well, his right hand is colder than his left. He is not as healed as he would like to think. His small fingers begin to rub the ointment into her right side. It is better than any of the previous concoctions.

“I feel almost alive again,” Éowyn says, without thinking.

Merry stops and looks at her, pale-faced.

“I only meant that I feel better. Thank you.”

He continues to look at her, his eyes wide and bright. She stands up and reaches for the shift dress hanging on a nearby hook. She pulls it over her head, her movements less awkward than before. Then, she buries her good hand in Merry’s soft, curly hair. He closes his eyes and shivers.

“You should come to my room tonight,” she says.

***

“This is an odd sort of feast,” Pippin said, as he snatched a bit of cheese from a tray that a servant was holding in front of Merry. “I feel as if I must hunt down my food. And it seems to come only in these tiny morsels.” 

The other two hobbits present – Reginard Took and Merry’s brother-in-law Fredigar Bolger, as it happened – murmured their assent. There were seated in a small alcove overlooking a rather beautiful courtyard. Gimli had assured them that this was a fine place to smoke a pipe.

 Gimli himself was present and he laughed at Pippin’s words. “This is how most of the formal suppers in Minas Tirith are done now. It’s in the elvish style, I believe. To give the guests a chance to mingle and speak to one another before they must sit down for their meal.”

“That’s all well and good, dear Gimli,” Pippin said. “But I am positively famished.” 

“You ate before we came,” Merry said, distractedly. Two young hobbits had come into that oh-so-elegant  courtyard below them and sat down on a bench. Beryl and Edelard Took. They were holding hands.

“I ate only lightly in anticipation of the feast that I assumed the King would be setting us.” 

“Shall I tell the King that Peregrin Took is less than impressed with his table, then?” Gimli said, with an amused glint in his eye.

“Certainly not,” Pippin said. “I wouldn’t want to be rude.” 

“Ah,” Gimli said, tapping his unlit pipe against his trousers. “I must confess that the custom was strange to me as well the first time I attended one of these suppers. The dwarves have no such practice and prefer to fall straight to feasting.” 

“That seems very sensible,” Freddy Bolger put in.

“Mingling is perfectly fine,” Reggie said. “But it seemed as if every Big Person in the Citadel was looking at us. Merry and Pippin each had a line of them!”

“Which was why I decided to rescue you and show you this excellent smoking spot – one sometimes used by the King himself,” Gimli said. “The King Elessar tasked me with stepping in if the crowds seemed to be overwhelming you.”

“Very considerate,” Freddy said, lighting his pipe.

“By the end of the night, I daresay that even a hobbit will have little reason to complain about the sparseness of the supper. The King has spared no expense in this feast, knowing that feasting is one of the things that Sir Peregrin and Sir Meriadoc like the best. I know for a fact that we will be dining on stuffed pheasant and roast boar just dripping with fat. Not to mention all the exotic fruits that the Queen has had shipped from the south just for the occasion. She has not forgotten how fond you were of lemon-flavored sweets, Pippin. Oh, and the sweets! The chefs have been hard at work designing cakes and pastries that aren’t only delicious to taste, but beautiful to look at. And then there is the ale --”

“Stop talking about it,” Pippin moaned. “You’re making me hungrier.”

“You’re taking a most hobbitish interest in these things, Gimli,” Merry said, distractedly. The two young hobbits in the courtyard had begun kissing rather vigorously. Merry didn’t think that the others had noticed.

“The food in Minas Tirith is exquisite. Though it is of highest quality in your Shire as well, of course.” 

Merry stood up and walked to the edge of the balcony. The kissing tweens had turned to groping. “You two!” he said, in his best Master-of-the-Hall voice. “This is the Citadel of Minas Tirith, not some tweening place behind a barn.” 

The two young hobbits pulled apart. Beryl had the grace to blush, but Edelard, once he had recovered himself, grinned at Merry.

“I did not think that it was a smoking lounge either, Cousin Merry!” he called up. The cheek!

“Get along with you. If you must tween, then you can do it somewhere that isn’t in full sight of half the city.” 

“I hardly think that half the city saw us,” Edelard argued.

“Eddie, maybe we should just go,” Beryl said. 

Edelard looked at her and then bowed in a gallant fashion. “I must bend to the whims of my lady.” 

He held out his arm and Beryl threaded it through her own, giggling. Merry rolled his eyes.

“Behave yourselves,” he called out to their retreating backs. He heard Beryl giggle again.

“You’re becoming rather crotchety in your old age,” Pippin observed, puffing on his pipe. He lowered his voice in imitation of Merry. “Hey, you kids, stop your kissing!”

“I hope those weren’t the two you asked to keep an eye on the boys. We don’t want a repeat of the incident at the city gates.” 

“You should give me more credit,” Pippin said. “I asked Flora to keep an eye on them and she is an altogether more responsible young hobbit than either Beryl or Eddie. Though I must say that I am pleased that Beryl seems to have chosen Edelard for the moment. She was leaning toward Hildebras earlier.” 

“Only a fool puts stock in tweenish romances,” Freddy said, without rancor. It was an old saying in the Shire where tweens fell in and out of love with great frequency.

“Not the first time I’ve been called a fool,” Pippin said. “Still, I can’t help but root for a young cousin, can I?”

“Aren’t they all your cousins?” Merry grumbled. When he had asked hobbits to volunteer to go on this journey, he had been unexpectedly saddled with seemingly every tweenage Took in the Shire. The parents had seemed pleased to get rid of them – Merry supposed he could see the appeal. The tweens could live out their taste for adventure under the eyes of elder relations rather than wandering off on their own. Still, Merry wasn’t thrilled about having to watch over such a great number of youngsters. 

“And yours as well. But Edelard is a good deal closer than Hildebras, being our first cousin once removed, the grandson of my father’s eldest sister Adamanta.” 

Merry winced, as he always did at hearing Aunt Adamanta’s name. The old bird still insisted on pinching his cheeks every time she saw him.

“I know, I know,” Pippin said, catching Merry’s expression. “But you can’t hold the lad’s grandmother’s cheek pinching habit against him. He’s related to you through the Brandybucks as well, Merry. Aunt Adamanta’s husband was a Brandybuck – I believe a second cousin to your father?”

“Second cousin once removed.”

  Gimli looked confused. “If Adamanta’s husband was a Brandybuck, then why is Edelard a Took?” 

“Oh, Eddie’s mother Cynthia married back into the Tooks,” Pippin said, with a negligent wave of his hand. “Though into a rather more distant branch.” 

“Eddie is Cynthie and Leo’s boy?” Merry asked, though of course he should have made the connection earlier. “I would have thought their son would be a little faunt.”

Pippin glared at him. “You’re sounding positively ancient tonight, you know. Oooh –“

Pippin was now snagging another bit of food from a server’s plate. Merry noted that although they seemed to be out of view of the guests, the servers were able to find them.

“A cucumber slice,” Pippin said, wrinkling his nose. He popped it into his mouth. “Not bad though.”

 “And what manner of Took is Hildebras?” Freddy asked, picking up a cucumber slice of his own.

“Oh, one of Diamond’s bunch,” Pippin said. “A North-Took, for sure. That would make him no closer than my fifth or sixth cousin.” 

Freddy raised his eyebrows in Merry’s direction.  Merry knew why. Diamond had installed a number of her North-Took relatives in the Great Smials and the political maneuvering and backbiting between the Tooks and the North-Tooks had become a great source of Shire gossip. It would explain why Pippin was concerning himself with a tweenish romance, at any rate. Hildebras could well have been chosen to go on this journey in order to keep a watch on Pippin and report back to the North-Tooks. The fewer allies the tween had in their company, the better.

“What manner of Took is Beryl again?” Reggie asked. Merry didn’t miss the change in subject. Reggie knew the Took family tree better than Pippin did.

“Oh, she’d be something like a third cousin to me – she’s a descendent of old Gerontius, anyway,” Pippin said.

“Is it common for hobbits to wed someone with the same last name?” Gimli asked, looking a bit flummoxed at all this hobbit genealogy.

“It isn’t uncommon,” Freddy replied. “Especially among the gentry.” 

“Because heaven forbid that the gentry do something less than respectable by marrying outside their class. Or outside a pool of close-ish cousins.” Pippin’s voice was more bitter than his normal wont. He had more reason than most to resent such practices, having been all but forced into an arranged marriage by his parents.

“Dwarves frown on cousin marriages, as a rule,” Gimli said. “Though to each his own, of course.” 

“Really? The Thain’s son is thrice a Took. If you consider North-Tooks to be proper Tooks, which many do not. Still, Diamond’s mother was a Took, her father a North-Took and, of course, Peregrin is a Took.” This last was said by Reggie who perhaps wanted to head off any further awkward comments about cousin marriage from Gimli’s direction. 

The dwarf breathed out a slow sigh. “I didn’t realize that, Pippin.” 

“Oh, yes. Farrie is quite Tookish,” Pippin said, with little hint of his earlier sulkiness. “Mind you, Diamond’s mother is descended from one of old Gerontius’s brothers, which would make us several times removed on that side and even farther on her father’s side --”

But Merry was distracted from this recitation of Took genealogy by a new figure entering the courtyard below. It was a woman in a long, grey dress, walking slowly. Her back was turned to him and her hair covered in the manner often used by married women and widows in Minas Tirith, but Merry didn’t have to see that bright flash of gold to know that it was Éowyn. She had a way of carrying herself, of moving, that was different from other people in a way that Merry couldn’t quite describe.

Merry watched as she stopped to rest a pale hand on a stone bench. There was something melancholy in her mien, but that was nothing new – Éowyn had ever been a melancholy lass. Merry thought back ruefully to their meeting yesterday, the lost faunts. It hadn’t been exactly how he’d envisioned their first encounter in over a decade going, though he wasn’t sure why he’d imagined anything different. Wrangling three faunts and a pack of Tookish tweens wasn’t exactly conducive to having in a private word with Éowyn.

 And it wasn’t that he wanted a private word because he had any illusions that they’d continue their previous dalliance. Even if such a thing were possible, Merry wouldn’t want it – she’d broken his heart so completely the first time.

But they needed to clear the air. It wouldn’t do for him to gape and fumble every time he spoke with her as he’d done in the city yesterday. And it wasn’t as though he could ignore her entirely. Their “friendship” was legendary. It would seem strange if they didn’t so much as speak with one another.

“Merry? Merry?” Merry realized that Pippin had been saying his name for some time. The others were looking at him with expectant faces.

“What?” Merry asked.

“I was just telling Gimli that Estella’s mother was a Took as well which really makes your lads at least half Took – both grandmothers being Tooks and all.” 

“Well, Stella’s mother Rosamunda was a Took for sure and certain,” Merry admitted in a distracted sort of way. “A descendent of old Gerontius, who we call the Old Took, through his son Isembard.” 

“Hildibrand,” Freddy said in a mild voice.

“What?” Merry asked again.

“Stella and I are descended through Hildibrand, not Isembard.” 

“Oh – I beg your pardon, Freddy! Of course you are.” It was terribly boorish to forget part of one’s wife’s family tree. Particularly when said wife’s brother was sitting four feet away.

“Well, you always did confuse us with the Northshore Bolgers,” Freddy said, gazing ruefully at his pipe.

“There are another family of Bolgers who are descended from Isembard Took called the Northshore Bolgers,” Pippin put in, for Gimli’s benefit. “Merry used to confuse the genealogies terribly when he was a faunt. Though I suppose expecting a Brandy Hall lad to remember any genealogy that isn’t scads of Brandybucks is a bit of a fruitless task and – oh stars!”

 This last exclamation came as the figure in the courtyard turned slightly, her face now in profile. Pippin looked at Merry. He was hardly subtle. He might as well have said “and here’s trouble.”

“Isn’t that the lady we met in the city yesterday?” Reggie asked, with interest. “The one who found the lads?”

“Aye,” Gimli said. “Éowyn, the White Lady of Rohan. Wife to Gondor’s late Steward, the Lord Faramir.”   

“Faramir?” Reggie asked, glancing in Pippin’s direction.

“Indeed,” Pippin said, having regained some of his composure. “Farrie is named for him. Faramir was a great friend to we four Travelers, myself in particular. And his brother Boromir saved my life and Merry’s. The lady Éowyn is a friend as well.” 

Merry noticed a certain amount of reluctance in Pippin’s voice at this last proclamation.

“You know,” Merry said. “I have just about finished this pipe and I think that it is high time that we got back to the party. As much as we appreciate the break, Gimli, we are rather the guests of honor.” 

Pippin gave him a sharp look. He must have guessed that Merry intended to speak to Éowyn. There wasn’t much that Pippin couldn’t guess when it came to Merry’s intentions.

But in the end, Pippin decided to go along with Merry’s suggestion. “Well, I for one don’t wish to miss dinner and I suspect that it will be served at any moment.” 

This was met with murmurs of assent all around. The hobbits and the dwarf quickly put away their pipes and began to file out. Pippin briefly paused to place a hand on Merry shoulder, but he said nothing.

Merry almost lost his nerve. He didn’t know why speaking with Éowyn should make him so nervous. Merry was no stranger to the experience of meeting a former lover at a social function– he hadn’t exactly been circumspect in his tween years. He was becoming quite experienced at making polite chitchat with respectable hobbit matrons with whom he’d once shared  tweener romances. Such things were a bit awkward, to be sure, but hardly cause for undue anxiety.

He stopped at the door to the garden and told himself several times he was doing the right thing. It was better to clear the air now than to do so later when they had an audience. He didn’t want a repeat of the incident from yesterday evening with the boys.

She was sitting on a little stone bench overlooking a pond. Merry sighed. She wasn’t unchanged – her face had lost those last traces of girlishness (what hobbits would have called “tweenish edges”) that she’d possessed during the War and she’d taken on a rather stately mien. But she was still beautiful – perhaps even more so than she’d been all those years ago. Or perhaps it was just that the living, breathing Éowyn was better than Merry’s memories of her.

Merry summoned up his courage and spoke.

“Lovely night,” he said.

Éowyn startled and turned. She hadn’t heard him approach, then.

“Merry!” she said and her voice held so much warmth that Merry stepped back. It wasn’t that he’d expected her to be cold, exactly, but – well, he didn’t know what he would do with himself if she kept sounding like that.

  “Éowyn,” Merry tried to make his own voice sound reserved, but it came out sounding more cautious.

Éowyn straightened her shoulders, seeming to gather herself together. “Won’t you sit down?” she asked, gesturing at the empty seat at her side. Her voice sounded more formal than her first exclamation. Good. That was good.

“Sure,” Merry said. He had to climb up onto the bench beside her. That was true of most benches in Minas Tirith, but Merry was more aware of it with Éowyn’s eyes on him.

“Enjoying your party?” Éowyn asked as he settled himself on the bench.

“My party?”

“Well. The King is having it for you and Pippin more or less.” 

“It’s nice,” Merry said. “Though Pippin wants feeding.”

Éowyn laughed. “Some things never change.” 

“I’m … glad that I caught you here,” Merry said. “I wanted to talk.” 

“Oh?” Éowyn looked out at the garden. She seemed suddenly far away.

“I – yes.” Now that he was here, Merry wasn’t sure what he was going to say. He should have planned that part of this little encounter better.  “It’s just – you and I were once close.”

A wry smile touched Éowyn’s lips. Merry plunged ahead.

“We were once close, as I said, though I think it’s fair to say that we’ve grown apart over the last years. I suppose I want things to be normal between us.” 

Éowyn raised her brows. “Normal?” 

“Natural. Not awkward.” 

“Not like yesterday,” Éowyn supplied. 

“Well. Exactly.”  Merry felt foolish. He knew that their little romance had never held the same significance for Éowyn as it did for himself. This conversation probably seemed entirely unnecessary from her perspective. It wasn’t as if she’d been desperately besotted with him. He wondered how Éowyn did see him. As a cute little friend who gave her a few tumbles in her youth?

She sighed. “I have no wish to cause you discomfort, Meriadoc.” 

“It’s not – you don’t,” Merry said. “I mean, Pippin and I were both very grateful that you found the lads, of course. But you did rather take me by surprise. Of course, those two boys could have gotten in any amount of trouble if you hadn’t distracted them. In fact, I should probably go check on them soon.”

“They’re holding court inside,” Éowyn said.

“What?” 

“Your boys. They’re inside telling any number of amusing anecdotes about the Shire and your journey here to anyone who will listen. And many are listening. They have more people fawning over them than the King and Queen. That’s why I said they’re ‘holding court.’” 

Oh, for the love of – I suppose I should go see to that.” 

“Don’t,” Éowyn said, placing a hand on his arm to stall him. “They’re having a grand time and they aren’t hurting anyone. Besides, they have a minder. A very responsible looking young hobbit lady was keeping an eye on them.” 

“Yes, well …” 

“They keep you on your toes, don’t they?” she asked as Merry trailed off.

“They can be a bit high strung, yes,” Merry said, with a sigh. “I have difficulty denying my two anything since their mother died. I’m afraid that they are becoming spoiled.”

“I think they’re charming,” Éowyn said.

“I can’t deny that. But I still worry.” 

“It can be difficult to raise children on your own.” Éowyn looked away as she said this.

“Yes. Are your children here, by the way? I should like to meet them.” This statement wasn’t quite accurate. Merry had never relished the thought of Éowyn having children with Faramir – he’d still been very much in love with her when said children were born. Still, it seemed the polite thing to say.

“And they should like very much to meet you. And yes, they are here somewhere. I’m afraid that they are of an age where they would rather spend time with their friends than with their mother, however.”

“That just leaves more time for you to spend with the rest of us then,” Merry said and then he blushed. He had meant the comment as a polite nothing, but now that he thought on it, it did sound a bit forward.

But Éowyn just laughed. “Hopefully. Though my children are most eager to meet hobbits, I can assure you. All the children in the city are. You are stories to them.” 

“We’ve certainly brought enough hobbits to satisfy their curiosity,” Merry said. “I feel as though I go from one disaster to another – the tweens are little better than the faunts. Do you happen to have any advice for dealing with unruly children?”

“I’m not the right person to ask. My own children are so well-behaved.”  From anyone else this would have sounded like bragging, but Éowyn wrinkled her nose as if she were almost disappointed that her children were well-behaved.    “Perhaps you should have a word with Éomer when you visit Rohan. His children are holy terrors, but they fall in line easily enough when he gives them a certain look.”

Merry chuckled. “Well he would be the expert on such matters. Is it six children now?”

“Lothíriel is expecting their seventh.”

“That’s a generous family even by hobbit standards.  He’ll pass Sam at the rate he’s going.” 

“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

At that moment, Merry heard gentle chimes coming from the Citadel. 

“That would be the dinner bell,” Éowyn said.

“That’s the dinner bell? It sounds like wind chimes.” 

“The Queen favors them.” 

“Well.” Merry looked at Éowyn regretfully. He hadn’t been looking forward to this meeting, but it had actually been nice to talk to her again. He’d missed talking to her.

“We’ll be wanted at dinner,’ Éowyn said. “Though I’m afraid we didn’t really discuss the matter that you broached earlier.” 

“What?” Merry asked, his previous purpose having completely slipped his mind.

“You wished our interactions to be more natural?”

“Oh. Yes. Well, we were doing all right a moment ago.” Now that Merry thought on it, bringing up the fact that they were awkward together seemed a sure way to exacerbate any discomfort.

Éowyn sighed. She seemed to consider her words carefully before speaking again. “Are we friends, Merry?”

This question caught Merry off guard. He didn’t want to consider a world where Éowyn wasn’t his friend. On the other hand, they hadn’t exactly kept up much of a friendship during the past twelve odd years. Merry shared a detailed correspondence with Éomer, who wrote surprisingly fascinating letters. He wrote to Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli at least once a month. But he and Éowyn had exchanged only a bare handful of letters since the War ended. And most of those letters had been rather formal exchanges of the sort that Merry might write in his capacity as Master of Buckland.

“I would like for us to be friends,” Merry answered.

“I would like that as well.” She squeezed his hand, briefly.

Merry shot her a half-smile.

Éowyn gave him a serious look. “I’m sorry if I caused you pain back then. I was … young.”

Merry gaped at her. He hadn’t expected her to reference their dalliance, however obliquely. “Oh, I like to think that things turned out well in the end,” he managed, after a pause.

And things had turned out well enough for Merry. He was happy – or at least, he’d been happy before Stella died unexpectedly over a year ago.  He’d had the Shire, his beautiful sons, and his devoted wife. He was the most celebrated Master of Buckland in generations. He’d had the life that he’d always known would be his. And he’d been grateful. If only Frodo had been able to stay in the Shire, Merry’s happiness would have been very nearly complete. 

Merry sometimes wondered if he could have been as happy if he’d seriously pursued things with Éowyn. Somehow, he didn’t think so. Even assuming that she would have allowed any sort of public courtship (and that was a big assumption), Merry was shrewd enough to realize that things were never easy for couples who were not of the same race. Before the War of the Ring, most hobbits had rarely thought of Big People at all. But with everything that happened during the Troubles, many hobbits now viewed Big Folk with fear or disdain. Merry’s people wouldn’t have thanked him for bringing home Éowyn as a wife.    

As for what Éowyn’s people would have thought – well, Merry was afraid they’d have treated it as a joke. This wouldn’t have bothered him much, but Éowyn didn’t strike him as the type of lass who would take well to being the punchline of idle jokes. Yes, it was best that things had turned out as they had. 

They spoke only a little longer before going back inside.

Chapter Text

Merry leans against a wall and clutches at his shoulder. His sword-arm has gone completely numb and the coldness is moving up into his shoulder – something that has not happened since the first days of his injury. Merry has noticed that the injury seems to flare up whenever he is distressed.

On the other side of the wall, a cheer goes up. It is getting late and Éowyn’s wedding guests are becoming more raucous in their celebration. Merry thinks that he may faint.

Someone places a hand on his shoulder and grabs him under the arm, steadying him. Pippin.

“Merry! Merry!” Pippin’s voice seems far away. “Are you unwell?” 

Merry manages to straighten himself and give Pippin a shaky smile.

“Just feeling under the weather, Pip. My arm has gone strange.” 

Pippin looks at him with wide eyes. “Shall I fetch a healer?” 

“No, no,” Merry says, wishing that he’d brought some of the poultices that he used to treat his arm. “It’ll pass. I just need …” he trailed off.

“You need a quiet place to sit down,” Pippin says, clucking his tongue like a mother hen. He walks down the hallway, opening doors with abandon, and peeking inside. “Ah, this will do,” he says of a room at the end of the hall. He takes Merry by the arm and escorts him down the hall to what Merry soon sees is a small sitting room. Merry climbs into an overstuffed man-sized chair and allows himself to sink back into the cushions. Pippin busies himself lighting candles, for it is near dark outside.

“Now,” Pippin says. “You need something to drink. They have tea outside and mulled wine. I’m afraid that the ale might be a bit much for you at this time.” 

Merry opens his mouth to tell Pippin to leave off, but as he thinks on it, he decides that a drink might be bracing.

“Mulled wine would lovely, lad. I don’t much care for what passes for tea in this city.”

Pippin leaves and Merry sits in silence for awhile. The candles cast a strange glow, creating long shadows everywhere. Merry watches the flames flicker. The room is small by the standards of the Citadel and Merry wonders if they have helped themselves to someone’s private sitting room. Too late to worry now.

Presently, Pippin returns, carrying two metal goblets, one of which he gives to Merry. Merry clutches it awkwardly in both hands – it is not sized for hobbit hands. Everything is too big for him here. Merry finds himself longing fiercely for the Shire.

The mulled wine is good, though. Merry takes several sips as Pippin watches him with an overly concerned look on his face.

“There’s a hearth,” Pippin says, at last. “Shall I build a fire?” 

“No. It’s not cold.” Merry knows this statement to be true, but his arm still feels like a block of ice.    

 Pippin sits down, nursing his goblet awkwardly. “Merry. You must tell me what’s wrong.” 

“I told you. The injury is flaring up.” Merry isn’t even sure that the trouble with his arm can properly be termed an “injury.” There was no marring of the skin, no breaking of bone or flesh. Just an arm that goes cold and numb until it feels it will overtake his whole body.

“You must tell me why you were looking at Éowyn like that at the ceremony, Merry,” Pippin whispers, almost as if he is afraid of the answer. 

Merry looks away. “No. I don’t think I’ll do that.” 

“Merry!”

“Pippin!”

Pippin sat up very straight as if gathering up his courage. “Now, see here. You’re not well and it obviously has something to do with Éowyn. If you don’t tell me what is the matter, then I’ll just have to have Frodo speak with you.”

“Pippin!”

“Merry!”

“Pippin, you know perfectly well that you cannot go bothering Frodo with all our little problems as we used to. He’s in delicate health. We don’t want anything upsetting him.” 

“Well, now I’m afraid that you’re not well. And Frodo would want to know if you weren’t well. So, if you won’t tell me, then I’ll just have to take it to Frodo. He’s the only one you listen to, anyway.”

Merry glances toward the door.

“No, I’m not going to find him right this minute,” Pippin says, reading Merry’s mind. “He’s likely asleep anyway. You know how early he goes to bed these days. But soon, Meriadoc.”  

“Pippin … you can’t …”

Pippin leans forward. “Then just tell me. I just want to take care of you, but I can’t if you hide everything. Tell me what’s wrong and why the injury has flared up just now. Tell me why you were looking at Éowyn like that during the ceremony.” 

“Why do you think I was looking at Éowyn like that during the ceremony?” Merry bursts out, finally exasperated.

“You have an infatuation with Éowyn?” Pippin suggests this possibility as if he expects  it not to be true, but at Merry’s look, he collects himself. “Oh. You do? But you know she’s married to Faramir, Merry.” 

“Yes, I’m aware,” Merry says, a bit more harshly than he’d intended.

“Oh … but is that all? I thought it must be something worse than an infatuation. You know, we’ve all fancied someone we couldn’t have before. It will pass. We’ll find you a nice lass when we get back to the Shire. Of course, you and Éowyn have been through so much together and I suppose she’s pretty enough to look at – I’ve never really thought on it before, her being a Big Person and all. But there are lots of lasses who – ooh! What about Honeydew Bracegirdle?” 

“What?”

“Honeydew Bracegirdle. She’s mad about you. And she sings like a lark. And she’s pretty. And she bakes the best pies in the Westfarthing.” 

Merry snorts at this description of Honeydew’s  apparent assets. In truth, he can barely remember the girl Pippin is talking about. “She sounds like a match for you. And I’m not exactly keen on the Bracegirdles.”

“Alright,” Pippin says, unfazed. “What about Ruby Coppertoes?” 

“Pippin!” Merry says, a bit scandalized. “Ruby Coppertoes is not gentry.” 

“Don’t be such a snob.”

“You know good and well that my father would never let me marry Ruby Coppertoes.” 

“Who said anything about marriage? I thought we were looking for a lass to give you a good tumble.” 

Merry glares at him. “Don’t be crude.”

“Alright, alright,” Pippin relents. “You’ll have to excuse me. I didn’t realize that you were searching for the future Mistress of Buckland. You’ve certainly never shown any sign of doing something so dreadful before now. What about one of my sisters then? I think Nell is still a bit keen on you from your tweening days.”

Merry leans back in his chair. The dizzy feeling he’d had earlier has mostly faded and been replaced by annoyance with Pippin. “Peregrin Took. If you ever try to match me with one of your sisters again, then I shall be forced to take extreme measures.” 

Merry had tweened a bit with all three of Pippin’s sisters. He and Pimpernel, in particular, had shared quite the tweenish romance – one that Merry was in no hurry to repeat in his adult years. He and Nell had never mixed particularly well, her explosive temper butting up against his stubbornness and what Nell used to call his “scheming.”

“Fine,” Pippin says. “What about Emelia Boffin? I hear she’s on the prowl for a husband.” 

“And likely to be married before we make it home. No.” 

“Angelica Baggins? Some reckon her the prettiest lass in the Shire.” 

“And none more than Angelica herself. No.” 

“Amber Whittoes?”

“Is still a tween. No.” 

“Celandine Brandybuck?”

“Has her eye on another lad. No.”

“Sapphire Took?”

“Pippin. Stop.”

“Estella Bolger?”

“Pippin!” 

“Blossom Proudfoot?”

“Pippin! You aren’t going to make me love Éowyn less through matchmaking!”

Merry flushes. He hadn’t meant this last statement to come out sounding so emphatic.

Pippin glances toward the door, perhaps afraid that they’ve been overheard. After a moment, he leans forward and grips Merry’s arm. “You know that your father wouldn’t approve of Éowyn, don’t you?”

This last was said with a teasing sort of smile with just a hint of sadness to take the edge off his words.

“It wasn’t unreciprocated,” Merry says, suddenly realizing one of the things that has been bothering him about Pippin’s reaction. “With Éowyn. That’s what you think, isn’t it? That this is some fancy that exists only in my mind. Well, it’s not.”

“Oh,” Pippin says and Merry can see that he’s hit the mark. “So it was reciprocated? There were … flirtations on her end?” 

“I’ve bedded her,” Merry says, flatly.

“Oh.” Pippin’s eyes are very wide. ”I – I see.”

“Even you can’t believe it.” Merry hides his face in his hands. “Is it really that difficult to believe that she could desire me?” 

“What? No. Is that what you think? That you’re not good enough for her or some such nonsense? Where’s that Brandybuck pride? No, it’s just … surprising on many levels.” 

Pippin seems to fall deep into thought – an unusual state for him. Merry sighs and rubs at his shoulder. His arm feels considerably better.

“It’s not still going on, is it?” Pippin asks, finally.

Merry drains the last of the mulled wine, the taste of spices lingering on his tongue. “No. It’s not still going on.”

“Oh,” Pippin sits back, his voice betraying considerable relief. “That’s probably for the best, Merry. Her being married to Faramir and all.” 

Merry snorts.

“So … did you end it or did she?” 

“Well, when I learned she was betrothed to Faramir, it put a real damper on the lovemaking,” Merry snaps.

Pippin shakes his head. “Oh, Merry.” 

It suddenly occurs to Merry that Pippin will probably feel torn between his considerable admiration for Faramir and his loyalty to Merry. Merry takes pity on his cousin.

“I don’t think Faramir even knew about me and Éowyn, if that makes a difference.”    

“Hm. Well, I think she’s treated you very poorly if you want to know the truth,” Pippin says.

“She has not! She never made me any promises. I shouldn’t even be speaking of her in this way. It’s not proper to bring up a lass’s past dalliances on her wedding day.” 

“She led you on.” 

“You don’t know anything about it. She didn’t treat me any differently than I’ve treated many lasses. It just meant more to me than to her, I suppose.”

Pippin looks at him with that same worried expression.

“Oh, don’t take on so,” Merry says. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I cared for her quite a bit, but I’ve never heard of a hobbit dying of a broken heart. We’re made of sterner stuff.”

Pippin sighs. “Yes.”

***    

Éowyn parted from Merry with a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. It was a feeling she remembered well. Merry had always had the ability to make her smile at nothing. The party was rather slowly moving in the direction of the banquet hall. There were usually large number of people present and this gave the whole proceeding an air of disorganization that one didn’t usually see in Minas Tirith.

Éowyn searched for her children, politely evading several courtiers along the way. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of several young hobbits dancing a jig, apparently having missed the call to dinner. She grinned to herself. The presence of so many hobbits would certainly liven the city up. She was watching this jolly scene and not watching her own steps when she slammed headfirst into another woman.

“Oh! I beg your pardon,” Éowyn said, before catching a glimpse of the other woman’s face. “Oh. Vedra!”

For it was Vedra – the woman with the little seed shop that Éowyn often visited. As Éowyn’s mind tried to adjust to seeing her in such an unlikely place, Vedra dropped into a quick curtsy.

“My lady,” her face was very flushed, though Éowyn didn’t see that there was so much to be embarrassed about. “Forgive me. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” 

“No, no,” Éowyn said. “It was I who was clumsy. It is good to see you here.” 

“Yes, well … my children begged it of me. They wanted to see hobbits.” 

“Like all the others then,” Éowyn said, but her mind whirled. Vedra had children? Why had she never mentioned as much? It wasn’t as though they were good friends, but Éowyn was certain that she’d spoken of her own children to Vedra any number of times.

Éowyn was suddenly aware that the tall girl standing next to Vedra must be her daughter. There was a certain family resemblance –she had Vedra’s large eyes, dark skin, and slender limbs, though she was about half a head taller than her mother. She couldn’t have had more than sixteen summers despite her height.

“Is this your daughter?” Éowyn asked as the girl scowled at her in a rather alarming fashion.

 “Ah … yes. This is my middle daughter, Rayeal. My eldest daughter and my son are somewhere about. Rayeal, this is the Lady Éowyn.”

“Hello,” Rayeal said in such a sullen manner that Éowyn was taken aback.

“Very nice to meet you, Rayeal,” Éowyn said, deciding that politeness was the best tactic.

There was an awkward silence.

“You’ll have to excuse her, my lady,” Vedra finally said. “Rayeal is nervous in the presence of so many fine people. I usually decline any invitations from the Citadel and so she has never had the opportunity to develop courtly manners.”

“You receive invitations from the Citadel often?” Éowyn asked, raising her eyebrows. This was perplexing. Vedra wasn’t nobility, Éowyn would have betted as much. Éowyn didn’t think that the woman performed any sort of special services for the Crown.  So why would she receive multiple invitations from the Citadel – invitations which she apparently declined?

Vedra flushed. “The King and Queen are very kind.” 

Was she some sort of special friend of the King and Queen then? Éowyn was still speculating when the girl at Vedra’s side spoke again. “We should go into the main hall, Mother. Dinner is about to start.” 

“Of course.” Vedra gave Éowyn an apologetic smile. “If you’ll excuse us, my lady.”

Éowyn nodded. She was still staring at their retreating backs when she heard her own daughter calling her. Éowyn whirled around to see both of her own children walking toward her, smiles on their faces.

“There you are, Mother,” Elboran said. “We’ve been looking for you.” 

“It’s almost time for dinner,” said Elithiel. “It would be best if we go in together, especially since we’re sitting at the High Table.” 

“Yes,” Éowyn said, a bit defensive. “I was going to suggest as much.”  Who was the parent here anyway?

She consoled herself by smoothing down Elboran’s hair in appropriately motherly fashion, though in truth his hair was barely mussed at all.

“Did you get to see hobbits?” She asked, this being nearly all she had heard from her children for the last week.

“Oh, yes,” Elboran said, with a grin. “Some of them taught a few of us lads how to play a game called ‘marbles.’”

“Though we still haven’t been introduced to your friends, Mother,” Elithiel said in a rather pointed fashion. “We heard about you sneaking off to the market without us to meet them yesterday.” 

“Sneaking? Sneaking?! Elithiel, I am a daughter of the House of Eorl. I do not sneak.”

 Elboran shot Éowyn a look that could only be described as skeptical while Elithiel rolled her eyes.

“I went down to the market to buy gardening supplies. Running into the hobbits was an accident. And I would point out that the two of you would have been able to see hobbits yesterday if either of you’d deigned to help your mother with her errands.”

Both of her children had the grace to look abashed.

“You’re right, of course, Mother,” Elboran said. “But let’s get into the Great Hall. We’re almost the last ones left here.” 

Éowyn looked around and saw that her son was correct. The room had cleared out remarkably quickly, everyone heading in the direction of the Great Hall.

Éowyn led her children into the Great Hall, finding that most of the formality and order that usually accompanied such events in Minas Tirith had been discarded and that folk were making their way to seats in a rather disorderly fashion. Éowyn was surprised by the sheer number of people present. She had seen the Great Hall this full before, but never in the summer months when many of the nobles left the hot, crowded city for their country estates.

Six huge tables ran the length of the Hall and the high table sat upon a dais. There was an unusual amount of greenery on the tables, wrapped around chairs, and even hanging down from the tall ceilings. Éowyn thought that this was likely an attempt to appeal to the hobbitish love of plants. The evening sun streamed through the windows and cast a golden glow over the proceedings that was echoed in the small lanterns on the tables. All in all, the Great Hall seemed much less cold and imposing than usual.

A retainer soon spotted Éowyn and her children and led them to their places at the high table where most of the notable guests were already seated. Éowyn noticed that folk had been seated on both sides of the high table which was not the usual way of things and which doubled the number of people who could sit there. Éowyn was rather disappointed to find that she wasn’t seated near enough to Merry to easily speak with him.

The hobbits were all in their seats, apparently eagerly awaiting dinner. Merry, Pippin, their sons, and a couple of other adult hobbits had been seated at the high table with the others forming a contingent near of the head of one of the long tables. Tall chairs, apparently made to purpose, had been provided so that the hobbits would be able to see over the edge of the table.

 Éowyn couldn’t help but peek down the table at Merry. He appeared quite at his ease now and was easily chatting with a hobbit seated to his left while also fending off questions from his youngest son who was seated to his right. Éowyn found that she was glad that Merry had approached her in the gardens earlier. Now, she could enjoy his visit without worrying that he was still harboring resentments. Because however much Éowyn had tried to make things right, she knew that Merry had been hurt by her quick marriage to Faramir thirteen years ago. She had been glad to learn that enough time had passed that she and Merry could comfortably be friends. She’d always cared a great deal for him.

Merry caught her looking at him and he grinned and winked before turning his attention back to his companions. Éowyn flushed and looked away, turning to her own children. Elboran had been seated on her right and Elithithiel across the table from her. As Éowyn studied the layout more closely, she realized that little Princess Meren would be seated to her left which meant that Éowyn would effectively be sitting next to the Queen. She inwardly groaned. Usually, Arwen was seated next to her maidens.

It wasn’t that Éowyn disliked Arwen, exactly. The Queen was the type of person who was hard to dislike. It was more that Arwen had the uncanny ability to make Éowyn feel like an ungainly teenager. Éowyn wasn’t sure why she often felt this way around Arwen– perhaps it was just that general quality of elven agelessness. Or perhaps it was the Queen’s ability to see things in a different way from other folk – to see the heart of things.

As was usual, the royal family were the last to enter the hall, the guests all standing as the King, Queen, and two little princesses swept into the room. As was rather common for the royal family at grand occasions, they were all attired in similar colors and fabrics – this time in a bright, summery blue with cream colored accents. The effect was striking, but it was a practice that had always made Éowyn feel uneasy. Admittedly, this could have been because she was afraid that folk would expect her to start finding matching clothing for her family. Surely, outfitting two growing children for the Gondorian court was difficult enough without being forced into such measures. Still, a few of the noble families had taken to emulating the royals in this fashion – at one table there was a family of about a dozen all dressed in blinding pink.

Aragorn made a mercifully short speech before they fell to feasting. Éowyn noted that the king immediately struck up an animated conversation with both Merry and Pippin. She supposed that the seating was arranged in the way it was to allow Aragorn to easily converse with his old friends. Rarely had she seen the king look so relaxed.

The food was plentiful and extravagant. There was wild boar, stuffed pheasant, delicate fish in a lemony sauce, various fruits swimming in honey, huge meat pies, dainty salads of mixed greens, and more – Éowyn rather lost track of the many dishes that were offered to her. She found the variety of food a bit overwhelming even by the standards of a great feast.

Just as Éowyn was beginning to feel that she couldn’t eat much more, Arwen caught her eye over the little princess’s head.

“And how are you enjoying our little party, Lady Éowyn?” she asked.

“Well enough,” Éowyn said. “There are a great many people here for a summer occasion.” 

“Indeed,” Arwen said. “I am quite pleased with the attendance.” 

The queen then turned to Elithiel and addressed her as if she were an adult. “And you, Lady Elithiel? Do you find the feast to your liking?”

“Oh, very much, Your Majesty,” Elithiel said. “The Great Hall looks marvelous tonight. Do I recognize your handiwork there?” Elithiel pointed to the lovely green tapestry hanging on the wall behind them. It appeared to have a garden motif rather than the usual white tree of Gondor. Éowyn realized that Elithiel must be right – Arwen was well known for her embroidery skills and the finest of such work could nearly always be attributed to the queen.

Arwen laughed, delighted. “Why, yes. I did much of the embroidery – though my maidens helped me a good deal.”

There followed a long conversation on the subject of embroidery during which Éowyn’s eyes began to glaze over. She’d never been much on embroidery, though Elithiel was rather good at it – Elithiel had a talent for making pretty fripperies generally. Éowyn had wasted more money on paints and paintbrushes than she cared to think about.

“I am glad that I had a chance to speak with you and your mother, my dear,” Arwen said to Elithiel, after some time.

“Oh?” Éowyn asked, a bit suspicious. It clearly wasn’t a coincidence that they were sitting together.

“Yes. I am now down to just three maidens – a couple of my girls have gotten married and another is leaving to attend to family duties in the south. I need replacements and I hope that Elithiel will do me the honor of being one of them.” 

Elithiel immediately sat up straight. Éowyn sipped at her wine to hide her surprise. She should have seen it coming. The maidens. Women of Arwen’s rank generally surrounded themselves with female courtiers, but the Queen was a bit unusual in that those she kept closest were a group of unmarried women who ranged in age from about thirteen to about twenty-five. Though many of the Queen’s “maidens” were of high birth, this didn’t seem to be a requirement for position and even peasant girls had been known to be among Arwen’s maidens.

Éowyn had never understood why a grown woman would want to surround herself with such a large number of prattling teenagers, but as the girls themselves always looked at Arwen with expressions of wide-eyed hero worship, she supposed that the Queen was kind enough to them.

“Elithiel is young for such a big responsibility,” Éowyn said, at last. She couldn’t think of a polite way to immediately decline, but she wanted to make her reservations clear.

“Mother plea --” Elithiel stopped abruptly at a look from Éowyn.

“I know that she is young,” Arwen said. “But I am impressed at what I see from her. It seems to me that you have raised a charming and responsible young woman, Lady Éowyn. Surely she will be a credit to your house if you allow her to serve in this post.”

Éowyn drained the last of her wine. She knew that some of the ladies spent years trying to maneuver their daughters into such a position. The maidens had the Queen’s ear, after all, and many of them retained a friendship with Arwen even after leaving her service. She couldn’t say why she didn’t want Elithiel to do it other than the thought of her daughter trailing after Arwen like a loyal puppy made her feel uneasy. Perhaps she was too proud.

“It is a great honor,” Éowyn said. “But I shall have to consider whether I can stand to part with Elithiel. I have only her and her brother in my household.” 

Arwen nodded her head. The maidens all lived together in a special wing of the Citadel. “I understand. But Elithiel would not be going far and you could see her whenever you like.” 

With that, the Queen turned the conversation to other matters and Éowyn found her attention wandering again. She glanced towards Merry’s end of the table to find the hobbits laughing loudly at some joke. She noted that Theo and Farrie were eating their desserts with perfect table manners –a far sight from the little ragamuffins she’d witnessed cramming pastries into their mouths only just yesterday. Merry’s  youngest son Barry had climbed onto Merry’s lap and fallen asleep. Éowyn found the picture of the two of them oddly touching. Any Gondorian man would have handed a sleepy child off to a nurse or a female relative by now. Or any Rohirric man, for that matter. But Merry just lightly stroked his son’s curls and chatted over his head with the King of Gondor.

Éowyn turned away before Merry could catch her staring again. She scanned the Great Hall, looking over the happy feast-goers until her eyes lit on Vedra sitting with three youngsters that Éowyn assumed must be her children. The oldest girl must have been eighteen or nineteen while the boy looked about the same age as Elithiel and Elboran. And then there was the sullen Rayael whom Éowyn had met earlier. Éowyn saw no man with them and Vedra had never mentioned a husband. Given Vedra’s age that wouldn’t be unusual – there were many war widows in city. Still, something nagged at Éowyn.

“Your Majesty,” Éowyn said to Arwen, in a low voice. “I wonder if you might know who that woman is?”

“Who?” Arwen asked. As Éowyn pointed Vedra out, she fancied that Arwen’s expression grew shuttered.

“Vedra?” Arwen asked. “She’s a woman of the city. She runs a shop down in the Third Circle – sells tools, I believe.” 

“Gardening supplies,” Éowyn said. “I’ve been to her shop. I was wondering how she got invited tonight. I don’t think she’s nobility.” 

“There are many here who aren’t nobility, Lady Éowyn.” 

“Yes,” Éowyn pressed. “And yet you can’t invite the whole city – the Great Hall wouldn’t hold them all. There must be some reason that Vedra, in particular, was invited. Does she sell to the Citadel? She intimated that she’s received invitations in the past.”

“Not that I know of,” Arwen said. She was giving Éowyn a very assessing sort of look. “Tell me. Do you have some sort of issue with her presence?” 

“No, no,” Éowyn said, a bit confused. “Not at all. I just rather like her and I didn’t know that she had ties to the Citadel.”

“Ah.” Arwen carefully put down her fork. “I find that your race has some peculiar ideas, Lady Éowyn. For example, many men seem to believe that some matters are too delicate for the ears of ladies. And especially too delicate for two ladies of high rank to discuss at table. Though one wonders the sensibilities of ladies are truly the first concern of such men.” 

Éowyn tried to puzzle through this for several seconds.

“Are you saying that she’s someone’s mistress?”

“Eowyn!” Arwen exclaimed and Éowyn realized that she’d spoken a tad too loudly.

“Who is someone’s mistress?” Elithiel asked, craning her neck to look around the room.

“No one. Eat your cake,” Éowyn said, immediately.  

Someone’s mistress then. Éowyn supposed that made a certain degree of sense, though Vedra didn’t particularly strike her as the court mistress type. Once Elithiel went back to talking to her brother, Arwen leaned over to speak to Éowyn again.

“It is interesting that you should bring up Vedra,” Arwen said. “I’ve just asked her daughter Rayael to be one of my maidens and the girl has accepted. If Elithiel accepts my offer as well, then they shall be maidens together.” 

This was only getting more and more perplexing. It was well known that Arwen disapproved of the once common practice of lords bringing their mistresses to court and waving them underneath their wives’ noses. She had strongly hinted that Vedra was someone’s mistress and yet she was inviting Vedra’s daughter to be one of her treasured maidens? And hadn’t Vedra hinted that those invitations to the Citadel came from the Queen? And the girl Rayael – Éowyn knew that Arwen only picked maidens in whom she saw some special spark, often passing over highly ranked girls who felt they should have to honor. But Rayael had struck Éowyn as sullen and even uncouth – not qualities that Arwen usually looked for in a maiden. 

“I should like to be careful about Elithiel’s companions,” Éowyn said, at last. “She is approaching a certain age.” 

Arwen gave her a cool look. “All of my maidens are fine company for a young lady. Rayael’s mother has a past, but I have determined that her heart is truer than most and I believe the daughter has something special as well.”

“Off course, Your Majesty,” Éowyn said, not wanting to get into a fight with Arwen about her maidens. She had forgotten about the Queen going on about how “special” they all were. “I shall give this matter consideration.” 

“Naturally,” Arwen said, back to her gracious self in an instant. “I shouldn’t expect you to reply right away.”    

 The feast was nearly over and Éowyn found that she hadn’t much appetite left. Some of the younger men and women were beginning to look excited for the dancing that was to come, but Éowyn found herself dreading the event. She always dreaded the dancing. She had acquired a reputation for fiercely refusing all partners.

After Faramir died, any number of men had decided that wooing the Steward’s young widow was a quick way to power and prestige. Éowyn had found it necessary to rebuff some of them quite forcefully. Since asking for a dance was one of their favored courting techniques, she’d been forced to refuse all dances.

Éowyn didn’t miss dancing – she’d always rather disliked the way some men took a dance as an excuse to paw at her – but she also didn’t like the feeling of standing alone in a corner like some forgotten old widow. Dancing wasn’t necessarily connected with romantic intention, but Éowyn had been forced to turn away even the dance partners with pure intentions for fear of showing favoritism.

A few of the feasters were leaving early, as was usual at these types of events. Often, older folks and families with young children would retire early, skipping the dancing. Éowyn noticed that more than the usual number of guests seemed to be moving in the direction of the ballroom, however. Apparently, no one wanted the fun to end.

Éowyn had never possessed a particular eye for architecture, but even she had always admired the Citadel’s ballroom. It was huge, grand, and old like so much else in Minas Tirith, but it seemed to have been made with even more of an eye to elegance than much of the rest of the city. Black and white marble formed exquisite patterns on the floors and up the walls, ending in a high vaulted ceiling. Huge chandeliers managed to produce so much light that the room was nearly as bight at night as it would have been in the daytime. Éowyn had never quite grasped the trick of this. She rather suspected that elves had a hand in the design of this room, though she wasn’t sure of this.

 As the musicians struck up a grand opening tune, Éowyn felt a tinge of melancholy. She might not be a great fan of dancing in a general sense, but she’d always rather enjoyed the first dance of the night when the married men would traditionally escort their ladies onto the floor. Faramir had been a fine dancer and Éowyn had never minded dancing with him.

The dancers began swirling around the ballroom, the colorful gowns of the ladies swishing and swooshing across the tiled floor in a dizzying fashion. A few hobbit couples took to the dancing almost immediately and though they didn’t seem to know the proper steps, they ambled through with good cheer. Éowyn watched as Merry escorted young hobbit lass onto the dance floor with the air of an elder relative indulging a youngster. He was quite a good dancer if Éowyn was any judge, though she soon lost sight of him amid the larger dancers.

“My lady, would you honor me with a dance?” a voice said from behind her.

Éowyn turned to rebuff the offer and saw that it was addressed not at her, but at Elithiel, who was standing behind her.

“She’s thirteen,” Éowyn said, before her daughter could answer. This had happened at the last event she’d attended with her Elithiel. A man who must have been well into his thirties had asked Elithiel for a dance just as bold as anything. It made Éowyn feel sick to her stomach to think of grown men flirting with girls as young as Elithiel. Underage girls typically only danced with family members or with boys their own age.

“Mother!” Elithiel exclaimed.

“My lady.” The young man sputtered at being addressed by Éowyn. His eyes grew wider and his face took on an expression that told Éowyn that he had just recognized her. “I’m … er … only fourteen.” 

Éowyn studied the lad closely and realized that he was probably telling the truth. His beginnings of a beard combined with his height had caused her to think he was older than her really was.

“Hm. Very well. If that’s acceptable to Elithiel, that is,” Éowyn said.

“Yes! Thank you, Mother,” Elithiel said. She grabbed the lad’s hand and practically yanked him onto the dance floor.

Éowyn watched her daughter dance with the lad with some amusement. It seemed Elithiel’s dancing lessons had paid off – she was quite good, if a little exuberant. Elboran watched his sister with a bored expression before being whisked off by some of his friends. Éowyn knew that some of the boys liked to practice swordplay with blunt blades outside and she supposed that this must be what her son was up to. She knew that her children were old enough that she didn’t need to keep her eyes constantly on them, but every time she found her mind drifting from her motherly duties, her eyes seemed to find Merry. He was dancing with another hobbit lady and seemed to be having a lively time of it. Éowyn suddenly wished that she’d cultivated more of a friendship with some of the ladies at court so that they would say more than a polite word. She needed something to occupy her mind.

“Ahem,” someone said at Éowyn’s side. She turned to see Peregrin Took looking up at her.

“Sir Peregrin,” she said, formally. 

He bowed low. “My lady. You are keeping to the shadows tonight.” 

She shivered at his odd turn of phrase. “I’m afraid I haven’t much interest in dancing these days,” she said.

“No? I figured that you’d be in high demand. Are your children here? I’d thought to introduce myself.”

“They’re here, they’re just currently engaged in my own pursuits. That’s my daughter, there.” Éowyn pointed out Elithiel who was currently twirling around the dance floor with yet another young lad.  

Pippin raised his eyebrows. “That tall girl? Yes, I see the resemblance. Still, time moves quickly, doesn’t  it? I was looking among the children.” 

“Elithiel is a child,” Éowyn said. “She’s just tall for her age.” 

“Funny how that happens sometimes. Many of the Tooks grow quite tall quite early – tall for a hobbit, I mean. Though my Cora is just a little mite of a thing. I was always a small faunt, though few believe it now.” 

“You didn’t bring your daughter to the city?” Éowyn couldn’t remember seeing a small hobbit girl among the guests at dinner. 

“No, no. Her mother thought her too young to leave the Shire, though she’s older than little Barry.”

“I thought we might get to meet your lady wife this summer.” 

Pippin’s face became impassive. “Diamond has never left the Shire and hasn’t much interest in doing so now. She’s not unusual in that way. Most hobbits never dream of leaving the lands of their birth.” 

“Hm,” Éowyn said, eyes on the swirling dancers. “I mean to throw a party of my own for your company. The Steward’s House should show you and Merry hospitality, though I’m afraid it will pale in comparison to this. I’ve never been a great one for Gondorian balls.” 

“As long as there’s good food and drink, you’ll please most hobbits,” Pippin said.  “I’m sure we’ll accept your invitation.” 

“I’ll make the arrangements,” Éowyn said. Her eyes were once again drawn to Merry. He and his partner seemed to have learned the steps better than at the beginning of the night. His face was flushed with laughter.

  “Éowyn!” Pippin snapped, quite rudely.

She turned on him and then flushed, realizing that she’d been staring at Merry for quite a long time.

She and Pippin looked at one another awkwardly. She could tell that he was trying to work out how to smooth over the snapping tone he’d used earlier. After a moment, his mouth quirked in a rather mischievous half-smile.

Pippin bowed low. “My lady. May have this dance?” 

Éowyn looked down at his outstretched hand. “And how do you propose that we do that, Peregrin Took?”  She made a vague gesture in allusion to their height difference. 

“You’d know better than me.” Pippin didn’t drop his hand.

“I believe I mentioned that I don’t have much interest in dancing these days.”

“Did you? You certainly looked like you were interested in dancing a moment ago.” 

 Éowyn narrowed her eyes. He had definitely noticed her staring at Merry earlier and getting in a few subtle digs. But to what end? Why would he bring such a thing up?

“Oh, come on,” Pippin said, still trying to get her to dance. “It’s not as though anyone would think that I was propositioning you, would they?” 

She knew what he meant. No one would gossip if she shared a few dances with Pippin and not because he was married – it was because he was a hobbit. She had observed long ago that overtures that might be considered romantic or even scandalous coming from a man of her own race would pass without comment coming from a hobbit. Merry had even been caught in her bedroom a time or two and people still thought he was just her special little friend.

“Fine,” Éowyn said, mostly because she wanted to hear what Pippin had to say. She didn’t imagine that it would a very polite conversation, but better to clear the air now than to have him snapping at her for the next few weeks. She took his outstretched hand and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.

They stood looking at one another, trying to figure out where to put their hands. As bad luck would have it, the band was playing one of those awkwardly intimate couples dances that normally required the woman to put her arms around the man’s shoulders. She thought that this might make it difficult for him to lead.

“Let’s see,” Pippin said. “Um, you could lead?”

“I most certainly could not,” Éowyn said. “I don’t know how.” 

This was true. Éowyn was just barely competent at dancing the woman’s part in these Gondorian dances. She would make quite the fool of herself if she attempted a part she had never danced before. People were already beginning to stare at them as it was.

Pippin shrugged. “All right. Well, I suppose I’ll hold your hand like so. And you can put your other hand on my shoulder. And I’ll put my other hand at your waist – don’t worry I’ll be a perfect gentlehobbit – and here we are.” 

This seemed reasonable enough to Éowyn. A hand at the waist was considered mildly daring but with Pippin’s height there weren’t a lot of other options. He could probably reach her shoulders, but he’d have to strain.

They were able to dance with less fumbling than Éowyn would have expected. Pippin led her reasonably well, though he kept having to crane his neck to glance around her shoulder in order to see where he was leading her. They managed to avoid stepping on one another’s feet.

“I think I shall have your company to the Steward’s  House for luncheon,” Éowyn said, because she couldn’t think of much to discuss with Pippin other than the party she was now planning. “That will be a bit more informal than dinner and a bit more comfortable. What do you think the hobbits will like to eat?”

“Almost anything,” Pippin said. “Don’t be afraid to get a bit daring. Hobbits enjoy new experiences in the realm of eating, though we’re set in our ways in everything else.” 

“I shall have to consult my cook. I’m afraid that I’m hopeless at these sorts of things.” She said this last part absently because Merry and his partner had come quite close to them. She saw the exact moment when Merry noticed that she was dancing with Pippin. Their eyes locked for just a second before Merry looked back toward the girl in his arms.

Éowyn looked back at Pippin and saw that he had observed this entire exchange. Honestly! He was watching her like a hawk. Could she not so much as look at Merry without drawing Pippin’s scrutiny?

“Did you ever dance with my cousin?” Pippin asked, with surprising boldness.

“No,”Éowyn said. “I don’t believe that we ever both attended a function that included dancing.” 

Pippin snorted. “Of course you did. Aragorn’s coronation party, for example. Or Aragorn’s wedding. Or your wedding. Or that big ceremony to honor Frodo and Sam. Ooh, or your brother’s coronation party. Or – well, you get the picture. It was nothing but parties, balls, feasts, and weddings in the days after the War.”

He was right, of course. Éowyn had spoken without thinking. Why hadn’t she ever danced with Merry? She knew that they’d both attended all of the events that Pippin had mentioned. They’d spoken and laughed and Merry had even drawn her into a dark corner for a bit of kissing once or twice. But they’d never danced. It seemed so strange now.

“Well, we never danced,” she said, at last. She snuck another glance at Merry who was still dancing admirably, though there was a slight tightness around his mouth. Éowyn recognized that look. Worried. Merry was worried – likely about what Pippin was saying to her. She couldn’t say that she blamed him.  

“Merry enjoys dancing. Though perhaps less so since his beloved wife died.  Now they were a pair for dancing – our Stella could dance a springle-ring as pretty as any lass in the Shire.”

“Hm.” Éowyn wasn’t sure what to make of this information. She knew precious little about Merry’s late wife and she couldn’t say that she was eager to learn more.

“I don’t think that Merry will have much heart for dancing during this visit, Éowyn.” 

“He’s dancing right now,” she pointed out.

“With little cousins. You know what I mean. You must excuse Merry if he doesn’t seem to have time for you. I expect that his heart isn’t much turned toward frivolities or distractions at this time. Why, he still wears half-mourning for his wife.” 

“You expect or you hope?” Éowyn asked, in a cool voice. She had no idea what “half-mourning” was, but she wasn’t accustomed to being referred to as a “frivolity” or a “distraction” and she couldn’t say that she relished the feeling.

“I expect,” Pippin said. “Of course, you know better than most the pain of losing a spouse. I know that you must have been devastated when poor Faramir passed.” 

“I was devastated,” Éowyn said, for Pippin’s tone had suggested that he rather believed that she wasn’t devastated.

“That’s just what I said. Ah, it looks as if our dance is ending and it’s the last dance of the night. Such an early end to the evening, though I can’t say I blame them with this number of children being present.” 

Éowyn gaped at him, half tempted to start screaming like a fishwife.

Pippin bowed low, the very height of gallantry. “My lady.”

He turned and quickly disappeared through the milling crowd. Éowyn knew that her face must be red. With effort, she straightened herself. It was only a few moments before Merry was upon her. He took her arm and steered her away from milling people.

“What was that about? With Pippin?” he asked, as soon as he he’d pulled her somewhat to the side. 

Éowyn crossed her arms over her chest. “I think I’ve been warned off.” 

“Warned off? Of what?”

“Of what? Of you.”  Éowyn tried to keep her tone light, but she wasn’t wholly successful.

Merry’s face flushed right down to his collar, though he didn’t look surprised. “I’m sorry. Pippin is a fool. A fool who apparently thinks he’s my mother now. And I … er … know that you aren’t interested in me in that way anyway.” 

“He knows about us,” Éowyn stated the obvious. “About before.” 

“Er … yes.” 

“How did he find out?” she asked.

“I told him.”

“You told him?” Éowyn couldn’t help but feel a bit angry. She’d never told a soul about their affair and she’d always assumed that Merry would have done the same. Éowyn knew that he was close to Pippin, of course, but she couldn’t see any point in Pippin knowing unless Merry had just been bragging to his friends in the way of men. Didn’t he care about how such talk might damage her reputation? Who else had he told? If it got out, it could damage her even now – worse, it could damage her children.

“Yes, I --” but Merry never got to complete that sentence because at that moment his youngest son barreled into him.

“Oof,” Merry grunted as he swept little Barry up into his arms. “What have I told you about giving me warning? You’re getting too big to run into folk in such a headlong way. You’ll knock me winding one of these days.” 

Barry just shrugged. “Sorry, Papa.” 

“He did knock Flora down,” this came from Theo who was now approaching along with one of the young hobbit lasses. “It wasn’t very nice.” 

“It was an accident,” Barry said, not looking terribly sorry. 

“Papa told you to be more careful. Oh, hello Lady Éowyn,” he threw this casual aside to Éowyn as if they’d known one another forever.

“Hello, Theo Brandybuck,” Éowyn said, putting aside her conversation with Merry with some effort. “Did you enjoy the party?”

“Yes,” Theo said. “There were lots of people to listen to my stories.” 

“Hm. When I was your age, I enjoyed listening to stories more than telling them,” Éowyn said.

“Listening is nice too,” Theo said.

Barry was now wriggling in Merry’s arms and whining to get down. 

“He’s been fussy since he woke up from his nap, Cousin Merry,” the hobbit lady said.

Merry turned apologetic eyes on Éowyn. “I should --”

“Yes,” she said.

  “I – we’ll talk later.” Merry gave her helpless little shrug.

“I should find my own children anyway.” It occurred to Éowyn that Elithiel could very well be off somewhere kissing some boy and that she was being a horrible chaperone. She wasn’t used to having a daughter who was old enough for such things. Éowyn realized that she’d spent most of the evening staring at Merry like a moonstruck girl. What was wrong her? 

Merry nodded. “My lady,” he said, putting his hand over his heart and bowing before turning back to his sons.