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Duinion was not sure what was ailing his housemate. Thor had been grumpy and distracted since coming home from Emyn Arnen. Part of it, Duinion was sure, was the fact that Thor’s mother had descended on Minas Tirith while he was away. Duinion could sympathise with that. Thor’s mother had been voluble and excitable. Duinion suddenly had a real insight into why Thor gone into the Army and then the Diplomatic Service. He also knew Thor did not really get along with his oldest brother, Judge Denethor. Duinion could not blame Thor for that either. In his few dealings with the Judge, he had found the man to be a pompous, blustering upstart. He wondered whether Thor had actually been adopted: that would explain the red hair and slightly absent look. But then when Thor’s mother had gotten excited, he had seen a distinct resemblance in the way in which they both blinked repeatedly when confused.
“How was dinner with your brother two nights ago?” he said to his housemate. His housemate had been positively avoiding everyone for the past two days, and everyone was afraid he had had his heart broken.
Thor grunted. “Foul. Five courses and all of them inedible. The squid was chewy and the beef was underdone.” Then he coloured. “Do not tell anyone, but I had to stop for a kebab from a street vendor on the way home. I thought I would die of hunger.”
Duinion laughed. “Your secret is safe with me.” Then he paused. “Where is the Lady Idis? I have not seen her.”
Thor blushed painfully. “Still in Emyn Arnen. She had things … to do.”
Something in his friend’s tone made Duinion’s ears prick up. “Everything is well between you, old chap?”
“Everything is fine,” said Thor, gruffly. Duinion did not quite believe him.
“Are you sure?”
His friend did not answer.
Then he heard swift footsteps, followed by a cheerful, “Hullooooo!”
Thor put his hands over his face. “O no, ‘tis Mama! This is the last thing I want right now. If I hide under my bed, do you think she will go away?”
Duinion laughed. “O Thor, just see her briefly and then I shall tell her we have a social engagement to go to—”
“But the house is a total mess, and we do not have a social engagement—?”
Duinion rolled his eyes. “We can have one if you must. Where was that place where you got beaten up, again? Some Army pub?”
Thor coloured. “I do not want to go there again.” Meanwhile his mother was knocking at the door.
“Hulloooo, Gilly! Hulloooo, you can’t keep avoiding your old Mama! We need to talk about colours!”
Thor said something that sounded like a swear word in Haradric, from the short sharp nature of it, and the harsh consonants. Then he went to the door. “Hullo Mother. Duinion and I are just about to go out. I cannot talk. And the house is not cleaned.”
“Nonsense,” said his mother and barged into the sitting room. She looked around it, and frowned at the discarded plates, cutlery, books and clothing strewn around the sitting room. Duinion felt a pang of guilt; most of it was his.
“Welcome Lady Almarian,” he said. “It was actually true what Thor said: our house will be cleaned tomorrow.”
Thor’s mother beamed at him. “O, you are the polite young fellow I saw the other day! Duinion, is it not? Well met again! I am most obliged to you for telling me where my youngest chicken was, because otherwise I would know naught at all!”
Duinion rose and bowed, to try to stop himself from laughing at the look on Thor’s face.
“So,” said Thor’s mother to her son, as if they were continuing a conversation from midway, “have you decided anything about colours yet?”
Duinion flinched a little from the look on his housemate’s face; he had frankly never seen Thor look angrier.
“Mama, as I told you and Lúthien at dinner the other night, colours are the last thing from my mind right now,” said Thor. “Please. Give me another week and then I shall talk to you about colours to your heart’s content.”
His mother smiled, seemingly oblivious to her son’s rage. “In another week I shall be back home, Gilly. If you tell me now, I can get something made up in Minas Tirith.”
“Mayhap you could have your measurements taken tomorrow, and I shall send someone to tell you the colour later?”
Thor’s mother brightened. “Well, I suppose that is something. The Lady Idis does not like pink, you say?”
Thor glowered. “Nay. Not pink, not rose, not damask rose, not dusky rose, none of them, not at all. I have heard all about it at length, in more detail than I ever want to hear. Morwen gets upset when we call it pink, however, so do not say anything of it to her.”
“Is this about Morwen’s wedding?” said Duinion.
“Yes,” said Thor, but “No,” said his mother.
Then his mother blinked several times. “You have not told your friend?”
“I have not told anyone,” said Thor. “It is private. I will tell people next week, Mama. Please, just leave me alone.”
“But it is a happy occasion!” beamed Lady Almarian. “I do not see why you do not tell your friends!” She turned to Duinion, still beaming. “Gilly and Idis are getting married, you see. And I have not even met her, and he is keeping her from me for some reason—”
Duinion was the most utterly surprised he had ever been in his whole life. For quite some time his mind was just a roaring blank. Then he recalled that he was a diplomat, and put a happy smile on his face. “Congratulations, Thor,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Thor, bowing shallowly, without meeting his friend’s eye.
“Thor told me earlier that Idis is terribly caught up with things in Emyn Arnen,” said Duinion, after a long awkward pause. “I am sure you will get to meet her soon.”
“I just do not understand why Gil and Idis have not picked a colour?” said Lady Almarian.
Thor turned and to Duinion’s shock, he kicked the wall. “I do not care about colours. Nor does she. We are leaving it up to Morwen on the basis that she cares very much about colours, with our only condition being that it is not any shade of pink or rose whatsoever.”
“What about green?” said Duinion. “I saw that fancy suit she got you in Ithilien green in your wardrobe—”
Lady Almarian’s eyes widened. “She got Gil into a suit? A fancy suit?” Then she smiled. “O, it must be true love; only true love could get Gilly into a suit! Do you still have it?”
Thor frowned. “I do. I will get it for you.” He turned on his heel and went to his room, and Duinion looked at Lady Almarian.
“Do you know what ails him?” said Lady Almarian in an undertone.
“He is nervous,” said Duinion, cautiously. “I doubt he likes large social occasions or dressing up. In fact, they are both very, very shy, although—” He decided not to finish the sentence; he had been about to observe that they were not shy with each other, but in the circumstances, he did not feel that was appropriate.
Thor came stamping back out, brandishing the suit. “There, Mama, are you happy? Will that do in a pinch?”
His mother fingered the suit and her eyes softened. “O, the material is lovely. And it matches your eyes perfectly. She has lovely taste, this girl—”
Thor smiled a little. “She does.” Then he stared into the distance, and his expression became soppy. “She looks very beautiful in green. Maybe we can tell Morwen that green will suffice.”
“You can’t just say green!” said Lady Almarian. “What green do you mean?”
“At the wedding, you need to talk to Morwen,” said Thor morosely. “I am sure you can talk to her about colours for hours. Anyway, you are holding up Duinion and I from our appointment.”
“Yes, yes, our appointment,” said Duinion, hastily. “We are now a little late.” He went to the window and looked out.
“Well I am sorry, boys,” said Lady Almarian, looking totally unrepentant and cheerful. “But I am happy that I at least got a colour out of you, Gilly.”
Thor sighed and kissed his mother. “I will see you before you go, Mama. And no doubt I will know more details by the time you leave.”
“Bye bye,” said Lady Almarian, and bustled back down the stairs.
Thor and Duinion watched her walk away up the street, as did the ever-present Ithilien guards. Once she had quite disappeared, Thor put the suit away again. When he got back, Duinion whistled. “Well, well, well, Thor. I am surprised you are still alive—?”
His friend blushed so deeply that Duinion would not be surprised if he was scarlet from head to toe. “You do not know that—”
Duinion gave him a level stare. “You have just been staying in the same venue as her, you have been terribly distracted and anxious, and now your mother announces that you are shortly to marry, but you say you are not sure of the date yet?”
“Do not tell anyone!” Thor sat on the couch and hung his head. “Will you at least be my groomsman? I do not want any of my brothers. I would rather you, my friend.”
Duinion drew in a breath, both incredibly touched and a little horrified. “Of course,” he said after a pause. Then he said, “When will you know … dates?”
“In four days at the latest,” said Thor, looking at his hands.
Duinion went into his room and scrabbled under his unmade bed. He found a bottle of old Rohirric mead in a pottery container.
“Somehow it seems fitting that we drink this,” he said. “I think this will count as a social engagement—with a mead bottle.”
Thor laughed. “I think a social engagement with a mead bottle is exactly what I need.”
They sat on the horrible floral couch and drank half the mead, while Thor picked at the hole in the couch nervously where the silken fabric had torn.
Then Duinion said, “How on earth did it happen?”
Thor flushed, his voice a little slurred. “We did not mean to—we just got—excited—”
Duinion laughed. “That is what they all say.” He paused and took another swig from the bottle. “I hope it was fun at least.”
He was amused to see his friend’s eyes lose their focus for a moment. “It was … yes … well … until her brother came in …”
Duinion swore. “Her brother caught you? Which brother?”
“It was Ecthelion,” said Thor. “At least Cirion had gone home; I am terrified of him.”
Duinion choked, and mead went up into his nose. “I am surprised that Ecthelion told on you, given his predilections—”
Thor laughed softly, and took a very long swig from the bottle. “Idis made this point, most stridently, with reference to bare backsides. In fact, I think that was the main point of interest for her family, fortunately. They had a fight in the corridor.”
“Does the Prince Steward know that you … ?” said Duinion.
“Yes, Faramir … I mean, the Prince Steward … knows,” said Thor vaguely. “He gave me whiskey because Lady Éowyn was sorely afraid that I was going to collapse in the corridor.” He paused. “I proposed to Idis immediately, of course, once I had put my clothing back on. I am not a cad.”
Duinion noted the casual use of the Steward’s first name with intense interest. The ensuing conversation had clearly not driven a wedge between the two men; quite the opposite.
He took a swig from the bottle. “I wish I had been there. This sounds very entertaining.”
“Entertaining if you are not the wrongdoer,” said Thor. “I never thought I would get into this … well, this position …”
Duinion laughed. “I do not want to hear details of the positions you were in—”
“I wanted to marry her anyway,” said Thor, ignoring Duinion’s comment. “I just would have preferred that it be in six months. And I am a bit scared about the possibility of fatherhood—”
“Understandable,” said Duinion. “I do not really like my father.”
Thor laughed and took another long swig. “I like my father; he is a good man, but I cannot live with him, or my mother. That is why I had to join the Army.”
They had finished the bottle when Thor said, woozily, waving a finger, “You want to know what the secret is to wooing Rohirric women? Or half-Rohirric women, as the case may be. You need to lose your inhibitions; they think we are prudes. This was my downfall, mind you—”
“Clearly you are not a prude,” said Duinion, laughing.
“Not once I got started,” said Thor, with a glint in his eye.
Duinion stared at him. “Not just a once-off, then, old chap?”
His friend blushed. “Well, no, not quite, although it was perhaps fortunate we were interrupted the second time—”
Duinion laughed. “O, you dirty dog.”
Thor wandered to his room, and then came back with a strangely shaped glass bottle, something like an onion. “Do you feel daring enough to sample Haradric wine?”
Duinion laughed. “At this point, why not?”
There was a hiss as Thor levered off the wax seal. He sniffed it and winced. “Let us see how it goes down.”
They both took a sip. Duinion said, “I think we could strip the paint from the walls of this rather nasty room with this.”
“Excellent,” said Thor, taking a very large drink. “That is just what I feel like.” He stared out at the setting sun. “My brother is so angry with me. That dinner party was horrific.”
“Your brother is a pompous ass,” said Duinion.
“His main concern is for his own reputation,” said Thor, staring at the mouth of the bottle. “I think he hates me.”
Duinion shrugged. “My brother does not like me either, old chap. Quite normal.”
Thor suddenly tensed. “O no, what is Papa going to say when he hears? I will not be able to hide it from him like I can Mama. Mama is just obsessed with the colour of the wedding dress, and has not realised what is going on. I was the one they would have thought least likely to—”
“Have another drink and do not think about it,” advised Duinion, and very carefully lit the candles around the room.
They did not talk again for a while, until they were almost finished the strange bottle. Thor slurred, “I really love her, very much.”
“I know, old chap, that is why we were all heartbroken when we thought there was trouble,” said Duinion, patting his friend’s shoulder.
Thor looked haunted. “O, has it been that obvious?”
“Only that you are worried, not what the actual trouble is,” said Duinion, laughing. “I do not think most people will expect that. I did not.”
Thor flopped down sideways on the couch, and his pale face looked greyish. “I do not feel well.”
“I am not surprised. You have had too much of this Haradric paint-stripper,” said Duinion, staring at the strange glass bottle and holding it up to the candle light to inspect the way it warped the light and bubbles of air were caught in it. “I have had a thought. Did you want to borrow my books on the language of Rohan?”
“Yes, but—” Thor stood abruptly. “I must go—”
As he listened to his friend throw up in the communal bathroom, Duinion reflected that at least the cleaning lady was coming tomorrow.