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Chapter Text

‘Why do you always have to drive me insane?!’

Éowyn slams her chair against the table, sending the plates and goblets clattering against the polished oak, toppling one of them over. Opposite of her stands Éomer, clutching the back of his chair, brows furrowed, nostrils flared and breath heavy. His piercing eyes bore into her, their sting colder even than that of the sharpest dagger in all of Rohan. Between them, an exasperated King Théoden has long ceased to feast upon his meal, far too exhausted to handle the bickering of his niece and nephew. His cutlery lies next to his half-eaten plate, the glimmer of hot meat fat lingering on the tips of the fork and along the knife’s blade. The monarch, worn out by days of negotiating treaties with a Gondorian diplomat, keeps his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wishes that Théodred could return from his duty; somehow, he knows how to calm them down better than anyone.

Their argument has lasted long enough for him to forget what triggered it. Something about one always receiving more than the other. Something about one being the oldest of the two. Incessant mockeries turning into unrestrained anger.

‘Why do you have to blow things out of proportions every single time?’ Éomer retorts. ‘It is impossible to speak normally with you!’

‘Oh!’ his sister gasps, clutching her chest. ‘You are one to talk! Who kept pestering me and calling me names last time I dared eat more bread than I usually do?’

‘You are always gorging on the stuff! Not even Théodred could take a piece!’

‘I did it once. ONCE! And Edelmer said there was more in the oven!’

‘Still no reason to hog it!’

‘Cry me a river. When you are agonising, that you bleed for days on end, and that your emotions are all over the place, then we will speak. In the meantime, shut it.’

‘Ew. You are disgusting.’

‘You are, you still have sauce all over your beard! What I go through is natural. Nothing natural about the way you look!’

Théoden sighs. There is no use in intervening. Things could only escalate from here. Their tones are heated enough as they are. His gaze meets the old chamberlain’s, who cannot contain a stifled laugh muffled by the back of his hand and disguised as a cough. It was not his first time witnessing such fights between the siblings; he saw them being born, nothing could surprise him any longer.

‘The way I look?! That is grand, coming from you. You are the ugliest of all mutts in Edoras. We only adopted you out of pity!’

‘At least I do not drool on every bedsheet we own.’

‘Oh, does uncle now allow you out of your kennel at night?’

‘Of course, I am much cleaner than the drunkard who pissed himself before bed.’

Éomer rolls his eyes, throwing his hands up in the air.

‘It was my waterskin. The seam ripped.’

‘Sure.’

As one of the maidservants brings a platter of colourful and glazed fruit tarts, Éowyn crosses her arms, defiantly staring at her brother. Without examining and measuring each piece, the largest one stands out. Both siblings notice it at once. When the maid steps away with a bow, her eyes averted from them, they leap forward, startling their disgruntled uncle. The cutlery rattles against plate and table, Éomer’s goblet spills its content onto his embroidered napkin, which at least soaks up parts of the damage. Their knuckles collide above the silver platter as they grope for the largest pastry; one finger cracks audibly. They both shake their hands away even though they are not sure whose bones produced this sound. Yet, soon enough, they are digging their fingertips into the pie, fighting for dominance over dessert.

‘Go… away!’ Éowyn hisses between gritted teeth, straining against her brother’s hold as he grabs her wrists to pry them away from his prize.

‘Heel, mutt, heel!’

‘Call me a dog one more time, and I will bite.’

Under their fingernails, the tart is unrecognisable. It has been gutted, clawed at, and torn apart into crushed pieces of strawberry. This time, despite his forceful defence, Éowyn has the advantage over the portion. Before he can claim it, she devours the shreds as fast as she can, smearing red juice all around her lips.

‘That is unfair!’ Éomer gasps, trying to claim his own portion of the pastry. ‘See? You always get the larger pieces!’

‘Only because I fought for it! You always get the larger plates, you eat — and look — like a troll, while I always become peckish near midnight.’

‘You are such a filthy liar. Please ignore anybody who advises you to be yourself. Even Morgoth would find you evil.’

‘I am surprised that you even remember something from history! Be careful while thinking, though. It would be regrettable to have you run out of the only thought and a half inside your head.’

Éomer abandons his struggle as Éowyn takes advantage of his distraction to snatch the rest of the strawberry pie. As she taunts him with a smirk and by licking her fingers, Théoden slaps his palms on the table and rises, the gesture enough to interrupt them.

‘Now that is quite enough! I am exhausted by your antics! Can you two get along while you are in the same room, for once in your lives?!’

‘Apologies, uncle,’ they mumble simultaneously.

‘Out of my sight. The both of you. No pastries.’

With an embarrassed bow, the siblings part ways and leave Théoden to the much-welcomed stillness of the Golden Hall. Éomer storms out to his chambers, while Éowyn exits the palace to catch some fresh air outside. Perhaps it is not yet so late that she has missed the sunset.

Much to her relief, she is well in advance for it. She comes to sit atop the cliff to watch the colours paint the sky for about an hour and a half. She takes deep breaths, trying to keep her anger under control. She tucks her chin between her folded knees, watching the landscape while grumbling about her brother and how he always receives bigger portions of food than she ever does.

The sun has almost disappeared when the wooden doors of the palace creak open. She does not turn around; guards are likely overtaking the duties from the previous ones, whose constant standing must have tired their legs and backs. But a familiar perfume pervades her nostrils, causing her to roll her eyes.

‘What do you want, you orc?’

‘Always agreeable, you rabid hound,’ Éomer groans.

He paces off the palace’s steps to venture towards the rocks forming the capital’s hill.

‘You smell like an unwashed dog in summer,’ he adds, still seeking a reaction from her.

‘And you reek like a carcass on the roadside.’

He sits beside her, admiring the view in turn. Éowyn inches closer and rests her head on his shoulder. His clean fingers comb through her hair, careful not to tug too harshly.

‘Do you want to play cards in my chambers tonight?’ he asks, all animosity vanished from his tone. ‘I still have some chocolates from the previous equinox celebrations.’

‘Mh… Sure. Only if I eat a little bit more than half of them.’

Éomer snorts.

‘You wish.’

Chapter Text

Time has passed.

Too much of it. Too quickly. Not enough of it, yet oft too much on their hands.

They no longer remember when strands of silver first began to weave into their curls. They came in thin threads, little by little, until all golden and bronze hues were stifled. Later, they peppered their elongating brows, shone at the crook of their ears, and tickled their nostrils. At times, they quivered in the winds of deep breaths, providing a sensation so odd that they were yanked out of their roots. For a few weeks, that is. Nothing could halt their growth.

Merry’s wrinkled hands smooth out the creases on the blanket he placed on Pippin’s lap. In the hearth, an inviting fire has been lit, casting its glow upon the two hobbits as they sat side by side on rocking chairs. The former cracks a match and carries the infant flame to the dried leaves in the pit of his pipe. Succinct puffs burn the plant fragments until the white smoke exists without aid. Filling his lungs with the bitter taste he has cherished nearly all his life, he reclines against the wooden chair.

Beside him, Pippin rocks himself with light pressure on the ball of his foot. His hands dangle from the armrests as he watches the logs be consumed ever so slowly. A faint smile curves his thin lips, as it always does, but his gaze is miles away. In all fairness, his eyes have long lost their acuity. Years ago, a milky glaze began to cloud his irises, rendering his daily life much more difficult to navigate. There are days when, due to his fatigue, he can no longer see further than his fingertips. Relying on muscle memory is of no use either; long have they left the Shire — an eternity, it seems. Their quarters remain uncharted territory to him, but he gladly entrusts the knowledge of it to Merry, whose pupils are still sharp enough to see the world clearly.

Yes, time has passed. In a wise gesture, admitting to himself that he no longer was quite himself, Pippin relinquished his title as Thain to his son, Faramir. His pride and joy, who carries the legacy of his namesake in such brilliant ways, he always says. That was his farewell to his family — Diamond is gone and he could not fathom being a dead weight for his son to carry. Merry, whose situation is awfully similar, left everything to follow him on a last journey. They have seen friends pass on, from beloved Rosie to honourable Éomer. Sam has brandished his sails in hopes that they would carry him back to Frodo. The Shire feels dreadfully empty now.

Now, they reside in Gondor. King Elessar, kind and generous, has provided them with adequate chambers away from stairways. Their weary legs can hardly support them these days. Stairs alone could become a death sentence in the span of a second. Pippin in particular would be isolated on higher levels.

Now, Merry has become his eyes and ears, though old age is taking a toll on him as well. Despite being born first, he does notice that time has been harsher on his dearest friend. Even with his own limitations, however, he ensure that Pippin is well cared for. He helps him eat when the need arises, reminds him of names whose memories are fuzzy beyond recognition, and he tucks him in every night. Maybe that is not what Merry imagined their last days to look like, but there is nothing he would not do for Pippin.

The older hobbit breathes out a cloud of billowing smoke, watching it as it twirls above his head, thinning into disappearance.

‘Where is Sam?’ Pippin’s feeble voice interrupts his distraction. ‘I must bring him his pumpkin seeds back, he might need them before the season starts.’

‘Sam sailed away, Pip,’ Merry responds without batting an eye. It is the same conversation every day. The same fragments returning to his friend’s awareness, much too late. ‘His garden’s well-tended.’

‘Oh, and Gandalf, will he return soon with fireworks?’

‘Gandalf sailed away too, Pip, with Frodo, remember?’

‘Oh. That’s too bad. Boromir would love them.’

‘I’m sure he would, Pip.’

There are days when the never-ending repetition of this scripted conversation stings like the blade of a dagger planted right into his heart. He feels the need to repeat his friend’s nickname, in fear that it might be yet another aspect of his life that he forgets. Sometimes he feels the hesitation when he calls him, witnessing his tongue pressing against the back of his teeth while his eyes scurry across the room. He marks a pause, only to hum and stop himself. It is as though somewhere inside his old mind, Pippin is aware of the pain oblivion could cause him as his brother in spirit.

‘Are you warm enough, Pip? Would you like me to bring you another blanket?’

‘Mh? No, I didn’t steal from Farmer Maggot today.’

‘That’s not… Ah, nevermind.’

‘What was that?’

Merry’s gaze softens. He extends a hand, placing it onto Pippin’s.

‘Nothing, old gaffer. I love you.’

Chapter Text

Charcoal scrapes against taut canvas in short, sharp strokes. It curves, underlines, darkens, crosses, laying the foundations of an image, line by line. Raking, rough sounds are born from the touch between tool and medium yet faint enough not to disturb the landscape. After the rough sketch is determined, two silhouettes appear.

One, sitting on the left, is turned to the observer, hands folded on its lap. It is elegantly feminine, with a wise but lonely gaze lost into the observer’s. It is as if she looks yet sees not. Her fingers lay loose on top of one another — a customary gesture engrained in her mind, devoid of mindful intention. Her hands rest there as though they are expected to and she has neither the influence nor the willingness to resist it.

In her eyes, there is no glimmer. No excitement nor peace. Onlookers behold empty pupils, not from a lack of talent and portraiture from the artist, but because it seems a defining trait of hers. The smile lines on her cheeks are barely perceptible, if even they exist. The world weighs upon her sagging shoulders, which break the etiquette of her hardly calculated pose. She appears… distracted. As though not an ounce of her being desires to sit in such a manner, to be observed and analysed without mercy, fated to remain shackled by woven linen threads.

Yet she is disarmingly beautiful. How could one avert their gaze? As the charcoal pursues its endeavour, the cascading hair darkens into a pitch-black shape framing the lighter tone of her skin. She is not pale as Elves tend to be. The artist has made it clear through the generous use of blended greys, hinting rather at a sun-kissed complexion that has merely lived under rainclouds for too long.

The other figure, standing on the right, places a hand on the woman’s shoulder. Its stance is already assured and confident, yet protective. So much emanates from this simple base already, but it is not yet enough. Further detailing reveals the rugged traits of a man, older than the woman, but not so old that he has become feeble or borne the gravity of witnessing the passing of time. Wrinkles remain etched into the corners of his eyes, testifying of the years lived and the many smiles gifted. The lines around his mouth, creasing his cheeks, dig deeper into his features. On this regard, he and the woman contrast so starkly with each other.

His stare is more intent on the onlooker. The slight parting of his lips make him resemble an animal perking up as its hideaway is being found. But there is no vulnerability, no fear, and no animosity. He merely squints, ever so slightly, more in surprise and thoughtfulness than in anger or defensiveness. He appears as though the observer is interrupting a tranquil moment with the woman beside him, simply by stepping in front of the drawing.

While she wears a long court gown, he displays a simple set of armour. A long belt resting on the hip ties an ankle-length leather surcoat over a red velvet coat with gold embroideries, itself covering maille sleeves. Engraved vambraces secure the cold material against his forearms. In his free, gloved hand, which rests against his thigh, he holds the other brown glove. The hand resting on the woman’s shoulder is left bare. Perhaps he wishes not to soil her garment with dirt encrusted into the leather. Or perhaps he wishes that the brutality of combat would not reach her, even through his own touch. Another possibility is that while he appears as a soldier to anyone else, he can be his true self with her, vulnerable and without artifice.

Hours pass. The shadows have shaped the figures’ features in finer detail. A fingertip has blended some of the darker patches to smooth out textures and hair. All around the woman and the man, hiding their feet, tall flowers have sprouted and bloomed from the bottom of the canvas. While they previously seemed to pose within the confines of a palace, they now seem to stand in a garden, brightly lit by a spring sun.

Faramir leans back to inspect his work one more time — perhaps the thousandth. His mouth hangs slightly open in concentration, similarly to the man he has drawn. His eyes look beyond the easel, onto his own garden below his balcony. As he beholds a flower bed, memorising the manner in which the petals reflect light, a kiss comes to rest on the crown of his head. It pulls him out of his contemplation and focus, but the smile that instantly lights up his traits testify his lack of resentment for it.

‘Are you still not finished, Father?’

Faramir wraps an arm around his son, pulling his small frame to him to kiss his hair in turn.

‘Not yet, Elboron, but soon.’

‘May I see?’

Elboron climbs onto his father’s lap, straddling his knees as though they were a saddle. His bright grey eyes marvel at the art before him, admiring the details even though he does not yet possess the wisdom and knowledge to interpret what he sees.

‘It is beautiful,’ he gasps. ‘They look real.’

He cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of the area behind the easel but sees nothing but the marble baluster with its pot-bellied columns. The boy turns back to the portrait and points at the two figures.

‘Who are they?’

Faramir grins and leans his head until his cheek rests atop his son’s head. His black-stained fingers hover towards the man first.

‘This is my brother, your uncle Boromir. And this…’

His palm seems to find its place onto the woman’s.

‘… is my mother, Finduilas.’

‘You draw them often, don’t you? I recognise them from another drawing upstairs.’

‘You are right. I suppose I do.’

‘Why?’

For a second, Faramir’s gaze loses focus, his attention fluttering to the two people whose likeness he has captured as often as he could. How long has it been? Thirty-six odd years since his mother succumbed, and now ten years since Boromir was slain. Ten years already…

Time has flown by much quicker than he anticipated. He could easily recall the moment that he found his brother floating on the Anduin, broken sword clasped to his chest and the dew making the long locks of his hair stick to his waxen skin. No booze, concussion nor illness of age could erase this memory. The bloodied wounds peppered across Boromir’s body, the splintered shield propped up above his head against the white planks of the barque, and the lifeless expression upon his beloved face. It was the Boromir he always knew, yet one he struggled to recognise. Although he sometimes witnessed his brother’s anxiety, sorrow and despair, he remembers him as a playful and coy man. The first thing he recalls is the wide smile and the sound of his roaring laughter, now lost to time. Few now possess the privilege to reminisce about the real Boromir, the man within the captain.

‘I fear I might forget their faces,’ he says pensively, ‘that time may rob it from me. I have no way of immortalising their voices for posterity, which pains me greatly. But their faces… that I can still conjure. For now.’

Elboron listens, leaning back into his father’s embrace to show his support.

‘Did your mother look this beautiful?’

‘She did,’ Faramir responds, the fond smile growing on his cheeks reverberating in his words. ‘Even more so. I fear that my hand has produced an insult to her actual physique.’

‘It did not.’

The son wrapped his arms around his father’s, still in awe before the portrait. But as silent seconds pass, a crease forms onto his young brow.

‘You said you draw to remember,’ he comments, ‘but I do not see your own father in the portrait. Have you forgotten?’

Faramir’s smile stills and erodes.

‘No, Elboron.’

He adjusts his grip around his son, pressing him to his heart in a cherishing gesture.

‘Him I remember all too clearly.’

Chapter Text

They had arrived less than two days ago, and it was already a disaster.

It was the first time since their Edoras wedding that Éomer and Lothíriel travelled to Dol Amroth. Since settling in Rohan and being crowned queen of this foreign realm, she had, at times, found herself much too overwhelmed by nostalgia and the longing for familiarity to carry out some of her royal obligations. At night, when all candles were snuffed and the wind raked against the façade of glorious Meduseld, she would weep until slumber and exhaustion crept in and claimed her. She missed long strolls on the shore — either on her own or with her brothers — and watching the dolphins leap among the waves in the distance, guarding ships as they depart. Her tongue longed for the hearty dishes adorned with varieties of herbs from her region, for the rich yet fresh flavours preciously preserved in her father’s wine cellar. When loneliness struck, when her nerves gained the upper hand and when doubts invaded her, she would seek any remnant of her mother’s perfume into the folds of a shawl passed down to her, but it became harder to find by the day.

So, Éomer had written to Prince Imrahil in secret, politely requesting permission to bring her back to her homeland to soothe her heart. A week, maybe two, enough for her to reconnect with the palace and the people that had seen her grow and return to Rohan with a lighter spirit. He could not begin to imagine how brutal this change had been for her, to dwell in the seafoam and be brought to the rocky mountainside. Everything in her new home was different. Her days beat to a rhythm of unknown customs, bathed in a language she did not speak. Her free hours were spent in study, replicating the Rohirric script over and over until she could write it autonomously or and decipher its letters. Her husband had employed a tutor to oversee her education in the speech of the Rohirrim, aiding her in perfecting her pronunciation and accent, although no one would reprimand her for retaining some of her Dol Amroth lilt. Éomer cherished it.

But try as he may, there was too little space allocated to her own culture, dialect or customs. No wonder she felt so homesick. As such, he decided that this visit to the coastal city would be an opportunity for him to learn about where she hailed from in return. That was the least he could do. Afterwards, he promised himself, he would make efforts to bring some of her traditions to Meduseld, or, if the court vehemently objected, to their domestic life. He would arrange for certain foods to be available or prepared on symbolic days which she could not celebrate with her kin. He would commission tapestries from the best artisans in her region to decorate their chambers and the study he had built for her and her precious scrolls. He would ensure that their children would speak both languages and that they would know the ancient songs of both Edoras and Dol Amroth, for they belonged to both lands at once.

But first, he had to survive a stay in Dol Amroth. And the prospects were not brilliant.

Upon their arrival, Éomer breached local etiquette by embracing Imrahil in front of his court. He did not understand why so many courtiers glared at him as he passed them by, or why whispers spread throughout the assembly. Without thinking, he had clapped his friend and ally’s back in a warm gesture, typical of his people. He did not learn until later that night from his wife that the court had perceived it as a vulgar affront towards the prince. As he groaned and buried his face into his hands, Lothíriel assured him that neither she nor her father saw it as an insult. Imrahil knew Éomer well enough to recognise that the gesture bore no ill intent.

The next morning, they had all shared a sumptuous family breakfast. Cheeses, steaming bread, seasoned fish, eggs, and savoury pastries had adorned the table, coaxing any onlooker into drooling. Imrahil had selected two fitting wines from his cellar, in hopes that his guest would discover the tastes of the region. While Éomer traditionally sated himself with meat in the morning, but he was willing to exchange it for the fish and complement the flavour with a crisp white wine of his father-in-law’s choosing. Finding the combination strange yet delicious nonetheless, the Rohir had not hesitated to help himself to more wine as they exchanged about itineraries between their cities. Amrothos had gently pressed a finger to the pitcher’s beak, tilting it up and interrupting the flow and Éomer’s talking. With a smile, Lothíriel’s brother had turned to one of the servants standing by.

‘An ngell nîn,’ he had said, prompting one man to step forward and fill Éomer’s cup before his confused eyes. Amrothos had then explained to the king that no courtier nor royal would help themselves to a drink, for it had to be poured for them. ‘Most of the household speaks Sindarin, so you must address them in it. Do you have any knowledge of it?’

‘I am afraid not.’

‘An ngell nîn. It simply means ‘please.’ You can go a long way with it.’

‘A gall nin.’

‘Almost.’

Later that day, Éomer, Lothíriel and her mother had indulged in a walk along the cliffs outside the city walls. Below them, the waves lapped at the mossy rocks, their foam splashing high onto the grass above. Some fish could be seen pecking at the algae in search of sustenance, fended off by orange and red crabs snapping at them to defend their territory. After spending a few minutes watching them, the family had set out for the lighthouse, crossing the white stone bridge binding the mainland to this lonesome patch of boulders upon which stood the tower, reflecting the city’s architectural style. Its guardian had escorted them to the top floor, from which they had beheld a stunning view of the sea and the horizon. Éomer had never seen anything similar. While he loved his mountains, hills and plains, there was something rather peaceful about the water, undisturbed by man-made structures. The salted air had filled his lungs, making him cough a few times, but he had grown accustomed to it much faster than anticipated. Lothíriel’s mother had taught him what lay beyond the waters around Dol Amroth. Far southward — thus to their left —, the Haradwaith lay on the other side of the Bay of Belfalas, a broad stretch of land that none of them had ventured into, awfully foreign despite the shared border with Gondor. She had showed him the direction of Edhellond, pointing out the towers the mist could not completely conceal. He had vaguely remembered the harbour’s connection with the Elves and Lothíriel had filled in the gaps with her history knowledge.

When they had descended, they had headed for the harbour so the Rohir could see the ships stationed there. They had discussed the tides with fishermen preparing to leave, watching their careful process and studying the material they would carry out to sea. Éomer saw nearly every type of vessel, from humble barques bobbing on the water to majestic three-masted ships whose sails were not yet unfolded. Further along, they had found a quiet beach of thin, white sand. He had taken off his boots to feel it under his toes, grinning as they sank into the grains. He had then attempted to bathe them into the seawater, but its coldness had chilled his bones instantly, causing him to hop out of reach with a gasp. The two women had giggled behind their sleeves, knowing better than to step further in such a weather. While retrieving his boots, Éomer had caught a glimpse of several seashells scattered onto the ground. He had picked up an empty scallop shell, holding it up to show Lothíriel.

‘This one is intact, we should place it somewhere in our chambers, a piece of your home.’

The Princess of Dol Amroth had instantly stepped forward, gently holding his wrist and lowering it towards the ground. She had patiently explained that these specific shells should never be picked up, for they had been placed there by wives and mothers in hopes that the bay’s treacherous tides would allow their husbands and sons to return from their expeditions. Stuttering apologies, he had placed the shell where he had found it, aligning it with the dent it had left in the sand.

The next afternoon, the Rohir had explored the city while his wife rode out with her father for a quiet moment together. As he had passed a tavern, he had come across Elphir and Erchirion drinking cider while playing cards. They had beckoned him inside, inviting him to join, and the three of them had played for some time, sharing jokes and talking about their families. Elphir had gleefully recounted his son’s first steps, praising him for walking earlier than most children, although he could not yet speak. He had told of the education that he and his wife wished to instil in him, of how they wished to travel across Middle-earth for his enrichment, and of how they might send him into fosterage in Minas Tirith or Emyn Arnen for his political and diplomatic education. Éomer had assured him that there would always be space for them at Meduseld should they visit, insisting that Lothíriel would be delighted to welcome them there. As for Erchirion, he had bashfully admitted to being in the midst of courting a lady from Calembel, and he hoped that both Imrahil and her father would grant him permission to propose to her. Elphir had tousled his hair, teasing his brother for being infatuated, but wished him much joy in their relationship.

When came the time to pay, Éomer had enjoyed the afternoon so much that he had decided to invite both of his new brothers. He had placed precisely enough coin into the innkeeper’s palm, thanking him for his good service. Elphir and Erchirion had not been enthusiastic. The former had enlightened the Rohir about local customs, telling him of the unspoken rule that foreigners should never pay for locals, since they should be the ones introducing newcomers to their cuisine. Erchirion had then indicated that it was conventional to thank innkeepers or any service provider with a few extra coins. Éomer had stammered in response, trying to explain that he merely wished to treat them well after their warm welcome, and that, in Rohan, the prices already reflected the quality of service, thus rendering tips unnecessary and sometimes rude. The two had patted him on the shoulders, assuring him that no harm had been done, and Erchirion met with the innkeeper again to slip some money across the counter.

And then came dinner. This time, instead of a dinner limited to the royal family, a banquet with the courtiers had been organised. Minstrels had come to entertain the guests, singing and playing their instruments, whose sounds were soon drowned by the hubbub of chatter and laughter. Éomer and Lothíriel had arrived dressed in silks and brocades, their hair braided in the intricate patterns of Belfalas and scented with mint and irises. They had paid their respects to the Prince, before mingling with the other nobles present. All had seemed to improve for Éomer, who made conscious efforts not to offend anybody this time.

But when the food was served, the tides had changed. Imrahil had given a speech about his elation for his daughter’s return, even though for too short a time, and had welcomed aloud all that he had not been able to converse with yet. Then, opening the festivities, he had called for all to enjoy the feast. Various dishes had been placed on the tables, from fish stews to generous portions of turkey, infused with thyme and herbs that Éomer did not quite recognise. Since he had missed the poultry dishes of Rohan, he had asked one of the maidens to serve him two turkey legs and vegetables, which he combined with a medium-bodied red wine. While his wife busied herself talking to another woman, Éomer dedicated himself to his meal. Perhaps if he did not talk, then he would limit the damage that his ignorant tongue could cause. With his bare hands, he lifted the leg and bit through the crispy skin, humming with delight as the flavours exploded on his tongue and coated his mouth with a fresh sensation.

Then the hall turned silent.

He did not notice it at first, so plunged into his own thoughts was he. Instead, he gladly devoured the meat from the thing bones. When he reached for his cup, he felt that all the eyes were set on him. With his mouth still full, he observed the people with a quizzical expression, slowly furrowing his brow. Imrahil had allowed them to eat, had he not?

As he licked his fingers clean, putting the turkey down, he then understood what the cause of their offense had been. All who had indulged in the same dish as he held their cutlery, cutting small pieces before eating. Not that the concept of cutlery was foreign to him — Rohan used them too. Only poultry, due to the bone structure and the manner in which the meat was cut, was much too difficult to eat with a fork and knife. It was common for the Rohirrim to use their hands to facilitate eating, and it was often a way to show how delicious the dish was. If one was willing to soil their hands with the grease, oils and herbs, then it would not be for something they deemed inedible.

But Dol Amroth had much different customs, it seemed.

He felt a knot tying in his stomach. He had made far more mistakes than he would have allowed himself to make, offending both his family and the people. Lothíriel had never done so in Edoras. Everybody enjoyed her company and the grace with which she had accustomed herself to their manners. Obviously he was not as careful or attentive as she was. Red hues coloured his well-groomed cheeks, and he contemplated running for the door to hide somewhere until they would depart for Meduseld.

Whispers rose anew.

‘How vulgar,’ one said.

‘Savage manners,’ another hissed.

He caught yet another remark demeaning his people as an ‘uneducated breed’, and it was too much for him. As he reached for his napkin to wipe his fingers, deciding to leave indeed, he heard the loud clatter of cutlery on a plate coming from his right. When he turned his gaze, he beheld both Lothíriel and Imrahil ditching their silverware and lifting their own turkey legs to their mouths. Their teeth cut through the white meat, ripping it off and chewing it without a care in the world. As shock passed through the assembly of courtiers, Amrothos imitated them, picking carrots up in the same fashion. Since none dared to express their indignation, Elphir and Erchirion joined in, coming to Éomer’s rescue.

‘It is much more practical this way,’ Imrahil declared, raising his eyebrows in surprise. ‘There is much we can learn from the Rohirrim.’

Out of respect, most courtiers lowered their forks and feasted with their bare hands for the first time since infancy.

Éomer watched in disbelief, struggling to conceal the few tears brimming his eyes.