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Chapter Text

Eldarion was a brave boy. He knew it was so because his father, Aragorn, called Elessar Telcontar, told him he was. His Ada told Eldarion how brave he was when the young Prince smiled through his fright as they walked through their city of Minas Tirith, despite the crowds pressed around them. Aragorn called his son brave as well when Eldarion did not run from the large hounds, Wreck and Ruin, which were his father's gift from Eomer King of Rohan.

His mother, Arwen the Queen, also said he was brave, although the way she said "brave," it did not always sound like a good thing. Nana said that he was brave when he climbed the white tree in the court yard so high up that Faramir had to help him figure out how to get back down. She called him brave when Eldarion offered to protect Naneth from her exasperated laundress with his wooden sword. She called her son brave when he told Faramir and Eowyn that they should have another child for him to play with. Eldarion rather thought Naneth had been proud of him that day.

Eldarion knew he was brave, but when night fell in Minas Tirith, he felt very afraid. Sometimes spirits walked through the old halls of his home in the King’s House of the Citadel, and these spirits were not always happy. His normally kind and understanding nurse, Lady Lindorie, did not see the spirits. Neither did her son, Eldarion’s good friend and sometimes-roommate, Veantur. Lindorie (and Veantur) thought that Eldarion was only raising a fuss to get his way and be allowed to stay up later at night.
Eldarion thought that accusation unfair, as he hardly ever behaved so. Faramir had warned him it was not the best tactic for "successfully achieving his objectives." Besides, Adar, Naneth, Faramir, Eowyn and Lindorie all agreed that it was best to face one's fears. So Eldarion had decided tonight he would follow the spirits, and see where they went, because if he knew where they slept during the day, he might be less afraid.

He had not told Naneth or Adar of the spirits, because Nurse told him they were not real, and that his parents would only think him a naughty boy. Besides, Eldarion had a plan.

So, when a weeping lady ghost appeared in the hallway outside his bedroom that night, surrounded by guard ghosts, and walked out his door, Eldarion followed, as quietly as he could.

He followed the spirits into one of the secret passageways that his Adar and Faramir had told him riddled their city, and out the other end where it emerged in the garden of the Houses of Healing, on the sixth level of Minas Tirith.

The lady spirit was now distraught, kneeling in the courtyard and keening. The guard ghosts looked sad too, but one of them touched the lady's shoulder, and spoke to her softly. The lady nodded stiffly, as if she was made out of wood.

Then she slowly rose to her feet, and walked toward the Houses of Healing. All but two of her guards followed, and those two bent as if picking up a heavy object, and then walked as if carrying something back through the tunnel.

Eldarion could not decide whom to follow. He was just determining to follow the guards, as he was more likely to be caught by some well-meaning but probably not sympathetic adult in the House of Healing, when he heard an unexpected but familiar and much-loved voice venture a comment.

"They were very clear tonight, were they not?"

"Fara!" The young prince exclaimed, surprised but happy to see his Father's Steward. "You can see them too? Nurse told me I made them up!"

Faramir smiled sadly, his white teeth flashing in the darkness, and offered Eldarion a biscuit, and a sip of tea from his flask.

Then he explained "Nay, Eldarion-mine. They are real enough, but few can see them. The lady was the wife of a young Prince also named Faramir, who was badly hurt in a long-ago battle. That Faramir was your many-times Great Grandmother Firiel's youngest brother. He died of his wounds, and his men brought his body back to his wife. She never married again, for her grief was too great. She was a dutiful healer despite her grief, and saved many men the night her husband died. Men of Gondor, who would otherwise have perished of their injuries."

"Oh," Eldarion remarked thoughtfully, "I thought that they were just trying to scare me. And I meant to follow them, to see where they go."

"They come and go by some will of their own, dear Prince," Faramir related gravely, "This is the anniversary of that long-ago battle where the lady's Prince fell. She comes and goes always on this night, but also on some others. These spirits have no physical place where they rest, and most will not even see you. They only act out a moment of great emotional importance during their lives, and then fade again."

"Most shall not see me? Then some do?" Eldarion commented, munching on another biscuit.

Faramir's expression became yet more solemn, "Aye, some do. If any seek to talk to you or grab you, call out for your Adar and Naneth. I do not believe a spirit could harm you, but they should not behave so familiarly with one still living."

"Wouldn't calling for help be cowardly, though?" Eldarion asked, accepting another sip of tea.

"Nay, dear one. I do not know everything of ghosts, but ones that behave in such an untoward fashion should be brought to the attention of the King, immediately. He has dominion here over the living and the dead, and has the power to tell them to return from whence they came."

Faramir met his young friend's eyes and continued, "Promise me you will call out, should you be so approached by one of the spirits. I assure you should be doing your Adar a favor, in the unlikely event that you should be addressed by a spirit."

"I promise," Eldarion agreed seriously, then asked, "Why are you out here so late this night, Fara?"

"I have . . . a standing engagement, so to speak,” Faramir began to answer after a moment of thought, “with the Steward of your late ancestor, King Ondoher.”

“Ondoher was the last King of Gondor, and his daughter married my long-father, King Arvedui of Arnor,” Eldarion said, repeating his recent lessons.

“Yes. That was well-remembered, my young friend,” Faramir praised.

Eldarion preened. Praise from Faramir was not infrequent, but it had to be earned, and thus was always welcome.

“The Lord Steward Pelendur was your long-father Ondoher’s Steward,” Faramir explained to the keenly interested Eldarion, “Pelendur’s ghost seems to confuse me with the poor dead Prince Faramir who was the husband of the weeping lady spirit we saw tonight. Every year on this night since I was younger than you are now, Pelendur's spirit would come to me, wherever I was in the city, and give me a message intended for that Prince," Faramir finished, taking off his dark cloak to wrap it around Eldarion.

Eldarion considered that as he accepted the cloak. "Should we go get Ada?" He asked.

"I do not think it needful. I have seen this spirit every year of my life, even in the wilds of Ithilien, and he has never offered me harm," Faramir answered, "Would you wait here with me, and see? Or shall I take you back to your chamber?”

"I shall stay, Fara. If you are here, I can bear being scared," Eldarion decided. Then he took his protector's hand just as a tall, lordly ghost appeared, dressed as Faramir sometimes did for formal council meetings and great feasts, only somehow even more splendidly.

"Prince Faramir!" The lordly ghost scolded, "Why did you follow your father and brother? Now Gondor's throne shall be empty. Oh, why did you not stay as your father bade you!"

Faramir squeezed Eldarion's hand, before turning his attention to the spirit.

"Peace, Lord Pelendur,” Faramir soothed the ghost, in much the same tone of voice that he had used to explain to Eldarion how he might safely climb down the white tree, "It is now many ages past that sad night when your Princes died. I am not your Prince Faramir, but the current Steward. Now a King of Ondoher's line again rules in Gondor, and all is at peace. Do you be at peace as well."

The ghost looked somewhat startled for a moment, then seemed to notice Eldarion.

The young Prince bravely resisted the urge to shrink against Faramir's side, and met the ghost's stare. Thinking what his Adar and Naneth would say to such a troubled spirit, Eldarion summoned his courage and spoke, "I am sorry for your loss, Lord Steward. You did your job well, and now you should rest, like my Faramir says."

The ghost seemed to pause to consider this.
"You are not my poor ill-fated Prince,” the see-through apparition concluded at length, his attention turning back to the current Steward.

Faramir pulled Eldarion behind him, and Eldarion went. He felt that Faramir was probably being excessively cautious. But if Faramir had never managed, before, to get through to Pelendur's ghost that he was not that long-dead prince, maybe it was warranted. Eldarion would later learn, long after he knew this Faramir to be his own half-brother, that the spirit of Steward Pelendur had always accused Faramir of lying when Faramir tried to explain that he was Pelendur's own descendant, not the King Ondoher's younger son.

"Do not be afraid for your little brother," the ghost of Pelendur said kindly, "I mean no harm to any of King Ondoher's descendants. I need not linger here, anymore, I think. I thank you both for your kindness and honesty this night."

"You are welcome," Eldarion replied back, having been drilled in basic courtesy as soon as he could speak.

Faramir seemed almost in shock, so Eldarion squeezed his friend's hand back, to give him strength, as the spirit disappeared in front of them.

Faramir shook his head, murmuring "Well, that was unexpected."

The Steward's attention turned back to the little Prince, and his expression softened, "I think it was a good thing that you followed the weeping lady tonight, Prince Eldarion. Perhaps Lord Pelendur can rest in peace now, and not walk Minas Tirith in the night."

Eldarion grinned, pleased. Again, praise from Faramir was not rare, but it always made him feel good.

"Come, little one. We should get you back to your room 'ere you are reported as missing, and the guard sent out," Faramir instructed, offering the small boy his hand.

"It is too late for that, my Princes,” the deep, gravelly voice of Captain Magordan, commander of the King's Guard, commented levelly.

"I noticed Prince Eldarion vanishing into one of the passage ways, and decided to follow,” the Captain explained to Faramir.

Kneeling down to speak to Eldarion, Magordan appealed "Please, my Prince, if you have cause in the future to follow anyone whom you believe might be a threat to you, take an adult with you, eh?"

Eldarion winced, for this was a Rule, and he had not thought he was breaking any, since Nurse said the ghosts only existed in his own mind.

Fortunately, Faramir rescued him, modifying Magordan's request in such a way as to make it clear that it was clear to Faramir, at least, that Eldarion had not known that he was breaking a Rule, "The good Captain means that you should do so even if the threat may not exist, Eldarion."

"Aye," the Captain agreed, watchful eyes on the shadows as he accompanied the two Princes back to the citadel. "Ask Prince Faramir to accompany you, my Prince, as our Lord Steward is obviously quite accustomed to addressing that which may not exist."

Faramir winced ever so slightly. Eldarion later learned that, although Magordan was a good man, he also had a subtle sense of humor. After ‘the ghost incident,’ Magordan and his fellow royal guards had subjected Faramir to a string of ghost-themed jokes and pranks. Faramir had told Eldarion that he had considered protesting at the time that he hadn't even known that Eldarion could see the spirits, let alone that the youngster could successfully escape his minders to follow them. Faramir had kept silent, however, because he hadn’t been sure that those truths would have assuaged Captain Magordan’s ire at seeing his Crown Prince and Steward confronted by a possible threat the former ranger could not see or hear, and therefore could not defend Eldarion and Faramir from.

"I will," Eldarion promised Magordan, hoping he would not get in any further trouble for this night's adventure. He had only meant to learn where the ghosts came from, that he might not be so frightened of them in the future. Seeking to change the subject, one of the tactics he had learned from Faramir for evading dangerous conversations, the young Prince asked. "Could you see the spirits too, Captain Magordan?"

"I could not, your Highness,” the Captain explained, with a brief considering look over the child's head at the quiet Faramir, "I heard the lady's sobs faintly, and then some few words spoken by the last ghost."

Faramir, to Eldarion’s interest, hid another wince.

Eldarion had been impressed enough by the ghostly pageantry that he had not noticed the discrepancies in the ghost's manner of address. But Magordan, who knew Aragorn's lineage as well as any of the Dunedain who had followed the King from the north, had had some questions for the Steward the following day about what he had overheard. If Faramir hadn’t been so quite so eloquent when it came to finessing his answers to those questions, then that might have been the point when Aragorn (and Eldarion) found out that Faramir was Aragorn’s son, rather than several years later (and in much more dramatic circumstances). Eldarion rather begrudged those years, but it was not Magordan’s fault that Faramir was good at confusing people when he wanted to be. And Eldarion loved Faramir far too much to be angry at him for having concealed what was, for Faramir, a difficult truth to have had to live with, let alone to share.

That night the party of Eldarion, Faramir, and Magordan passed several other of the King's guards, who seemed surprised to see the young Prince up at this late hour. None were alarmed though, since the child seemed in good spirits and was accompanied by the Steward and Captain Magordan.

As the group approached the royal wing, a door flew open to reveal the King and his foster-brothers, all looking quite upset.

"Eldarion!" Aragorn greeted his heir with relief, "Where on Arda did you disappear to? "

Eldarion, intimidated to see his normally calm Adar so flustered, looked to Faramir in mute appeal rather than answer.

The Steward sighed, but valiantly attempted, "It is a long story, Aragorn. All is well, might it not wail 'til morrow?"

Arwen, hearing her son's voice, appeared in her dressing gown, sleep-tousled hair carelessly pulled back.

"I think that may be best, Aragorn," The Queen endorsed.

"Come, ion-nin, let us get you back to bed,” she commanded softly to Eldarion.

Eldarion, recognizing a rescue when one came his way, quickly turned to follow his mother. His father stopped him on the way, and picked him up for a hug and quick kiss to his cheek.

"You smell of those caramel biscuits Faramir favors." The King noted, sighing in resignation, "Arwen, my love, make sure he cleans his teeth again before you lay him down."

The Queen, accepting the nocturnal wanderings of her offspring more philosophically now that she knew he had not been unaccompanied, nodded and smiled.

Aragorn waved his Steward and the Captain of his guard to the sitting room, followed by his twin foster-brothers (and brothers-by-law). Eldarion, let down by his mother while she went to seek out and reassure his nurse, eavesdropped from the hallway.

"Would either of you care to explain?" The King asked Magordan and Faramir, his voice dangerously quiet.

Magordan told Aragorn briefly how he had observed Eldarion disappearing into a tunnel, and had followed.

"It was strange, Aragorn,” the Captain explained, addressing the King by name, as he had once been one of Aragorn's mentors amongst the northern Rangers, and knew the King well. "Eldarion was following something, I could tell, but I couldn't see anything, nor hear anything except the faint sounds of a woman crying. Faramir explained that he could see these spirits as well."

Aragorn looked to his Steward in surprise, "My city is infested with ghosts, and I don't find out until my son, barely past toddling, chooses to follow them one night?"

Faramir, looking slightly embarrassed, apologized. "I am sorry, Aragorn. I would have mentioned it, but most people can't see or hear them, and I .... I learned not to bring it up at an early age. Having people treat you as if you are not quite sane becomes wearying, after awhile."

Sympathetic to the subtext of his younger friend's answer, Aragorn squeezed the Steward's shoulder in support, "I imagine it does. Do either of you know how Eldarion got out of our rooms without anyone noticing in the first place?"

Magordan shook his head darkly.

Faramir coughed, and then offered tentatively, "Ah, the window ledge between the nursery bedroom and the playroom is rather wide, my King."

Elladan's eyes widened, and Elrohir shook his head, "Wide if you are a bird,” the older twin commented in asperity.

"When I was a child, I used a similar ledge between the nursery and my father's sitting room to get about after hours," Faramir explained.

"I've said it before, my Steward, and I'll probably say it again. You must have been a terrifying child," Aragorn commented, running a hand tiredly through his hair. "Very well, so tomorrow I need to make it clear to my heir that he is not to leave our rooms by himself late at night, even if he is not doing so through the door."

"It might be well to tell him he may wake you if he sees ghosts, Aragorn." Faramir recommended, "He did not think they were real, so he did not think he was in any danger. In truth, I do not think he was in danger from the spirits. Normally, they pass on about their business without taking note of the living."

"That one certainly noted you," Magordan observed, eye-balling the Steward keenly, as he explained to the King, "After Eldarion met up with Faramir, another ghost approached them, thinking our Faramir was Firiel's younger brother who had died in the battle against the wainriders."

"A perhaps understandable mistake, as there are certain similarities," Elrohir commented dryly, as Faramir rolled his eyes.

"The spirit of Lord Steward Pelendur has been unusually restless," Faramir explained, "In our past conversations, he has told me that he doubted the wisdom of his decision to deny Firiel's claim to Gondor's throne. And that he had come to fear that his doing so had brought the darkness on more strongly. I had hoped after the Ring War to assure him that all was well, but this was the first year he listened. And 'twas to Eldarion, not to me."

"I had read that spirits can see everything, and speak only the truth," Captain Magordan put forth, still studying Faramir.

"Some spirits," The Steward said carefully.

"No, that's essentially the case with most ghosts," Elladan disagreed, giving Faramir an odd look, for usually the Steward knew his facts backward and forward, however esoteric the subject. "Ghosts generally do not lie, and can see truths hidden from those living. However, the truth they see is not necessarily something that can be understood."

Faramir shrugged and then tried to hide a yawn, "Perhaps you are right, Elladan. It has been years since I studied the matter, and that particular ghost has said any number of odd things to me over the years."

Turning to Aragorn, the Steward asked. "It is late, my King, and I am promised to meet with the representatives from Harad tomorrow. I will need my wits about me. May I be excused?"

Aragorn granted his permission, but added firmly "We will talk more of these spirits, and soon, Faramir."

"Aye, Aragorn." His Steward agreed, courteously bidding the company good night.

After his Steward had left, the King turned to his Captain of the Guards. "What troubles you still, old friend?" Aragorn asked.

"I am not troubled so much as confused," Magordan clarified, "I did not hear every word that was said, but from what I could tell, the Lord Pelendur's ghost seemed convinced that Eldarion and Faramir were brothers, and both descendants of Ondoher."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, surprised, "Well, Eldarion certainly views Faramir as an older brother, at times. Perhaps that is why."

Noticing his twin brothers' unspoken dialogue, Aragorn sighed in frustration. "What is it?"

"What is what, Estel?" Elrohir asked.

"What are you two saying to one another in twin twitter?" their younger foster brother clarified, observing as always the twins' annoyance at his name for their "secret language" of silent gestures with a certain satisfaction.

Elladan shook his head, "We are just agreeing that it is odd, Estel. We are wondering how it could be possible that Faramir be a descendant of your ancestor Ondoher.”

“And we do not see how, as all of Ondoher's descendants amongst the Dunedain saving you yourself have passed on, and he left none in Gondor," Elrohir finished, frustrated.

Aragorn sighed. "It is odd indeed. I will keep a careful eye on both of my young seers of ghosts. And I shall try to remember to question Faramir more closely as to this matter, when he is more relaxed."

"You mean you shall get him drunk," Elrohir criticized.

"Only if he isn't forthcoming when he is sober," Aragorn defended himself.

The twins laughed, and exited the room, fingers still flying at one another as they considered the night's revelations.

Magordan chuckled, begged the King's leave to depart after the twins, then turned back as a last thought occurred to him. "You know, Aragorn," the King's old mentor commented "I think that you deserve your son, and Faramir as well."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow in surprise, "I am happy with them both, nocturnal wanderings after spirits aside, but I am not sure what you mean."

"I knew you before you were fully grown," the Guard Captain explained, "And you, as well, were a terrifying child."

The King laughed as he bid his retainer good night. Eldarion, recollected at that point by his mother, did not know this at the time, but his father later told him that Aragorn had been up for another hour that night, considering how best to deal with his terrifying child, and the grown child of his old friend Finduilas.

Chapter Text

As long as I could remember, I had been required by my tutors to call my friend Fara “my Lord Steward,” or “my Prince,” in public. I chose to call him my Prince, because that way there were two human princes in Minas Tirith. Also, that way, his title was like unto mine, and I could pretend we were brothers. His wife, my friend Éowyn, I had to call “my Lady,” because she refused to be called Princess. Their daughter, my playmate, Theodwyn (Thea) the baby who had just started walking, I had to call Lady Theodwyn. Éowyn and Naneth agreed it is a very long title for someone who has only just stopped chewing on my toys.

Then Fara was hurt very badly, and Ada had to go get him. Ada and Naneth and Éowyn were all very worried. I held Thea when she cried, and told her everything would be fine, even though I knew I might be lying. Fara is a soldier, and sometimes soldiers die serving their King. I desperately hoped he would arrive home safe.

Then Legolas – or Prince Legolas, as my tutor insists he be called – came rushing into the family suite in the middle of evening play time, and told us that Fara had been hurt, but that Uncle ‘Dan said he would be ok. Uncle ‘Dan is always right about that, so we all felt much better. Éowyn got to go with Legolas to meet Fara and Ada. I didn’t think it was fair that they would not let me go too. I can ride a horse just fine if someone holds me.
Legolas also told us that Fara is my Ada’s son. My Naneth said, “Yes, we know, Legolas.” Legolas’ mouth dropped open, and he looked up at the ceiling, then told Éowyn, “I am going to give your husband a lecture he will never forget, once he is well, dear friend.” Éowyn laughed in relief, and said she thought such would be well-deserved.

One day during the next week, I awoke, was bathed and dressed by my Naneth, and joined her and the full court for breakfast as I often do. Adar was there, to my joy, as he had arrived late last night. I have a vague memory of him coming to greet me, dusty from the road. But he came in the middle of the night, and I had thought it only a good a dream. Éowyn and Fara were not there, but Ada promised I could see them directly after breakfast, and we did.

Fara looked very pale and tired, but he smiled when he saw us. Ada says Fara must stay in bed and not move anywhere for several days. But he let Éowyn put Thea up in the bed beside Fara. Thea and I both had to be very gentle, but we were allowed to hug Fara, and sit with him. Fara told us a story about his mother, how she had needed a baby so desperately that she had asked my Ada to give her one. Then Fara’s mother cast a spell so that Ada would forget, so he would not miss the child that he could not know was his.

I am a clever boy. I know that is so because everyone says so. So I asked Fara, “does that mean that my Ada is your Ada, now that the spell is broken?” Fara said that it does. My Ada picked me up and told me that I have been known as his son for longer, so that even though Fara is much older and knows lots of things, I must help teach Fara how to be a good son to our Ada. That made sense to me, so I told Fara it is mostly easy. Fara always works hard at his Steward lessons all of the time, which is the part of being Ada’s son I like the least. I also told Fara that he must learn to listen to healers better, or Ada will get angry with him.

Ada laughed and Fara looked more pale. Ada decided that Fara had had enough company for one day, and chased us all out except Éowyn, who always gets to stay.

That one day, my tutor’s requirements for formal address changed, though he seemed rather put out by it. Now, it is appropriate for me to call Fara simply “brother,” in public or private. Though I need no longer use them in address, now I must know all of Fara’s titles and much about his lands, because he is not only my father’s close political ally but our kin. I may call Éowyn “sister,” and Thea “niece.” My tutor hopes I will be able to call the baby my sister Éowyn carries my nephew. I hope so too. I love Thea but another boy to play with would be nice. I wondered if Thea would be mad about having to call me uncle, since I am not so much older than she, but Thea does not mind. She calls ‘Dan and ‘Roh “Uncle” now too, and tells our tutor that “uncle” means a fun person to play with who is family but not your parents. Thea is still little.

Éowyn doesn’t mind being called sister, although she is so much older than I am. She calls me “little brother,” as does Fara, sometimes. But he has a harder time with it, and normally just calls me ‘Darion, or even “my Prince.” Ada says we must be patient with him, that this is a difficult adjustment for my brother even though he loves us. I think I need to talk to Fara though, because he is making Ada sad by always calling him “my King.” Ada doesn’t want to be a King with his family; it is enough he must be one for the rest of Gondor.

Thea calls Naneth and Ada by daernaneth and daeradar, as they have taught her. I asked my Naneth if she minds being a Daernaneth already, since she looks so young. She smiled and told me that she loves it, like she loves being a naneth. My Ada pretended to be offended, and asked me why I did not tell him he looks young. I told him he looks very old and venerable, then I had to run away because otherwise he would have caught me and tickled me. Since I moved so fast, he instead caught Fara, who was teaching Thea her letters, and tickled him, asking Fara where his younger son had come up with the idea of calling him “old and venerable.” Of course Fara had told me it would be funny days ago. I told Ada so, and asked Fara for the biscuit I had been promised for calling Ada that.

Ada, still tickling Fara, teased “For shame, Fara, bribing your younger brother to insult your father! That is no way to be a role model. Eldarion, you shall have your biscuit tomorrow, now come and help me tickle your brother. Here, Thea, like this.” And Fara laughed helplessly, even though I know he could have escaped.

Uncle ‘Dan and my sister Éowyn, returning from the houses of healing, were startled. “Estel,” Uncle ‘Dan called to my father, “Must you knock over the furniture as you play with the other children? I had hoped you would outgrow that.”

Ada grinned, and explained. “I had to knock over the chair, ‘else Faramir would have escaped.”

“Ah.” Uncle ‘Dan accepted that logic much more easily than my nurse ever does. “Here, Faramir, let me show you where Estel is ticklish…” Uncle ‘Dan offered, grabbing Ada in a headlock.

Fara escaped to go greet Éowyn. He also slipped me the promised biscuit that night, even though Ada had said no, plus I got another from Ada the next day. ‘Twas that night I realized everything would be ok, and that it doesn’t matter so much what we call each-other.

Chapter Text

Faramir gave the King- his father, strange thought, that – an odd look. “You’re upset because you don’t know which foods I liked as a toddler?”

Aragorn waved a hand, struggling for words. “Not that, specifically, but all of those little things. When you first walked,”

“No one knows.” Faramir noted, “but it was probably in the Houses of Healing.”

“When you first talked,” The King continued.

“Aloud? I was two, or three. I forget which. But it was because Uncle Imrahil made me.” Faramir answered.

Aragorn nodded, thinking he could probably get that story from Imrahil, or Amrothos. “The point is, dear one, I don’t know these things about you, that I know about Eldarion. The little things that a father should know about his son.”

“Well, my favorite toy soldier is definitely the troubadour.” Faramir told him with a straight face, adding to the pile of petitions he felt the King needed to go through personally.

“Faramir, I’m trying to be serious,” Aragorn lectured lightly, fighting a smile, “and I saw you sneak that into my pile,” the King pulled up the scroll, scanned it, and then sighed and put it back down, “and I will deal with it, but I’d like to know these little bits of your history. For instance, I don’t know even know the first time you kissed a girl.” Aragorn complained.

Faramir blinked. “Well, it wasn’t a girl, and it was a really, really long story.”

It was Aragorn’s turn to blink. “And you see, I didn’t know that.”

Faramir added blandly, “Dev was involved.”

Aragorn sighed, not sure whether he was more resigned, amused or intrigued. “Of course he was.”

A moment of silence passed.

“I’m never going to hear that story, am I?” The King said to his son in gentle resignation.

Faramir gave him a half smile, getting up to peruse another pile of files flagged for the King’s attention. “No, probably not.”

As Faramir leaned over to grab a law book from a stack on the floor, Aragorn rolled his eyes, and smacked his older son’s slender backside firmly.

“Ow. What was that for?” Faramir asked, confused. Or at least pretending to be confused.

“Successfully distracting me from learning more about you.” The King scolded. “We’re going to be late for council. This discussion isn’t over.”

Faramir shook his head, smiling a little. “If you weren’t so easily distracted…”

“Watch it.” Aragorn scolded with a light laugh, thinking how much Faramir sounded like Erestor. “Someone has to deal with the weaver guild’s new objection to the alpaca issue. Keep being difficult, and it might be you.”

Chapter Text

There were days every year she knew she would cry, anniversaries when she knew she would miss her lost loves, her parents, her friends. Soldiers and victims of the fight her people had waged at dear cost and won, thanks to aid unlooked for.

But this was not an anniversary. Just a bright fall day. And Alphros was just a little boy. A Prince, yes, heir to Elphir, Prince Imrahil’s son and heir to Dol Amroth. But some trick of genetics had given him Boromir’s smile, Boromir’s laugh, and Boromir’s habits, his likes and dislikes, writ miniature.

“It would be the kind of memorial he would best like.” Faramir commented softly beside her, his eyes, too, following the seven year old Prince. “But it hits one like a wave, at times, doesn’t it?”

She winced as Alphros took the most direct path over the obstacles his cousins had arranged, and bowled them over despite their better-thought out approaches to climbing the stacked bales of hay. Alphros was Boromir’s cousin’s son, but like enough unto him to have been Boromir’s own son. Alphros made her recall the babe she had lost to grief, seven months pregnant, a few weeks after Faramir’s brother died.

Nessanie Saelasiel, now the wife of the Lord Ethiron of Eryn Vorn, the King’s spymaster, was no stranger to loving children, though they reminded her of loss. Her first son, Tavan, now a cadet at the academy, had been born eight months after her first husband’s death. But Tavan had not so strongly resembled his father, as Alphros did Boromir. How Nessa wished she could have had Boromir’s son, too. Though she loved her third husband well, and the infant son he had given her. She and Ethiron never would have been more than friends, in a world where Boromir had lived. Dirhael, their son, named for the King’s grandfather, Ethiron’s mentor, never would have been born. But, oh, when Alphros laughed, Nessa missed her second love. He’d brought a joy she’d never known into her life, and when he left, some of that had gone away.

Nessa winced at the same time Faramir did, as Alphros nearly fell from the loft of the barn. But just in time, Tavan’s hand steadied the younger child, and the two swung down together on the rope, landing on top of the bales of hay. Alphros would take risks, always wanting to be first into the fray. It was just his nature, so like that of his cousin.

“Boromir chose to go, Fara-nin.” Nessa gently reminded the man she viewed as her own younger brother. “His choice, and he found joy as well as sorrow in the quest. And pride as well as failure.”

“He was where he would have chosen to be.” Faramir agreed. “If only I could have warned him, before he left, of the ring.”

“You didn’t know.” Nessa pointed out gently.

“I might have guessed.” Faramir shook his head, disgust warring with resignation and grief. “My father…”

“Was both a wise man and a fool.” Nessa said shortly. She had little patience for a man who had so spurned his wife’s last gift. She understood loss. Some bright days, she still cried when Alphros smiled. But she smiled through her tears, and told the cheerful blond boy that he reminded her of his wonderful cousin. And she thanked the Valar that Boromir had left her his brother to love, and Tavasond his son.

When Tavasond died, what kept Nessa from being paralyzed with grief was knowing that he would want her to care for his son and his friends. When Boromir died, and she miscarried his only child, Nessa’s comforts were her son Tavan, whom Boromir had loved like his own, and Boromir’s family. Boromir had been a family man, loving his father despite great obstacles, always there for his brother and his cousins, and his friends, for that matter. The best way to honor her lost love, was to love and care for those he had kept close to his heart. Even when it made her cry.

“Thea and ‘Darion are going to push Alphros into breaking a limb.” Faramir complained, preparing to call out to interrupt the children’s increasingly daring games.

“No, Fara, let me.” Nessa offered. “Little warriors of Gondor’s hay bales,” She called out to the knot of the King’s and Princes’ children, “Let me tell you a story.”

“Hooray!” Alphros cheered, before demanding “Make it a ballad, cousin Ness!”

“Please,” added Eldarion, charmingly. Thea tripped Alphros before he could smack the crown prince for being a kiss-up. Faramir and Nessa shared a bittersweet smile, and Nessa agreed to pull out her harp, if there was no hitting.

“Thank you, Nessa.” The stressed Prince Elphir offered, sincerely grateful. His son Alphros was an only child, and the oldest of Imrahil’s grandchildren. Keeping the bold little boy from tempting disaster as he showed off for his younger cousins was a constant challenge.

“It is my honor.” Nessa replied. Her honor, always, to love her lost Boromir’s kin.

Chapter Text

Eldarion’s first tutor was a pleasant young man who had been working for his distant cousin Lord Cirdan at the Gray Havens. At only three years of age, most thought Eldarion too young to need a tutor. But Arwen insisted that any child of hers who was capable of reading enough of the title and frontispage of one of “those books” to then ask what the word “ravished” meant, was indeed ready for a tutor, and no one disagreed. The tutor from the Gray Havens believed that young children should learn to express themselves with creativity, and gave Eldarion fingerpaints and chalk. He had not even discovered his charge could read, in the three or so weeks he had Eldarion to student. Aragorn decided that was unacceptable, and a respected tutor from one of Gondor’s lordly families was hired to take over.

That tutor was surprised but impressed by Eldarion’s abilities to read and count, and set to work at improving them, also beginning to teach the toddler the formalities and protocol he would need as a Prince of Gondor and Arnor. Eldarion didn’t particularly like the man, but more for his dourness and the constriction of the heir’s schedule that he represented than for any flaw in his personality. That tutor had been unimpressed by the addition of 14 month old Theodwyn to Eldarion’s lessons, but Thea wanted very much to be wherever ‘Darion was, and the Queen insisted that her dear friend Éowyn’s daughter might stay at the lessons, if she was not disruptive. Theodwyn quickly learned that she must be quiet and pay attention if she wanted to stay near ‘Darion, and surprised the tutor by remembering to call him by his proper title before Eldarion did. That tutor might have lasted for several more years at the least, but that Lady Ynithe, one of Queen Arwen’s ladies-in-waiting, happened to overhear him sneeringly refer to Prince Faramir as “the King’s favored bastard” at a gathering in the city. Ynithe told Arwen, who told Aragorn to find the man another position, after asking her brother Elrohir to have a very frank conversation with Eldarion’s second former tutor.

Eldarion’s third tutor was his Uncle Elladan. That lasted until Eldarion showed his father a drawing he had made in lessons. It was a detailed comparison of the bodies of an orc, a human, an elf, and a dwarf, and where the best places to apply a blade or an arrow would be. That might not have been enough to get Elladan fired, but the drawing Theodwyn had done of the human heart, with the best places to put a dagger, certainly was. Aragorn thanked his older foster-brother for his time, but suggested that it would be best to find another human tutor for the royal brood, for appearances sake. Elladan, who loved his great-niece and nephew but was completely unsure of how to tutor such young children, cheerfully agreed to return as a special sciences tutor when Aragorn’s and Faramir’s brood became older. Much older.

It was a friend of Faramir’s, a young archivist named Hallas, who became Eldarion’s fourth tutor, the one who remained the tutor for all of the royal brood except the youngest, Ecthelion, who was born to Éowyn and Faramir nearly twenty years after Theodwyn. Hallas was particularly suited to teach the histories of both Gondor and Arnor. His father had been one of the Dunedain to follow Aragorn to Minas Tirith in his days as Thorongil, and his mother had been a woman of the city, and a distant cousin of Lord Golasgil of Anfalas. The royal brood had many special assistant tutors, including Uncle Elladan and Lord Erestor. But it was Hallas who, along with their parents, shepherded the educational development of the royal generation who would later help to found the great universities of Gondor and Arnor. Libraries were later named after the gentle, clever, funny man, who had made learning so pleasant for the first Telcontar children.

Chapter Text

Uncle Elladan was Eldarion’s most favorite tutor. He didn’t treat ‘Darion like a baby, like that first tutor had. Honestly, thinking ‘Darion couldn’t even read or write, when Fara and Nana had taught ‘Darion how to do that ages ago! Nor was Uncle ‘Dan an “overstuffed prig” like ‘Darion’s second tutor had been. That was Uncle Elrohir’s description of ‘Darion’s previous tutor, and ‘Darion thought it quite appropriate. But he knew better than to repeat anything Uncle ‘Roh said when he was upset.

Normally, Eldarion and Thea loved their lessons with Uncle Elladan. Uncle ‘Dan didn’t plan lessons, and would just answer their questions (whatever they asked!). Uncle Elladan was one of their favorite adults. He would also take them on “nature hikes” in the garden, where Eldarion could usually convince Thea to try to eat something gross, which was really neat, in Eldarion’s opinion. Uncle Elladan didn’t overreact to Thea’s “inquisitive, investigative” nature, like most of their other minders did. He just gently guided her to the more edible plants and animals in the garden.

But today neither child was able to enjoy their lessons. Yesterday a bad man had tried to kill Eldarion’s Ada, the King, and then Theodwyn’s Ada, who was ‘Darion’s older half-brother Faramir, Ada’s Steward. Ada and Fara had just been walking around in the city, and the bad man shot arrows at them, and no one knew why. Both Ada and Faramir had been quiet the previous night, and Nana had cried. Éowyn had just looked very fierce, even nearly nine months pregnant.

Eldarion could believe Éowyn had once fought the evil witch-King. He could also believe his mother had been a warrior for a long time before even his Ada was born. Nana wasn’t fierce, but no one went against her when she made up her mind. Ada said it was like fighting the tide. Fara said that Eldarion’s Nana was very wise, and had developed a persistent nature from surviving centuries as Lord Elrond’s only daughter. Eldarion didn’t know what that had to do with anything, but Fara and Nana were almost always on the same side. Ada said that Nana and Éowyn were the only ones who could get Fara to do something when Eldarion’s older brother turned stubborn. Fara said that wasn’t true, that he listened to Aragorn as well. Eldarion’s twin uncles said that Fara was too stubbornly independent for his own good, and that Eldarion’s Nana was a spoiled brat. Eldarion knew not to repeat that, too.

Eldarion and Thea had talked about what they wanted to learn today, and they asked Uncle Elladan to teach them how to stop bad men. Uncle Elladan didn’t say anything for a moment, which was really odd for Uncle ‘Dan.

Recovering from surprise, Uncle ‘Dan asked “‘Darion, Thea, neither of you will have to defend yourselves from anyone for many years. Your Ada and I and ‘Roh will take care of you, and that is only if anyone is “bad” enough to get past the army and our guards. Which is unlikely, children, as those who guard us are well-trained and quite loyal.”

“Ada fight bad man.” Thea disagreed quietly.

“Ada did fight the bad man,’ Thea.” Elladan corrected. “Remember, sentences require transitional verbs, and nouns generally need objects.”

Theodwyn wrinkled her cherubic nose. “Grammar stupid.” she noted in disgust.

‘Darion grinned at his niece despite his worry. “Grammar IS stupid, Thea. I agree.”

Elladan sighed. Grammar had never been his favorite subject as an elfling, either. Just wait til these poor kids got to variant forms of Quenya… he desperately hoped Estel had found them a new tutor by then. He would be very likely to just agree with his pupils that it was an unnecessary thing to have to learn. Perhaps Erestor would be willing to teach them? But that would leave Mel alone in Imladris… Elladan shook his head, returning to his niece’s point. “Your ada put himself in a position where he was able to fight the bad man only because he disobeyed orders and common sense to go running after the bad man, Thea. I love Faramir well, but he should not have done that. It was too dangerous.”

“He got in big trouble with Ada.” ‘Darion observed in wonder. The Crown Prince hadn’t realized that his older brother, whom he idolized, could ever get into trouble with their Ada. Normally Ada and Fara were both telling ‘Darion what to do, even though ‘Darion far preferred to confess his misdeeds to the tolerant Faramir.

Elladan closed his eyes for a moment, thanking the Valar for keeping Faramir from getting scratched by the assassin’s poisoned knife. “And deservedly so. But neither of you are trained warriors yet, as our Faramir has been for several decades. Neither of you are to run after assassins, or any other such thing. It would be very stupid and naughty, as well as dangerous.”

“But what if they come running after us?” Eldarion asked. “What if our guards get lost or hurt? What if we’re alone, or just with Nana? What do we do?”

Elladan smiled fiercely. “If you’re with your Nana, you’re not in bad shape, ‘Darion. As a matter of fact, I might consider hiding behind your Nana if assassins, er, bad men attack. She is a fierce and capable warrior, though she does not usually carry a sword in the city.

“If Daernana not is?” Thea followed up, smoothly tag-teaming her partner-in-crime, her beloved uncle ‘Dari.

Elladan gave his his great-niece a measuring look. Thea’s persistence and ability to follow a logical argument were impressive for her age. Then he corrected absentmindedly “what if Daernana is not there, Thea.” But Elladan’s mind was elsewhere. He had lived over 20 centuries… some of the things he had seen… what could it hurt, to tell them a little of how they might defend themselves? Everyone hoped that they would never be in a position to need to, or at least not until they were well-trained adults, but he could remember the terrible fates of other beloved children, dead with their parents in the burnt out villages the Witch-King’s men had left behind them in Arnor, following the siege of Imladris. Elladan had lived long, and one thing he had learned was that life was too uncertain. And a king was always a target, and no less his sons. And if he taught Eldarion, what harm to teach Thea?”

Elladan sighed again, and conceded. “Alright, you two have a point. You have logically followed your arguments through to their conclusion and defeated your opponent in this debate, me. As you have persuaded me, I shall tell you what you should do. Soon, you will begin to carry knives. Here is how you can find a knife on an opponent if you don’t have one. Then…” Elladan began drawing diagrams, showing them the sensitive spots on the human, elven and orcish body, the places they must aim for if defending against an enemy, the parts of themselves they must defend.

Theodwyn paid careful attention; this was important adult information, information she and ‘Dari had determined that no one else would probably be willing to teach them. Her own Ada and Nana had been their next best choice, but ‘Dari had said Uncle Elladan would be best, and ‘Dari was right again.

Then ‘Dari asked what they should do if they lost their knife, or didn’t have one. So Uncle Elladan had them practice in the classroom, picking up any given object and showing them how it could be used to delay a foe, or disarm them. “Remember,” Elladan solemnly instructed the children, “anything can be a weapon. The name of the game, in your age and position, is to survive long enough for help to come.”

At one point, with a stylus that had been among Faramir’s old childhood school things, Elladan was covering again the principle of aiming for the heart. Eldarion asked what a heart looked like. After Elladan explained the shape, Theodwyn demanded, “How work?”

Uncle Elladan frowned a bit, then said that since they were both curious, he would try to explain. So he drew a picture of the human heart. Then Uncle Elladan explained how blood is pumped from chamber to chamber, and how and why stabbing an assailant in the heart stops that process and ends their life. Thea looked at ‘Dari; he was confused too. Observing this, Uncle Elladan took them on a fieldtrip to see one of the older fountains that used a pump to recirculate water. Using his belt-knife, Elladan picked the lock on a concealing panel to show his pupils the pumping mechanism. Then he poured wine into the water to show them how the pump made the liquid circulate throughout the fountain, and explained that a heart works similarly.

Eldarion, judging by the skeptical look on his face, was unconvinced. “We have a machine inside of us? That’s too odd, Uncle ‘Dan. You’re putting us on. Like when Ada told Thea that cats all must learn to swim, and then they will love to do so.”

Elladan frowned at the memory of that incident. “No, I don’t have Estel’s low sense of humor. Mine is much more refined. I would not mislead you on such an important matter.”

Thea also frowned in memory of that less-than-funny joke of Daerada’s. She didn’t want to be taken for a fool again. But how to have Uncle Elladan prove they really had machines called hearts inside them? Thea didn’t dislike anyone enough to ask Uncle Elladan to cut them open in order to prove they had a heart, even if Uncle Elladan would. One could never tell with Uncle Elladan.

Just then Thea spotted Smaug the cat returning through the garden with a trophy, a dead frog. Thea frowned in thought. Elladan said that all creatures except the littlest ones like bugs had hearts, too. This frog was already dead, because Smaug was planning to eat it. So maybe Elladan could show them if the frog had a heart. That would work.

“See if lie.” Thea said to Darion. Thea then chattered to Smaug for a bit, and the cat reluctantly yielded the frog to her. Thea had her father’s way with creatures of all kinds, at least until they realized she intended to bathe them, or possibly eat them, or put them in Eldarion’s bed in retribution for not being invited to join him in one activity or another (this only happened to slimy creatures; a cat would not be an effective deterrent).

Thea then handed the dead creature to her uncle. “Show.” The toddler ordered.

Elladan obliged her, after first vocally thanking the little frog for the life it had given, and Smaug for her forsaken meal. He then showed the children how one went about dissecting a frog. Both found it fairly abhorrent, and Elladan decided that anatomy was probably a better subject for adolescents than toddlers.

Elladan was exhausted, and he still had reports by healer-trainees to revise, and work to do on the book he was currently co-writing, “Healing Herbs of Gondor.” Not to mention experiments to review from his apprentices in the alchemy guild. So he decided that it was time for the lesson to be over, He concluded the lesson, as always, by having ‘Darion and Thea write an entry in their learning journals, and draw pictures if they wished. Elladan was quite impressed by their retentive memories and artistic skills, although Thea’s determination to convince the rest of the world to eschew grammar rather than learning it herself was a continuing source of frustration for her tutor. Still, the children seemed less worried about “bad men,” so Elladan considered himself to have done well. He still hoped that Estel would find someone better suited to tutoring the children soon, but he was quite sure that Éowyn and Arwen needed the break, until then. Éowyn was still working with the healers when she had the energy, though her due date was approaching.

Then Lady Lindorie and ‘Darion’s Nana came to collect Eldarion and Theodwyn, and it was time to get ready for dinner. Lindorie was helping Nana because Thea’s Nana, Darion’s sister Éowyn, needed extra naps – she was going to have another baby soon. This was sixth day, when Faramir usually took Thea and Éowyn to meet his friends in the city for dinner. Eldarion liked it when Faramir would take him, as well. Faramir’s nephew-who-wasn’t-really-a nephew Tavan was lots of fun to play with, when he was in a good mood. He was almost a teenager, so sometimes he had grown-up stuff to do, and didn’t have time to play with ‘Darion and Thea. Tavan’s mother Nessa was really nice, and she’d always play the harp and sing if ‘Darion asked politely. Hallas and Dev were always nice to ‘Darion as well. Hallas would tell ‘Darion really interesting stories about past Princes of Gondor and Arnor, and Dev would suggest neat games that Ada probably wouldn’t like. But Nessa’s husband Ethiron (who Tavan explained carefully was NOT his Ada), was likely to notice anything really fun before it had a chance to half get started. But this week, Ada had asked Faramir to have his friends come to the citadel, instead. That was an acceptable alternative to Eldarion, although he knew Thea was sad to miss a trip into the city. Maybe he could convince Fara that Thea was old enough for swimming lessons.

The dinner that night was lots of fun, from Eldarion’s perspective. Much more fun than the formal dinners that he and more recently Theodwyn usually attended with the full court on first, third, and fifth days. During those dinners, they had to sit up straight, and eat properly, and not make a mess. Plus they had to behave like miniature adults, and be “discreet.” And there were lots of people watching them, all the time. Most of the people were nice, but Ada still compared it to being an animal in a zoo exhibit. Dinners with just the family were a lot more fun, and dinners with Fara’s friends were even more fun.

And this dinner was great. There was lots of good food, and since Faramir and Éowyn were hosting this dinner, Ada said it was their rules instead of his, that he and Nana were just Fara’s guests. So Eldarion didn’t have to eat all of his vegetables; just give them a tiny taste to make sure he hadn’t suddenly developed a taste for them. ‘Darion assured Fara that he would never develop a taste for carrots. Fara said that was fine, as long as ‘Darion used socially acceptable terminology to describe his dislike. Fara said it wasn’t fair to be so explicit as to dampen the enthusiasm of those who did like carrots, or to upset the cook.

“A simple “I do not care for them,” is sufficient, ‘Darion.” Faramir murmured, as Ada rolled his eyes at Fara and said, “Just you wait, Faramir Your next child will be as picky an eater as Eldarion, and then you will have to play tyrannical Ada at the dinner table as well.

“Don’t wish that on Éowyn, meleth-nin.” Nana interposed gently. Fortunately, Éowyn, who often took exception to Ada’s teasing of Fara when she deemed it to have gone too far, was paying complete attention to Elladan, who was describing what he considered his most challenging surgery of all time, a ruptured appendix on the battle field. Éowyn was riveted, but Sion and Hallas both looked a little sick, and even Ethiron looked a tad green.

Fortunately for the other dinner guests, the next course arrived, an absolutely splendid dessert, in Eldarion’s opinion. Ada had argued with the cook Mairen until she had agreed to let Mistress Sion, Hallas’ mother, bake a special cake that Fara used to have as a child in Dol Amroth. Sion was kin to Lord Golasgil of Anfalas, which was near Dol Amroth. Lord Golasgil was also nice, and knew lots of fun stories about ‘Darion’s brother Faramir, when Faramir had been young. He and Dev kept Faramir laughing even after dessert, when ‘Darion went to play with Thea and Tavan. He asked his twin uncles to join them, but Elladan had lost a bet to Elrohir, and had to play a game of chess with him.

At first they played chase, with Tavan chasing both of them, and then Dev helping Thea and ‘Darion chase Tavan. But after ‘Darion knocked over the table with the chess set in the middle of his twin uncles’ game, Nana suggested they find another activity. So they started to build a maze for Smaug the cat with wooden blocks that Faramir had painted to look like different fiefs of Gondor. When Smaug escaped, ‘Darion and Tavan started building really high towers with the blocks for Thea to knock down. Then Dev and Hallas showed Eldarion, Tavan and Thea how to make the stacks of wooden blocks go flying in all directions by setting off the spinning tops Uncle Éomer and Aunt Lothiriel had sent them right beside the blocks, which was really fun. Nessa and Sion were talking to Nana and Éowyn about boring baby stuff, but Eldarion was relatively certain he could talk Nessa into singing once they finished that. She had even brought her harp, and Tavan had his pipe and lute. Eldarion hoped Faramir took Ada’s advice and had his friends over more often; all of Faramir’s friends were fun.

Well, all of Fara’s friends were fun except for Ethiron. And Ethiron was properly Ada’s friend, not Fara’s. Fara “disclaimed any responsibility for Ethiron.” And Ethiron seemed really annoyed with Fara tonight too. He was talking to Faramir by the fire, getting louder and louder when Faramir seemed not to agree. Eldarion could have told Ethiron that getting louder at Faramir didn’t get you anywhere. Dev said that Faramir had been yelled at by the scariest, so you had to talk softly if you wanted Faramir to listen. Eldarion decided to rescue his brother. He got up to go and invite Fara to join their game, picking up his learning journal from the table as an afterthought. He could always use that for a distraction, if Faramir said “in a little bit, ‘Darion,” which he sometimes did when he was having important conversations.

When Eldarion went over to see if Faramir would like to join their game, Ethiron was almost yelling at Faramir. Ada didn’t normally let anyone yell at Fara (except sometimes Éowyn), but Ada was just watching, this time.

“I don’t know what it is going to take to get this through your head,” Ethiron lectured, teeth clenched, to Eldarion’s older brother, who exhibited the polite listening expression that ‘Darion knew meant he was just humoring someone, “but you are NOT just any other loyal soldier of Gondor anymore, Faramir! Not only are you the Steward, and the Prince of an important border territory, but you are the King’s son, your half-brother’s regent if anything should happen to your father! Your heir is not yet two years of age, your next-heir is not yet born, and your brother is not yet four! You have no business chasing after assassins!”

“No one else was in position to catch up with the man, Ethiron.” Faramir replied softly. “I did not want him to have the opportunity to try again.”

Ethiron took a deep breath before continuing to lecture Eldarion’s brother in a mean tone of voice. Eldarion wasn’t sure if he liked Ethiron. Tavan seemed rather undecided on whether he liked Ethiron, and Eldarion figured Tavan would know. Tavan knew lots of things. So did Faramir, but Ethiron wasn’t even listening to him just now. Which was quite rude; Faramir had listened to what Ethiron was saying, after all. Faramir always listened.

Eldarion had actually gone looking for Faramir last night. He’d awoken in the middle of the night from a terrible dream in which bad men had been shooting at Ada and Faramir with arrows, and Faramir had died protecting Ada. Eldarion wanted to find Faramir and make sure he was really whole and alive and fine, with his deep voice that always knew just what to say to make ‘Darion feel better. Ada knew what to say, too, its not that he didn’t, but Faramir could almost read ‘Darion’s mind. Even the fears that Eldarion was scared to give voice to because he thought them too silly or awful, Faramir could guess, and somehow make smaller, and less frightening.

But Nana had still been awake when Eldarion got up to go looking for Fara, working on a tapestry at her loom. Nana had taken one look at Eldarion’s tear-stained face before scooping him up in a hug. It was a nice hug; its not that it wasn’t, but Eldarion had needed to know that Faramir was still fine, that it had just been a nightmare. When he eventually managed to explain that to Nana through sobs, she had nodded determinedly, and picked him up. “I will take you to see Faramir.” Nana promised. And Nana ALWAYS kept her promises. No matter what it cost her, or at least that was what Uncle Elrohir said.

To Eldarion’s surprise, Nana was carrying him to Ada’s study, instead of towards Faramir and Éowyn’s apartment in the royal wing. Answering his unspoken question, Nana said, “Ada had to talk to Faramir about something that happened today, I think they’ve had long enough, though. Its fortunate that Faramir is not in his rooms, for Éowyn is near to term, and I would hate to waken her if that hyperactive babe is finally letting her sleep.

Eldarion had nodded. His future niece or nephew was not an easy baby to carry, like he had been. The babe kicking Éowyn’s tummy hurt Eldarion’s hand when Éowyn let him feel the baby moving around, but Éowyn was tough. She hardly even winced.

Nana held Eldarion balanced on her hip as she approached Ada’s study, turning sideways as she opened the door so that Eldarion couldn’t see in, before entering the rest of the way. Eldarion was surprised by what he saw. Ada was sitting on the settee by the fireplace nearest the window, not doing any of his King work, which wasn’t really that unusual. But Fara was lying on his side on the same settee, half on Ada’s lap, with Ada’s arm around him. Eldaron smiled a little even through his abating tears. Fara hardly ever let Ada hold him. When Eldairon had first learned that Faramir was his brother, he had worried a little that Ada might not have time for him anymore, since Ada and Fara were friends, and now Fara was Ada’s son too. But Faramir almost never joined in any of Ada’s special father-and-son activities with Eldarion, even though first Ada and then Eldaron had invited him.

“Eldarion-my-heart, whatever is the matter?” Ada asked, concerned.

“‘Darion?” Fara asked a split-second later, looking to ‘Darion almost as if he had been almost asleep.

“He had a nightmare about bad men with arrows.” Arwen explained softly, gently settling her son onto his father’s lap. Faramir got up immediately to make space for ‘Darion, despite Aragorn’s murmur of “There is room for both of you.”

To Eldarion’s surprise, Fara winced and then hissed as he sat up, quickly standing then kneeling beside Eldarion. “I am sorry you had an ill dream, my brave little brother.” Faramir reassured him gently.

Eldarion reached out a hand to pat Faramir’s cheek gently, tactile reassurance that Faramir was really, truly there. And fine. Or at least mostly fine. “Did the bad men hurt you?” Eldarion asked his brother. “Is that why it hurts you to sit?”

Ada, holding Eldarion, made a funny choking noise. Fara gave Ada a look, half-embarrassed, half-approbation. It was almost the look that Ada got from Fara when Ada was confessing he hadn’t gotten his King work done, but with a little bit of maybe Fara had stayed up too late doing his Steward work, and then gotten caught falling asleep at the breakfast table.

“Nay, ‘Darion.” Faramir explained soothingly. “The bad man did not hurt me.”

Ada snorted. “You’ve bruises and scrapes from scuffling with that “bad man,” dear one, and you’ll finish your willow-bark tea before you go to sleep.”

“Nag, nag, nag.” Faramir teased their father, to ‘Darion’s delighted surprise. “I’m not feeling any of what he did to me as much as your displeasure, Aragorn.” Faramir continued, obviously a bit unhappy with their father.

“Fara,” said ‘Darion in shock, “Did Ada smack you?” ‘Darion had been smacked the first time just recently, for climbing out of the window in Nana’s solar to get to the garden. He’d promised Ada he wouldn’t climb out of the window in the nursery anymore, and he hadn’t. Eldarion just hadn’t known that Ada meant any high-up window. He’d told Ada that Ada should have been more specific. Ada had asked ‘Darion if he had known that climbing out the window was dangerous. ‘Darion had explained that it was only dangerous if he slipped, and that he’d been very careful not to. Ada had stared at him for a moment, before explaining that ‘Darion couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t ever slip, and that the rule was ‘Darion wasn’t allowed to do things that could be dangerous, whether or not he thought he was skillful enough not to get hurt. ‘Darion had said that was a stupid rule.

Ada had sighed, and told ‘Darion that he’d known grown men to fall from like heights, and get very badly hurt, and that Ada would feel sad forever if something like that happened to ‘Darion. That seemed like what Faramir called a “specious argument” to ‘Darion, but ‘Darion felt bad for worrying his Ada, so he’d apologized anyway. He didn’t promise not to do it again, though. Ada had sighed again, and explained that sorry wasn’t enough for having risked getting badly hurt. Then Ada had explained that ‘Darion was going to receive his first spanking, because ‘Darion had known better and still broken the rules. ‘Darion had protested, but Ada had persisted, and ‘Darion had wound up bare-bottom over Ada’s lap, where Ada had smacked his hand down firmly several times. It had hurt very much, and ‘Darion had cried. But Ada had held him afterwards, and told him that he’d been brave even though he had cried.

But ‘Darion couldn’t believe Ada had smacked Fara. Though Fara did look like he might have been crying. ‘Darion turned to frown at their father, who rolled his eyes.

Fara’s rueful chuckle drew Eldarion’s attention back to his brother. “I, too, must pay for my errors, little brother. And the King…”

“Our father,” ‘Darion interrupted firmly. He and Éowyn were working on getting Faramir to call Ada by the proper term in private.

“Our father,” Faramir amended, “no more approved of my ducking our poor guards to apprehend the assassin, then he approved of you jumping from window ledge to window ledge.”

“Because it was too dangerous and he loves you so much he is scared of you getting hurt.” Eldarion explained sagely, just in case Faramir had not grasped that. Sometimes Faramir missed the simplest things, even though he was really smart. That’s when Ada said that his firstborn took extra looking after. Faramir explained things all the time; ‘Darion was happy to be able to return the favor.

“Oh, is that why?” Faramir asked with gentle humor. “Ada didn’t get much past, “if you ever worry me like that again, I’ll tie you to Magordan.’”

“You don’t want that, Fara.” Eldarion assured his brother. “Magordan is NO FUN when he is in “guard” mode. He’s worse than anybody but Orohael.” Eldarion knew all of his father’s guards, an elite force hand-picked and trained by Magordan and Uncle Elrohir.

“On the bright side for you, little brother, I believe I’ve just made you the royal guards’ favorite Prince.” Faramir said ruefully.

“Hmm.” Aragorn commented with some sympathy, reaching a hand out to stroke Fara’s cheek, where he had a bruise from ducking under Orohael’s fist. “Magordan thinks you should GIVE his guards lessons on evading opponents who are being careful not to hurt you.”

Faramir winced. “If you hadn’t acknowledged me…”

Nana frowned, before pulling Fara gently back up onto the settee. Nana had sat down beside Ada, and Faramir now returned to his previous position, on his side so no weight was on his sore bottom, but this time leaning against Nana’s shoulder, rather than Ada’s. “We’d be in the same place, Faramir.” Nana said gently, stroking her step-son’s hair soothingly. “You were already a secondary target, as Steward. The guards next priority after securing Estel’s safety was already to secure your own.”

Faramir frowned. “No one told me that.”

Ada explained dryly. “We thought it would be easier that way. We forgot that you had trained in hand-to-hand combat with the best Gondor had to offer. Ethiron is kicking himself for not having briefed us better.”

Eldarion squirmed until he was cuddled against Faramir, who leaned down to kiss his head. Ada pulled a blanket down from the built-in shelf by the window, and Nana put it over ‘Darion and Fara.

“I hope Eldarion and I did not interrupt.” Nana said softly. “I had thought you would mostly be done, and he was so upset.”

“Faramir was just blaming himself for things which are not his fault again.” Eldarion’s Ada complained softly.

Faramir snorted. “Minas Tirith is my charge as Steward, is it not? And the assassin aimed at you on the streets of Minas Tirith, did he not?”

“Technically, we were by the dock, not in the city, difficult child.” Ada scolded Faramir. “And secondly, no one can control every mad man with a bow. We’ll get this straightened out, but it was NOT your fault. The policy changes we’ve made, you and I, in these last few years have by and large made our streets much safer.”

“That, and Sauron’s bribes have dried up.” Faramir pointed out, frustrated. Eldarion was glad that Sauron was gone; NO ONE had seemed to like him at all. Not even the orcs.

“None of that changes that I would prefer to have you stay here, tomorrow night.” Ada said gently. “I know you can look after yourself, and the guards are wiser now than they were this morning to your stubborn ways, but you have a very pregnant wife and a little daughter who are not quite so self-sufficient.”

Faramir didn’t respond right away. Eldarion, snuggled against Fara’s chest, couldn’t see his brother’s face, but not replying right away usually meant Faramir was thinking. Personally, Eldarion thought that anybody who got close enough for Thea to fight wouldn’t consider Thea defenseless, but he knew better than to get involved in this argument. Besides, he was pretty sure he was on Ada’s side.

“Why don’t you have your friends come here, instead, Faramir?” Nana asked, still stroking Faramir’s hair. “You could borrow a dining room, or two, if the one in your apartment is too small. Its not like we don’t have plenty of space.”

“I don’t know,” Faramir responded at last, sounding pensive. “I don’t want to take advantage.”

It was Ada’s turn to sigh, and sound frustrated. “You’re not taking advantage; you live here. More, you are not Denethor’s unwanted second son anymore, dear one, who needs to meet his friends away from the Steward’s disapproval. You are MY son, and very much wanted. I want you to feel comfortable, welcome, to bring your friends here for dinner. Indeed, to host whomever, howsoever, you and Éowyn please.”

“You were welcome to do so even as Steward, dear.” Nana scolded Faramir gently. “This is your home as well as our own. Its rooms are at your disposal, always. And for tomorrow at least, I, too, would prefer to keep you and Éowyn and Thea close by.” Nana was on Ada’s side; that settled it. ‘Darion was too.

“Fara?” ‘Darion mumured, growing sleepy again.

“Yes, muindor-laes?” Fara prompted.

“Please have your friends come here. Tavan said he would show me how to play his old set of pipes, but I haven’t had a chance to see him, you’ve been too busy the past month to take me to visit.” ‘Darion pleaded.

“Its only been the past two weeks.” Faramir corrected gently. “But very well. If Éowyn approves, of course.”

“Of course.” Nana said easily. Eldarion could tell Nana thought Éowyn would agree. ‘Darion wasn’t sure; for being so very pregnant, Éowyn was very active. But Éowyn listened to Nana.

And Nana had been right. Éowyn did agree that hosting a small dinner for their friends at the citadel would be an acceptable alternative, and she invited Ada and Nana, as well as Eldarion. And somebody must have invited Ethiron, who was now being mean to Fara even though Fara had already been punished by Ada. Eldarion didn’t approve of that, not at all.

“Moreover, Faramir, if I were your father, I’d have you tied to me in leading-strings!” Ethiron finished, glaring at Faramir now.

Eldarion felt that someone should say something, and Ada didn’t seem ready to interrupt. Eldarion didn’t want to tell anybody that Fara had been smacked, because Fara had asked him not to. It turned out Eldarion didn’t have to say anything; Ethiron’s last statement had been loud enough for Arwen to hear.

“At least MY husband’s son speaks to him.” Nana observed coldly, though normally Nana was quite fond of Ethiron. “Perhaps you should think on that, Ethiron.” Tavan, lifting Thea on his shoulders so that she could be as tall as Hallas and Golasgil, fortunately had not heard. Nessa, too, was distracted with setting her harp up, aided by Sion. Probably Nana had intended that.

Éowyn sighed, placing a hand on her stomach. “Ethiron, the habits of a lifetime cannot be unlearned in half a year, or even a handful of years. I still reach for my sword when the wind blows from Mordor; I am not one who can lecture my husband on failing to know his place.”

Then ‘Darion’s older brother exchanged one of those looks with Éowyn, the ones that Eldarion didn’t understand. Nana had explained to ‘Darion that every married couple had their own language, and that between Faramir and Éowyn, Nana thought that look meant “I love you and I understand you and I forgive you, and no one else will understand either of us, ever, so thank the Valar for you.” Eldarion thought it was probably handy that Fara and Éowyn had shortened all of that to just a look.

“Speaking of places,” Dev said thoughtfully, “are you getting a bit old for fieldwork, captain-of-mine?”

Ethiron gave Dev a pained look, “Do you want my job, Dervorin?”

“Eru, no.” Dev retorted, seeming to Eldarion’s eyes truly reluctant. “I’ve enough to do. Asking for more work was always Fara’s peculiar habit, not mine. But you should have more time to spend with your family, ‘Thiron. I’m not a newly-wed, it might be a good time for me to do some of your traveling.”

“Hmm.” Ethiron murmured thoughtfully, looking over at Tavan, who was showing Thea how to read musical notes. “You may be right. I never seem to say the right thing, with him.”

“The biggest problem is merely that you are not Boromir.” Faramir said kindly, even though Ethiron had been mean to him all night. Faramir was always nice, even to people who were mean to him. Eldarion wasn’t sure he approved. “Tavan never got to see a body nor a grave, and he is not entirely convinced that Boromir isn’t coming back someday, not in his heart of hearts, I am afraid.” Fara explained further, looking very sad now.

“Eh.” Ethiron sighed. “I’ll think on retiring from field-work, but not this year, when the border with Harad is heating up. Now, Eldarion, what is that book you have there?”

Eldarion blinked. He had forgotten all about his learning journal. “I was going to show Fara what I learned today, but its not important.”

“Of course it is important, ‘Darion.” Fara disagreed. “Let’s see.”

‘Darion showed Faramir his drawing and his short essay about what he had learned. Faramir’s eyes widened slightly. “Ah, how very, hmm, detailed. You’re going to be more than ready for the academy, someday. Was Thea at this lesson with you?”

“Of course. She drew the heart.” Eldaroin obligingly showed Faramir Thea’s drawing as well, although he held a hand over her essay. Uncle Elladan hadn’t been happy with it, as Thea was continuing to maintain that proper grammar was a sort-of delusion that the adult world could just get over it if it tried hard enough.

Ethiron, looking over Faramir’s shoulder, choked out, “Aragorn, just who do you have teaching your son?” Eldarion frowned. He had used proper grammar in his essay.

“Which one?” Ada murmured wryly, but he obligingly looked over at Eldarion’s book. Then his eyebrows raised in shock, and he handed the book to Nana, and Thea’s book to Éowyn.

Éowyn appeared merely interested in the mechanical correctness exhibited by her daughter’s drawing of the human heart. Nana, on the other hand, sighed, and said, “Oh, Elladan.” Eldarion winced. When Nana said his name in that disappointed voice, he knew he was in trouble. It was probably a good thing he and Thea had decided to ask Elladan how to fight the bad men; Fara was in enough trouble already with Ada, without getting Nana mad at him too.

Nessa, attention drawn by her husband’s flabbergasted expression, laughed lightly. “Well, at least they waited until after dinner.” Eldarion didn’t think Nessa would sit near Elladan and Éowyn during meals again, at least not on purpose.

Ada sighed, and seemed to be counting to himself. After a bit Ada said, “Elladan, a word?’

Uncle Elladan looked up from his chess game. “Can’t it wait, Estel? We’ve only just recovered from Eldarion’s interruption.”

Elrohir frowned at Ada. “We hardly ever have time to play chess anymore, muindor-laes, since Elladan must take timeout from his duties to tutor your children and Faramir’s.”

Ada smiled thinly. “Actually, I was going to ask Elladan if he’d mind giving up his tutoring work, in order to spend more time on “Healing Herbs of Gondor.” I am eagerly anticipating its release.

Elladan smiled, pleased. “You can read an advance copy, Estel.” He offered. “In fact, I’d appreciate your input.”

“And Aragorn would do anything to avoid reading petitions.” Faramir murmured under his breath.

“But Ada, I don’t want a new tutor.” Eldarion protested. “Uncle Elladan is the best tutor ever; he knows everything, and he explains it really well.”

Uncle Elladan was touched. “Eldarion, I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me this century.” He thanked ‘Darion. “But I am really not the best tutor for everyday matters. Perhaps I could return to teach you science lessons?”

Ada coughed. “Perhaps in a few years, ‘Dan. I would hate to deprive the Houses of Healing or the Alchemy Guild of your wise counsel. Didn’t you say, just the other day, that you have so many brillian human apprentices to nurture?”

Elladan smiled, pleased Estel had been paying attention.

“But Ada, who will be our tutor now?” Eldarion said, worried. He hadn’t liked his last two tutors.

“Ah..” Ada paused in thought. Absently, he noticed Hallas distracting Thea by telling her the history of their ancestor Valandil, who had owned a fine brace of hounds, a gift from King Thranduil of the Green Wood, their good friend Legolas’ father. The story was interesting enough that Tavan, who viewed history as a waste of time, appeared drawn in as well.

“Hallas.” Aragorn called. “Are you busy tomorrow afternoon?”

Hallas, surprised, answered, “No, my King. How may I be of service?”

Ada smiled. Nana smiled. Faramir chuckled. Éowyn nodded in approval, though she did not stop Uncle Elrohir from praising Theodwyn and Eldarion for their fine grasp of where it was best to strike a human assailant. This prompted Ada to ask Elrohir to show Faramir the best way to disarm a man with a poisoned knife, and Fara to protest that such a lesson could really wait until tomorrow. Or next year. Or the year after that.

Later that night, while ‘Darion listened to Hallas tell them the story of how he and Fara and Dev and ‘Darion’s twin uncles’ friend Mel had rescued Fara’s many-times great-grandmother Mithrellas from a trap set by Sauron and the evil Witch-King of Angmar, ‘Darion also listened with half an ear to a quiet discussion between Ada and Fara.

“I apologize for essentially stealing your friend from the archives, Fara.” Ada said softly.

Faramir laughed lightly and shrugged. “No harm done, I suspect, Aragorn. Chief Archivist is an important position, and the guild may choose to elect someone other than Hallas, if he stays on as tutor. But I’ve a feeling that Eldarion’s tutor – royal tutor- may be an even more important position.” Faramir then went very still for a moment.

“Vision?” Ada asked in concern.

“Nothing concrete – just flashes. Nothing bad. I think this was a good decision, though, Aragorn, inspired by desperation and horror though it was. Faramir’s lips quirked into another smile. “And I agree that it is probably best to let Elladan go back tot he House of Healing, where drawing anatomically correct pictures of how to inflict life-threatening wounds will not be quite so… hmm, unusual and riveting for his pupils.”

Epilogue: Yule of that Year

“Ada! Look, a knife! Thea, you’ve got one too! Hannon le, Uncle Elladan!” Eldarion caroled enthuisastically. “Wait ‘til I show Tavan and Alphros!”

Faramir, holding baby Elboron, turned to look at his father and said plaintively “Ada…”

Aragorn sighed. “Elladan, a word, if you please,” the King gritted out, grabbing his brother by the shoulder to gently tow him across the chamber.

‘They’re just dissection knives.” Elladan pointed out, surprised to see Estel so upset, and Arwen speechless. He couldn’t remember Arwen ever having been speechless, at least not since she was the smallest of elflings. “for when I return to teach them about animal biology and physiology.” The younger of Eldarion’s twin elven uncles explained.

Elrohir, who hadn’t been invited into this conversation but had come along anyway, as he often did, claiming oldest brother’s prerogative. “They’re more than ready, in my opinion, little brother.”

“You too, Elrohir?” Aragorn asked, sighing. “Look, they’re children. Little children. They aren’t even permitted to cut their own meat at the table. They are far too young for any kind of knife.”

Arwen, putting together one piece and another of her brothers’ past, left the supervision of her son and grandchildren to her grown children, and went to join her husband and brothers.

“Tell him why, Elladan, Elrohir.” She commanded gently. “Aragorn has seen much; but not what you have that makes you fear what you fear.”

Haltingly, and softly, the twins told their brother of whole villages, including children, slain by orcs. Of their fears that that Aragorn’s children might in such danger, someday. Elladan concluded, “We need to teach them how to defend themselves, that they might not be taken when they might defeat danger and live.

Aragorn, now sympathetic, added more gently. “I am sorry, brothers. I did not know. But still, Eldarion and my granddaughter are too young too learn bladed weapons.”

Faramir, joining them, still with Elboron in the crook of one arm, offered a compromise. “Perhaps unarmed combat training? If it was presented as gymnastics and tumbling as well as preparation for learning to fight.” Aragorn, recalling that Faramir, too, had seen burnt out villages, and the children of his fellow rangers fallen amongst the dead, nodded.

“That is a good compromise.” Arwen said, standing on tip toe to kiss her step-son’s brow, and take Elboron from him. “You look hungry, daerion-nin. Let us see if your Nana is ready to feed you again.”

Faramir frowned. “He’s not hungry. He can’t be. He just ate…”

Aragorn chuckled lightly. “Arwen has decided our fate; our children shall start self-defense training, and she wants nothing to more to do with this argument.”

Éowyn, rising to the challenge with the smallest members of the family, offered “Those are very fine knives, little brother, Thea-my-love. After you have finished admiring them, why don’t we place them here on the mantle, where they can be seen and acquired at your need with the assistance of someone taller, but are unlikely to be… lost?” See, here you both have a package from Gimli – let us see if he has sent you another clever toy of his own design! I do hope he has!”

Faramir looked at his wife in approval, once again thinking what a lucky man he was.

Aragorn wondered at the structure of his family such that the Witch King Slayer had become their family diplomat.

Chapter Text

She waited in the hall. It was nearly time for him to leave. And she had to see him, one last time. Alone. Around others…he was attentive but proper in all ways, even if the warm look in his eyes still made her shiver. But alone, she could convince him to be improper, and that was much more fun.

A door closing and opening, a friendly disagreement. The underlying note of sorrow, and worry, in his voice.

She stepped out of the shadows, which were safe and concealing now, scary no longer. Just enough for him to see the hem of her red dress, no more.

He was beside her in a matter of moments, kissing her deeply. His hands were on her hips, her hands were on his chest. A moment. No more.

“I’m late.” Faramir apologized, breathless. “I can’t… I mustn’t hold us up, more.”

“I know.” She knew why he was late, as well. Éowyn smiled, glad for the why, and glad he was late, so that they could manage one last moment alone together. But sorry, and worried, that he was worried. She frowned. “You should tell Aragorn, about the duel. It’s a bad idea.” And Éowyn knew from bad ideas. This was something like Éomer would plan, not her level-headed Faramir. But the reason… the reason was all Faramir. Misguided guilt. “You’re being foolish, you know. And if it gets you killed, I’ll be furious.” Éowyn added.

“Aye, my Lady.” Faramir’s gray eyes were still worried, but a bit amused, reassured… warmed, perhaps, that she cared.

“At least take someone with you.” She urged.

“Who would be stupid enough to come, knowing the King would disapprove?” Faramir asked rhetorically.

Éowyn paused to think. The sights and sounds of Meduseld, going back to normal after the funeral of her uncle, soothed her. Soon, in mere months, she would return to Gondor Faramir’s bride. And this would never be her home, again. But to be a bride her groom must live… and on some level, Éowyn was utterly practical. “Invite Prince Legolas.” She suggested. “He’s no stranger to bad ideas, and he’s been friends with Aragorn long enough not to fear his anger. And he’s your friend, too, or would be, if you let him.”

“I will ask.” Faramir agreed, and then kissed her again.

The sound of a throat clearing, and they sprang apart. “Nephew,” the Prince of Dol Amroth greeted Faramir mildly, “You’re late.”

Half an hour later, Éowyn watched as the last of the riders vanished, back in the direction of the white city. No tears were in her eyes, but her heart was heavy.

“So I used to watch him, when he and his brother sailed away, back up the Anduin. Not to return to Belfalas for another year, at the least.” Imrahil said gently.

Éomer was less gentle. “Oh, do come away, Éowyn.” He scolded her.

Éowyn did as he asked, for she loved her brother. But she was counting the days until her wedding, longing to be with Faramir, at the same time she mourned leaving Rohan behind.

Éowyn shivered again, and Éomer snorted, and draped his cloak around her. Éowyn thanked him, but it wasn’t the approaching cold. It was the approaching change, welcome though it was.

Éowyn of Ithilien, Faramir’s bride. Shiver.

Chapter Text

It was a cold morning, just after Yule, and Faramir had planned to spend it investigating a new trove of scrolls which had recently arrived from Imladris…but no, his formal winter clothing mostly had the old coat of arms of Ithilien on it, the one that did not denote his status as Aragorn’s son…so the King his father had decided that his eldest son would spend the morning having that oversight mended. Faramir sighed, hoping there would be time later that day to at least start to look at the scrolls.

“Don’t fidget, Faramir.” Aragorn gently teased his Steward and recently revealed elder son.

Faramir looked rather as if he wanted to say something offensive, but he controlled himself well. “I’ll remember this the next time you want to take a morning off to go hunting instead of attending to a kingly duty, Sire.” He said softly, murmuring after, “No offense, Master Tailor.”

Master Tailor Tombaran chuckled, setting another stitch in the side of the fine tunic being modeled on the Prince of Ithlilien.

The King also chuckled, unafraid of Faramir’s vengeance. Well, mostly unafraid.

Eldarion, cuddled in his father’s arms, after having temporarily escaped his tutors, frowned. “Ada, that’s not nice.” He scolded.

Aragorn tickled his younger son and heir, making Eldarion squeal with laughter.

Once fatherly honor was satisfied and Eldarion was breathless, Faramir gave his small ally, his younger half-brother, a kind smile. “I think Ada needs more formal clothing, don’t you, ‘Darion?” Faramir proposed, a teasing light in his gray eyes.

“Now, ionnath-nin,” Aragorn quickly began, but it was too late, for the tailor had spoken as well.

“Actually, Sire,” the tailor Tombaran quickly commented with a carefully hidden smile, “I could use an hour or so of your time to make sure that your new tunics, robes and cloaks fit properly.” Master Tailor Tombaran was too polite to say so, but he had, in fact, requested such a session of the King several times, already, only to be met with polite protestations that the King was too busy.

“Oh, I’m sure that Ada will be only too happy to oblige.” Faramir said blithely, smiling blandly at his father’s glower. “After all, I’m sure that he wants to set a good example for how a wise and responsible King deals with those honorable and hard-working tradesmen who assist the royal household.”

Eldarion nodded earnestly. Ada talked about responsibility a lot.

Aragorn sighed, but there was a glimmer of humor in his eyes, although he knew he’d lost this skirmish. “I will remember this, Faramir.” He promised.

Faramir merely smiled, continuing to hold still as the tailor Tombaran put the final stitches into his new tunic.

“Finished, your highness.” Tombaran said, looking at his work with some satisfaction. The Prince of Ithilien wore a dark green velvet over-tunic, upon which was blazoned his new personal coat of arms.

The symbol of Faramir’s princedom featured prominently, in the top left corner of a quartered field. Ithilien’s arms were a stylized forested hill in variegated shades of green below a white crescent moon, all set over a thin stripe of blue meant to denote the rivers which flowed through and bordered the princedom.

In the top right quarter, at the insistence of King Elessar Telcontar, was the symbol of the royal house of Gondor and Arnor. The crowned white tree and seven stars now featured on a field of midnight blue rather than black, the color change to do honor to the house of Elrond Half-Elven, the Queen’s father and the King’s foster father. The royal symbol was differenced on Faramir’s arms by the crown being a simple circlet, rather than the winged Crown of Gondor and Arnor.

The smaller, bottom quarters of Faramir’s coat of arms were taken up by the arms of Dol Amroth and Rohan respectively. Dol Amroth’s white, swan prowed ship on a blue background was to show honor to Faramir’s mother and Éowyn’s great-grandmother, who had both been Princesses of Dol Amroth. Rohan’s white horse on a green field was in honor of Éowyn, and her brother the new King of Rohan, Gondor’s closest ally. It was not normally done to add the symbol of one’s wife’s family to one’s coat of arms, but Faramir had not been bothered by that. As Aragorn had modified Gondor’s arms in honor of Arwen’s family, and as he was quite fond of Éowyn and not particularly bothered by such harmless departures from tradition, he had not questioned the inclusion of Rohan’s symbol in Faramir’s own coat of arms. Éomer, who had been consulted, had been both amused and flattered.

Aragorn had taken issue with two features of Faramir’s initial design, one of which had survived royal, fatherly disapprobation and one of which had not.

“A bordure wavy and a bend sinister over the royal tree of Gondor?” Aragorn had noted disapprovingly to Faramir and Éowyn, upon seeing the initial design, “Really, ion-nin, iel-nin? It seems overkill.” Both were heraldric conventions which had, in the past, been used as marks of illegitimacy.

“The bend sinister is the white rod of the Steward’s office.” Faramir pointed out quietly, “An homage to the office I serve, and to the House of my half-brother Boromir.”

Arwen, attracted by the discussion, peered over Aragorn’s shoulder. “Hmm. The flag of the Steward’s house was one of plain white, and the plain white wavy border gives honor to that in a more…aesthetically pleasing way. Perhaps that alone is enough, to make the point you wish to make?” She asked tactfully.

Faramir considered that, and Aragorn remarked testily, “We are willing to simply adopt you, difficult child. That would erase the stain of illegitimacy, or at least has done so in the past.”

Éowyn grinned at her father-by-law the King, rather pleased to have found a way to irritate him after he had partaken of a Rohirric mead cake she had been forbidden from eating due to its high alcohol content, “But then Faramir couldn’t use this as an excuse to make illegitimacy more socially acceptable, Ada Aragorn.” The White Lady teased, placing a soothing hand over the ever-active babe in her womb.

Aragorn spared a moment to remind himself that irritating a pregnant Éowyn never worked out well for him, no matter how amusing it might have been at the time. At the same time he marveled over Faramir’s ability to see opportunities for social engineering in…well, everything. “You’re using my command that you re-design your coat-of-arms to denote that you are my son as an opportunity to shove Gondor’s face in the fact that being my son makes you a bastard.” He said, wanting to make sure that he had that straight.

Faramir smiled pleasantly, and Aragorn remembered that Arwen had warned him against making that a command, several weeks ago. Arwen, too, was remembering that, by the half-annoyed, half-amused looks she was bestowing on all three of him, Faramir, and Éowyn.

“Aye.” Faramir agreed, with the engaging half-grin that Aragorn usually loved, that right now made him want to smack his irritating son’s backside. “Éowyn and I thought that since we have the opportunity, why not make something of it? After all, if the Prince of Ithilien is a bastard, and treated honorably by the King’s own family, it makes illegitimacy less of a stigma for others to bear.” Gondor and Arnor, as lands with a strong strain of Númenorean descent, fortunately had a low rate of childbirth outside marriage. But there were always some, and those children frequently faced prejudice and unfair persecution, sometimes from their own families. And often found it harder, later in life, to get jobs. Many had joined the army, in the previous desperate days, and Aragorn (as Thorongil) and Denethor had fought a stubborn campaign to have illegitimacy cease being a bar to deserved promotions, for those soldiers.

“Very well, Faramir.” Aragorn said, with an unhappy sigh. “You may keep one of either the bordure wavy or the bend sinister. One mark of illegitimacy is sufficient to prove your point; two is mere petulance.”

“The bordure wavy.” Faramir and Éowyn said at the same time, and Aragorn realized that he had been played. His eldest son and daughter-by-law had had no intention of keeping both marks of illegitimacy in their new arms; they had just been trying to make the bordure wavy seem like a good compromise.

Arwen, laughing merrily, had pulled Éowyn aside for a talk, undoubtedly on the subject of how foolish their husbands both were.

Faramir had smiled at Aragorn sheepishly, “Éowyn didn’t like the way the staff looked over the white tree; I didn’t like the connotation of having the office of the Steward so closely related to the King’s house, or superimposed over it. But we thought if we just presented the design with the bordure wavy, you would have objected to that.”

Aragorn had shaken his head, then looped an arm gently but firmly around Faramir’s shoulders, “It is nice to see you teasing me again, ion-nin. And you are perhaps right that I should not have made it an order that you re-design your arms. But I am proud of you, and I want it known that you are my son.” Aragorn paused in thought, and a fitting vengeance occurred to him while Faramir struggled for words, “Ah! But we must make an appointment for a fitting, for you…”

And that fitting had just finished. Aragorn smiled at the effect of the new coat of arms embroidered on Faramir’s tunic, then frowned at the white, wavy border which was quite prominently a part of the design. “I still think the bordure wavy is unnecessary.” The King complained quietly.

Master Tailor Tombaran paused, ready to accept the tunics and cloaks and robes back, to have the coat of arms modified by removing the offending border. That the Prince of Ithilien would include a known symbol of bastardy in his coat of arms, when the King treated him more as a second son who happened to be older than his first son and heir, had caused a minor scandal in Tombaran’s tailor shop. He knew it would cause a greater scandal, in Gondor society.

“I like it.” Eldarion piped up. He didn’t understand particularly much about the white wavy border, but, “It looks good with the moon in Ithilien, and with the waves the swan ship is riding on.”

Faramir chuckled, “Thank you, muindor-laes. Éowyn and I like it, too.”

“Stubborn Faramir,” Aragorn murmured with fond exasperation.

“Nana says that we come by that, um, earnestly?” Eldarion frowned. That wasn’t quite right.

“Honestly.” Faramir corrected kindly, with an amused half-grin. “Arwen says that we come by that honestly, because our Adar is no small bit stubborn, himself.”

Aragorn rolled his eyes as he accepted his fate of being poked and prodded by Master Tailor Tombaran for several hours, “Oh, my wife says so…well, her elder brothers could tell you no end of stories about her own stubbornness, as could I, as a matter of fact.”

Eldarion’s gray eyes and Faramir’s widened in interest, and Aragorn shook his head, chuckling, “Oh, no, the wrath of your mother is not so lightly to be courted.”

Faramir whispered something to Eldarion, as a tray of biscuits and winter-dried apple slices and cheeses arrived from the kitchens. Eldarion whispered back, and then told his father, “Nana said that she’d send biscuits and that I didn’t have to go to lessons today, if I helped Fara convince you to sit for the tailor like a good King, Ada.”

Master Tailor Tombaran hid another smile, and Aragorn had to laugh. “Well, then, in that case, ionnath-nin, both of you should have a biscuit for a job well-done, and I will tell you a story about your mother Arwen, her closest-in-age brother Belemir, their older sister Andreth and her friends, and a fine collection of earthworms. And mud.”

Eldarion snuggled happily next to Faramir, nibbling on his biscuit and listening to the story. He hoped that maybe Nana would play with him in the mud, whenever spring finally came. Thea would play with them too; she liked mud and earthworms. And they could teach his new nephew Elboron not to be scared of mud like some silly girls were. Eldarion nodded firmly. It was a good plan; he was so glad that Faramir was his brother, and had given him a fun niece and nephew to join Eldarion on his adventures. And that Faramir himself was so good at helping Eldarion and Nana to help Ada to be a good King. Before Faramir had started helping, it had been really hard work, sometimes.

Chapter Text

The two princes, winded from the most desperate race of their lives, looked back at the ruins of the city of Minas Ithil as it collapsed behind them.

“Fara?” The younger man gasped.

“Yes, ‘Darion?” The elder whispered.

“I’m never going to complain about you making me run with you in the mornings again.”

“You probably will, but that’s a nice sentiment.”

“We shouldn’t tell Ada.” ‘Darion commented, voice soft but certain.

The elder chuckled lightly. “No, probably not.”

“Do you think he’ll buy that the ghost of Earnur woke us up and asked us to come help him destroy the city?

“No, probably not.”

“Do you think we can get back before anyone else in the camp wakes up?”

The elder brother listened for a moment to the stones of Minas Ithil continuing to crash down, and wondered why no one else ever encountered the same problems that he and his brother could run into on a simple camping trip. “No, probably not,” Faramir answered with rueful regret.

Chapter Text

“Oh good, that worked. I wasn’t sure.” Faramir said in relief, as they stepped out into the sunshine, and nothing bad happened to them. Faramir was leaning heavily on Melpomaen, and a beautiful elleth, incongruously dressed in each man’s over tunic, flanked them on either side.

“You weren’t SURE?” Melpomaen asked quietly, careful of his human friend’s headache but passing irritated and heading towards furious. He might have to reevaluate whether or not Faramir, on a bad day, was worse than a combination of Elladan and Elrohir. Melpomaen had previously thought not, but one didn’t just EXPERIMENT with magic. Not when he and Faramir had only been stuck in that trap for about a day. It wasn’t as if another day or two, or even a week, would have made much of a difference.

“No way to find out but to give it a try.” Faramir continued, dropping to the ground with a groan once they had passed the trolls’ camp.

The beautiful elven ladies who had been trapped in the same prison of Sauron’s making since before MELPOMAEN was born, let alone Faramir, seemed a bit less horrified, to Mel’s surprise.

“Oh yes, that one is most certainly of Imrazor’s line.” The first said quietly, of Faramir.

The second elleth’s face contorted briefly in sadness. “Yes.” She agreed.

Mel thought it was curious that forty generations had passed, yet Faramir’s eyes were the same shape as those of Mithrellas. Elladan would be utterly fascinated. Mel devoutly hoped Mithrellas was a patient elleth. Then Mel looked up at the sound of horses and men approaching.

“Troll or rescue party?” Faramir asked without opening his eyes.

“The latter.” Melpomaen replied, relieved. “I can hear Estel berating Dervorin from here.”

“Its really not Dev’s fault.” Faramir said with a faint frown. “If anything, it is Kasim’s, for giving us only partial information on these supposed ‘ghosts’.”

Melpomaen swallowed a glib comeback. “Look hurt and tired.” He advised Faramir helpfully.

“Not a problem. I can manage sick as well.” Faramir assured him.

“Please endeavor not to aim for my feet, if you must throw up again.” Mithrellas gently advised her long-son, offering him a water skin from one of the packs the trolls had confiscated.

“Not a problem.” Faramir assured her. “I’m very sorry about that, by the way.”

“It is of little importance, compared to our freedom.” Mithrellas assured him. “Though I am not sure your friends will agree, they seemed quite wroth with you earlier.”

“They only said those things because they thought we were making you up.” Melpomaen assured. “They’ll be very apologetic now that they know you are real.”

The other elleth looked at the two males in amused disgust. “They thought that you were making us up?” She asked in clarification. “How much did you drink last night?”

“It was a wedding…” Faramir began. “And we had to drink for all of the groomsmen who could not be there. Two hundred minus twenty, that’s… entirely too many.”

Melpomaen’s heart went out to Faramir, but it was time for damage control. “Hello, Estel, Ada.” Melpomaen greeted his family in his best “I know that the twins have done something unspeakably unthinkable, but look how well it turned out!” tone of voice. Melpomaen had had centuries of practice, after all.

Chapter Text

Gondor and Arnor owed some measure of their peace to their spy service. And Gondor’s spy service had been Faramir’s creative child almost as much as Dervorin’s, back in the long-ago days when they had been the Steward of Gondor’s unwanted second son, and his faithful shadow. Just like any other two lieutenants, save that they left their commanding officers with a few more victories, and a few more white hairs. From the beginning, the southern spy service had been their collaboration. It stayed their collaboration, even though Faramir half-retired from spying when he was promoted to Captain. He became more like 95% retired when he became Steward and Prince, and more like 98% when he also became acknowledged as the King’s son. After the King his father learned of his 2% active involvement with Dev’s network, Faramir thought he might just have to give up sitting, as well as walking about outside his personal chambers unescorted, for the rest of his life. He’d never seen his father so angry, or so over-protective. But the southern spy network still remained a collaboration – Faramir’s ideas and Dev’s, though rarely ever Faramir in the field. Faramir had kept his promise to Aragorn to never go actively spying again, save for a few carefully planned ventures which Aragorn himself had reluctantly approved in advance. But Faramir had a way with people, and Dev always asked his opinion on new recruits, especially those whom Dev had marked for rapid promotion. One summer Dev came to Faramir with an application, and a serious look on his normally laughing face.

“I want this one badly, Faramir. Could even be my replacement, someday. I’d like to have the chance to train this recruit personally, either way, and I’m getting too old and well-known for fieldwork. But it has to be your call. This one has to have your consent.” Dev said.

Faramir knew as soon as he saw the hand-writing, though it was so well-disguised the applicant’s own mother and tutor would not have recognized it. He thought he had probably known even before he saw the writing, as soon as he heard the phrases “want this one badly” and “my replacement.” If he were brutally honest with himself, Faramir would have had to say he had known this was coming for awhile. But he was not ready, would never be ready, to send his youngest daughter out a-spying.

Oh, he could easily see Haleth doing the work, and doing it well. He could also see Haleth the infant, delivered into his arms after Éowyn’s most difficult labor, her gray eyes even then steady, weighing. Haleth at three years of age, a sturdy toddler, already the most quietly determined and persistent of his children, sitting beside her older brother, hour after hour, making friends with a family of otters on the river near Emyn Arnen. Elboron had said Haleth could come only if she didn’t lose her patience, thinking she would last half an afternoon. The otters still recognized his children’s whistles of greeting, and could be counted upon to turn up at Haley’s or El’s call.

Haleth, who reminded him of Adrahil, his insightful grandfather, Gandalf’s former spy. Adrahil who had probably saved Faramir’s life, that summer in Dol Amroth, by convincing him to go to his brother and confess that his frequent injuries were from his armsmasters’ brutal training regimen. Haley, who at 8, had provided the suggestion that solved the problem of that season’s orc incursions. Even Faramir had not thought to send an orc to gather information from other orcs.

Haley, who must have been planning this for years. She was 18 now, but she had been spending part of each year in Annuminas since she was 13, aiding Nessa with her children, and her various tasks as the Lady of the Steward of Arnor. Either way, if Nessa’s husband Ethiron had been aware of Haleth’s plans, and approved them, or unaware, and still had Haley in his household for such lengths of time – it constituted an endorsement of Haleth’s capability to gather information for Gondor, and to do so well. Haleth, who could easily make herself appear and seem as many as ten years older, or as many as six years younger, depending on her mood. Ai, Haleth. Why did his daughter have to want to do something that not only terrified Faramir, but that she was also so well-suited for?

Faramir spent a good hour horrified, wandering the Citadel in such a dark mood that his father stopped him not once but three times to ask what was the matter. With the wisdom of age, Faramir could admit that he had been wrong to go back to his role as a spy. But he had been the King’s Steward, the ruler of a key border princedom with only a toddler to heir, and himself the next heir of the King of Men. He still was the King’s next heir, until Eldarion or one of his sisters got around to producing his first nephew. Haleth, in contrast, was fifth in line for the Princedom, ninth in line for the throne of Gondor and Arnor. And she was not the politician and administrator who kept things running smoothly, whether the King was in Gondor or Arnor. He loved her desperately, but he thought even his father would agree that she could become a spy if that were what she were best suited for and what she desired, were she Aragorn’s fifth grandson, and not his fifth granddaughter.

Faramir wrestled his fears, and eventually decided that much like with Theodwyn, he wasn’t going to deny his youngest daughter the chance to stretch her wings with his support. He was not going to deny his support, just because what she wants to do left him so worried he’d rather face Sauron again, or Denethor in a temper after he had defied the old Steward to aid Mithrandir. Not when Haleth has thought this through calmly, and prepared for it, and done everything right. She’d be the perfect young spy, if she weren’t female, and his little girl. But those things made her perfect as well. She was friendly, and people wanted to confide their secrets in her. She was kind, but practical, a planner. She didn’t forget details or plans or lessons. She knew that the best way to get information was to become liked and trusted by many. And she would be overlooked, by the men who wielded power and influence. Unnoticed, she would gain the confidence and ear of their wives and daughters, cooks and officers, and sooner or later, the man who ruled some foreign land would find himself doing what his wife or squire wanted, because Haleth said so. It happened to Aragorn, Faramir, Éomer and Imrahil all the time.

Faramir’s heart felt as if it had been turned to stone. No spy was ever out of danger. If her influence was discovered, he could lose his Haley in a dark street, or a shadowy dungeon. Lose her under another lass’s name, without ever knowing his second youngest baby’s fate. But he reigned that overprotectiveness in. He’ll be there for her, no matter what. This girl-child wasn’t going to have to run away and hide to test her avocation, as once his wife her mother had done. Not my daughter. No, Haleth would have all the support he’d give the best of his his young spies, the best trainers. If she turned out to be unsuited for the work – which he quite sincerely doubted – she would not be sent to spy, because he would not send, nor let Dev send, anyone who was unsuited for this work. . But if Haleth proved to be one of Adrahil’s heirs in truth, as Faramir had suspected ever since the first time he met her gray-eyed gaze, she would fly fast, and far, and, Valar willing, home safe again, every time. Respected, loved, protected, but not smothered. He would not build a cage for his children to flee. He could be a fool, Faramir freely admitted, but he would not be that kind of a fool. Not Finduilas’ boy. Not Éowyn’s love. Let some other man be that fool, and he would pity that man’s daughter, even as he envied the fool’s peace of mind.

Chapter Text

The new recruit’s heart fluttered anxiously, as the teenager fought to give away no hint of uncertainty. The spymaster of Gondor took very few recruits. You had to be the best of the best, smart and savvy, and even then there was no assurance. The quiet man’s spies had to be able to fight like front-lines-men, track like rangers, ride like Rohirrim, dance and flatter like courtiers, and speak Haradrim and Sindarin (at least) like natives. What to do if all the hard work had been for nothing…become a merchant trader? One could eventually build up one’s own network that way…that was how Gondor’s current spymaster, and his secret patron, had gotten their beginning. But to be able to have these resources at one’s back….to have the benefit of being trained by legends, and of maybe having the chance to teach them something in turn someday…

Dervorin eyed the young person before him. When he finally spoke, his voice was very quiet, free of the laughter the young applicant was more accustomed to, from this man. “Your examination results were perfect. Knowing how well you were educated, that did not surprise me. But your practical exam was nearly flawless. You lost my watchers, and that does not happen. You gathered news that passed even the notice of my most experienced snitches. I’d hire you in a second, if my patron approves. But considering the political ramifications of who you are, I can’t take you without it. I’m sorry.”

“I do approve.” Came the quiet affirmation, in a deep, musical voice. The same voice that had once sung lullabies, and banished night-time monsters, some very real. “But you’ll have to go through the same training all the other recruits do, Haley-love. You know, there are.. “

“No shortcuts at the top.” Eighteen year old Lady Haleth finished at the same time as her father. She had thought he would be furious, but he was calm. As one who has faced his worst fears, and is now quiet, having come to what he feels is the best decision, though it was clear he feared for her still.

Faramir nodded, pride as well as fear in his eyes. “You start tomorrow, and you’ll be home for Yule. Join your old Ada for dinner?”

Haleth nodded, trying a tentative smile. “You’re not angry?” She asked, hardly able to believe her good fortune. Her Ada didn’t rage, but he did not willingly let his children go into danger. She had been completely unsure of how he would take this news, well though she knew him.

Faramir sighed. “I love you for who you are, Haleth-nin. Being angry with you for finding work which suits you seems…foolish. And I try not to be a fool.”

Haleth grinned at her father, pleased there was to be no yelling, no anger. Pleased to be accepted, to be a source of pride, and yet be able to have the chance to become what she was meant to be.

Her father grinned back, but then more sternly admonished. “You’ll listen to Dev and your instructors like any other recruit, Haley-girl. If you get in trouble with them, you’ll be in trouble with me, too. Just like Elboron in his training, and Thea when she rides with the White Company.”

“I know, Ada.” Haleth agreed with a nod. She didn’t intend to get into trouble; or at least not to get caught.

Dev looked at his new recruit with ill-concealed glee; there was nothing he’d like better than to work with a younger version of Faramir again. Faramir sighed again and made a face at his old friend, and Dev assumed a more sympathetic, serious expression. It didn’t take much effort, even if he hadn’t been a master of disguise. Dev’s sympathy for his friend was very real. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to let his own daughter spy. Bad enough his wife still joined him in the field on the odd occasion, which was the one reason Dev truly did not regret that the time of his retirement from active service was approaching. But his lady could train Haleth better than anyone he knew, except perhaps himself. Or a version of Faramir with fewer scruples. Haleth wasn’t that, but she was at least as creative and observant as her Ada. The Silent Service was lucky to have her.

“Can we tell Nana?” Haleth asked softly, picking up on the silent conversation between her father and his old friend, but not all of the subtext.

Faramir and Dev exchanged a telling look. “Its not procedure, but I think we’d better.” Dev said at last.

Faramir nodded, but cautioned “No one else though, Haley. Not even your brothers or sisters, and especially not Daerada.”

“He’s going to find out eventually.” Haleth commented. “Even if he does buy whatever story you are cooking up to explain where I am for awhile.” Haleth smiled at her father to soften the implied criticism. She would have to think of some way to thank him for his confidence and faith in her; not every father would have said yes.

“Yes, well, let’s make this temporary reprieve last as long as possible.” Her father said with a sigh. “Just because I can take on the King of Men and win doesn’t mean I relish the conflict. Let’s wait until you’re trained and posted, and then let him discover it, and I can offer to go fetch you for him, if he really wants a diplomatic and personal crisis on his hands.”

“That’ll fetch him.” Dev joked gently. “Personally, I’ve always thought he was just jealous Magordan and Lord Elrond didn’t let him train for Ethiron’s job.”

Chapter Text

Faramir flashed the sign for a pause.

Elrohir, who had helped to invent the ranger hand signs, obediently stopped.

Faramir indicated the bank opposite them, and Elrohir smiled to see the large otters, warming themselves on the pebbly shore of the Anduin, as the sun rose above the tree-tops.

Faramir quietly passed Elrohir to take a closer look, not quite as silent as an elf. But nearly so. As quiet as Estel, when Estel had been a young man. And the twins had trained Estel.

Faramir watched the otters, a rare smile playing across his face.

Elrohir studied Faramir, and frowned. Then he forgot himself for a moment, leaning closer to see the Steward better, and stepped on a twig.

One of the otters barked in alarm, and they all slid into the water. Elrohir flushed. Some elf he was.

"What?" Faramir asked Elrohir softly, confused at the King's foster-brother's odd behavior.

"Nothing." Elrohir replied quellingly. And it was. That Faramir looked like Estel from time to time was just one of those funny tricks of inheritance. Faramir's mother was also a distant descendant of Uncle Elros, through Elendil's cousin Imrazor. And Faramir's unknown true father had been Northern Dunedain, perhaps even one of Dirhael's or Ivorwen's cousins. Ivorwen herself, Estel's maternal grandmother, was a distant descendant of Mairenwen, born Almairen, who had been Imrazor's niece. It was just a trick of the early morning light, that Faramir, smiling, had looked enough like Estel to be his son. A trick of shared elven and Numenorean heritage, and the odd light. That's all.

Faramir looked at Elrohir in concern for a moment, before turning to continue their scouting foray.

Elrohir hid a sigh. Wonderful. Now he could not help but see his baby brother's face in the Steward of Gondor's countenance. Soon he would be acting like Glorfindel or his father, and yelling at Faramir for Estel's mistakes, and vice versa. Surely, surely, he could avoid turning into "Uncle Grumbles." If not, Elladan, Melpomaen, Arwen, and Legolas would all tease him mercilessly. Quite possibly Estel, too.

"Oh, the trials of being Elrond's oldest son," Elrohir reflected silently to himself. Then he stepped on another twig, which snapped loudly, breaking the morning hush again.

Faramir glared at him, half amused, half incredulous. "Oh yes," Elrohir thought to himself, wincing as he signed "sorry," to the Steward, "He's going to tell Estel, who will tell Legolas, who will tell Elladan, and I will never hear the end of this. Elrohir Elrondion, noisier than a human whilst walking through the forest in the pale morning. Twice. I'll never hear the end of this. And all because I am distracted by a nothing."

Chapter Text

Ithilien bloomed in riotous spring, come unexpectedly early in this second year since the end of the Ring War. New leaves unfurled with delight in the early morning hush, and in a lovely hidden glade near Emyn Arnen, the White Rose of Rohan protested, not without a hidden delight, “Faramir! You wouldn’t!”

Éowyn’s husband of just a year grinned at her, looking young and care-free as he held his wife gently cradled in his arms over a pool formed by a creek on its way to the Anduin, “Éowyn, meleth-nin, just yesterday you told our honored guests that I am ‘predictable’ and ‘excessively dedicated to routine.’ Just now, you said that a picnic at dawn was lovely, but that it was a ‘surprising’ idea to have come from me. You have impugned my honor as a husband and a romantic; I must prove that I am not so predictable.”

Though Éowyn’s blue eyes widened in appeal, her husband was pleased to note that she did not take any more effective counteraction to his threat. Instead, she batted her eyelashes, and half-heartedly protested, “Faramir, that water will be freezing!”

He laughed in reply, “Its not that bad. The snow finished melting two weeks ago.” Then he let her go. Falling, she reflected that he would know well; he bathed in this river for nearly two decades, even further north at Henneth Annûn. But Éowyn could be predictable, too. She grabbed at his ankle, but he had anticipated such, and moved back with a chuckle.

The water was cold, but not as bad as she had expected. And moments later, he was beside her in the pool, naked now, and kissing her. She forgot about the cold entirely, aware only of his pale, well-shaped limbs entwined with her own, as the pale light of early morning shone down through the new leaves onto the shade-dappled surface of the flowing creek.

Some time later, they had returned to their picnic, as Éowyn’s clothing dried in the morning sun. They spoke of what they would be building and planting in Ithilien, now that the spring had come, and of berries to be harvested in the warmth of the beckoning afternoon. “No duties, today.” Faramir assured his wife, adding with a smug grin, “I am not so predictable, after all.”

“No.” Éowyn agreed, leaning forward to kiss him again, tasting pastry and coffee from Harad as her lips met his. The coffee made her think of where he might have been, the week before their guests came. She did not ask, but suspected it was well for him that he had arrived home before the King’s visit. “You are not so predictable.” She assured her husband, moving to sit in his lap, glad for his arms safe and warm around her.

Faramir held his wife with sublime contentment, glad in turn for her. They would have remained just like that for quite some time, had not he heard the distant rustle of leaves heralding visitors. Kissing her pale blond head, he gently lifted Éowyn to her feet, reaching for his tunic to cover her.

“Must we get up?” Éowyn said mournfully, as she pulled the tunic on. “The berries will wait ‘til my gown is dry, and it is quite early yet.” She thought that Faramir might not realize that the rest of their household should only just now be arising. Given his druthers, her husband would still be sleeping for another hour or two yet, especially if she did not wake him, and had warned his squire not to wake him, either.

“Someone comes.” He warned her, and she reached for her sword as he nocked an arrow in readiness, until a cheerful whistle from not far off, joined by a higher pitched one, caused Éowyn to roll her eyes with amused disgust, as Faramir laughed.

“Happy Birthday, Aragorn.” Faramir cheerfully greeted the King of Arnor and Gondor, who was flanked by his companions Legolas and Gimli. Éowyn thought it typical of her husband’s ability to show grace under any circumstances, that he could greet their monarch, who was wont to tease Faramir like an elder brother, in nothing but his leggings, his wife dressed in nothing but his own discarded tunic, and only blush a little.

“Happy Anniversary, Faramir, Éowyn.” Aragorn greeted in turn, his eyes twinkling in pleased amusement. “Arwen said that we are to collect berries now, at the clear direction of our babe whom she carries.” He shrugged, the confused but pleased willingness of an expectant father in his expression, in addition to an amused grin that said he would, indeed, be teasing Faramir later.

Legolas offered Éowyn a bag with an embarrassed, apologetic smile, “Arwen sent you dry clothing. She’s being particularly Galadriel-like this morning, with a touch of Cousin Elrond in a “do as I say” mood. I think we should do as she says.”

Gimli nodded, accepting Faramir’s offer of a cup of coffee, which he’d come to enjoy. “Aye, breeding women are not to be trifled with. The granddaughter of the Lady of the Wood, especially,” the dwarf added. He was not a father himself, but he had a slieu of younger cousins.

“Well, if Arwen’s asking…” Éowyn agreed with a flustered smile, going a bit further into the undergrowth to change. As she donned leggings, soft under shirt, and a light-weight tunic from her own clothes press, and listened to their friends tease her husband gently, the White Lady grinned. She was glad, indeed, that she had taken Arwen’s advice as to how to prompt her husband to do something out of the ordinary for their anniversary.

Chapter Text

"This isn't working." Dervorin's concerned voice interrupted Faramir's light doze, bringing back awareness. Faramir frowned. Dev, here, might mean an emergency, and awakening brought the knowledge that Faramir was distinctly uncomfortable. His backside was still sore and and quite hot, though no longer actively throbbing. Faramir was more troubled by his earlier unresolved musings on power, and love, and trust. And by Dev in his room, staring at his naked, soundly spanked, bottom.

"Hmm, your continuing to sneak into my rooms to bother me even after my marriage? I can't say that particular habit of yours is working for me either, friend." Faramir said lightly, yanking the blanket Dev was holding up so that it again covered his lower half.

"No, not that." Dev disagreed, "Besides, I have a care - I'd only come in unannounced if it were important. As it was, I came in the front entrance properly, saw the King to give him the report we got from Alesseo, and he said that you could probably use a friend. Then I came to your rooms, and saw Eowyn and Thea going out to the gardens. Eowyn said not to wake you, but that I could make myself at home until you awoke." Dev patted Faramir's shoulder, then disappeared into the adjoining bathing chamber, followed by the sound of running water.

Faramir raised himself up onto his elbows to peer at the level of the sun through the window. "Hmm. So you waited until my wife had left, and then came in here to talk to me?" He called out to Dev, a little put out. Faramir had only just fallen asleep, maybe twenty minutes ago.

Dev came out with a wet towel, answering, "No, I waited five minutes, to make sure she wasn't coming back, then I came in, and I was deciding whether or not to wake you, when I noticed you were sleeping on your stomach, which is weird, for you. So I thought that you might have gotten in trouble with your father again, which indeed, you must have." Dev explained, reaching to lift up the blanket again.

Faramir, still waking up, batted irritably at Dev's hands holding up his blanket, "Do you MIND, Dev?" He scolded, then sighed in relief as his friend put the cold, wet towel across Faramir's still sore, hot bottom.

"You're welcome, grumpy. Paddle?" Dev asked with sympathy, dropping the blanket as requested.

"No," Faramir said with a groan, "that was from just his hand."

Dev whistled. "Remind me not to get on your Ada the King's bad list. Ethiron isn't much better, but he isn't my father."

Faramir had known Dev's father, about whom the less said, the better. Faramir also knew Dev's uncle, who was a good man. But Lord Tyorvond was too straightforward a thinker to properly understand his nephew, Faramir's best friend since their childhood days. Ethiron had taken on more of a father's role in Dervorin's life than his friend might like to recognize, but Faramir wasn't going to say so. Instead, he merely commented that, "Aragorn and Ethiron are both a bit like bears with cubs. Only we're not cubs. Aragorn was better, somewhat, for a time after 'Darion and then Thea were born. Until," Faramir waved a hand, to indicate the whole "son of the King" imbroglio.

"I still can't believe you knew the King was your father for several years, and didn't tell me." Dev said, hurt plain in his voice.

Faramir patted the bed beside him, and, when Dev had laid down, explained again softly, "I didn't tell anyone but Eowyn, Dev. Kasim only knew because he was there, when his grandfather told me."

Dev sniffed critically. "I still could've helped, y'know. I could have found out if it was true, for one thing."

"That would have been a trick, without tipping Ethiron off, or the Queen's brothers." Faramir murmured, "besides, to my mind, it didn't matter if it was true. Eowyn and I were pretty sure it was true, because I have the same food sensitivity that Aragorn does. I didn't want anyone to know, because it makes the political situation too messy. I still wish Aragorn had not acknowledged me." Faramir was personally hoping the baby Eowyn carried was a girl, or at least half-hoping so. He would love to have a son as well as a daughter someday, but he was worried. Any son of his could be a target for an uprising, and that was something Faramir did not want.

"You're not alone, in this, Fara." Dev reassured him gently. "Not you or the King. Now that I know, my men and Ethiron's are keeping watch for those kind of plots. We shouldn't be taken by surprise. Sauron being gone doesn't mean that all of the evil in the world passed with him, but we're not as outmatched, anymore. I think you should relax and enjoy having a father who loves you, instead of pushing him away. He caught you out again, coming back from the city without having taken your guards, didn't he?"

"Aye." Faramir confirmed, wincing as much at the memory of Aragorn's disappointment as at the spanking, though physically, he could only still feel the effects of the latter. "We were to sit for a family portrait, today, Aragorn, Arwen, Eldarion, Eowyn, Thea, Elrohir, Elladan, and I. One for the gallery, and one to be sent to Lord Elrond, in the west, with a friend of Arwen's family who is preparing to sail. Eowyn forgot to tell me the time, else I would have tried to rearrange our meeting with Captain Alesseo."

Dev winced. "Eowyn tends to be more forgetful, when she's pregnant." He observed.

"Don't say that around her, please, Dev." Faramir pleaded. Eowyn felt badly enough for having forgotten to tell him to clear his schedule for the morning, though at least the portrait had worked out. The painter had estimated Faramir's height from Aragorn's, and just added him in at the end. Fortunately, Faramir had gone directly to his office upon returning from his meeting with Alesseo, and his squire Herion had frantically told him that the King was looking for him, and that he was wanted in the gardens. Fortunately, the painting session had been salvaged. Faramir would have hated to have had Arwen's planned gift for her father be ruined, though he still did not know how he felt about being part of Aragorn's family, or what Lord Elrond would think when he got word, for that matter. Faramir's wife and daughter had no such doubts, both had adjusted well to being the daughter-by-law and granddaughter of their friends the King and Queen. And Faramir had to hand it to Arwen, she had convinced Thea to wear a pretty dress for all of four hours, without even getting it dirty in the garden, even with Faramir having been several hours late. Arwen was a marvel.

"I won't, though I don't think Eowyn would take offense. She's not like most women." Dev noted. He and Eowyn generally got along quite well, and Dev viewed her as a sister.

"Please don't test that theory while she's pregnant." Faramir pleaded.

"Fine, though I think you're underestimating your wife. And I think we've both been underestimating your father and his minions." Dev said, squeezing Faramir's shoulder in apology.

"Probably." Faramir agreed, "In what respect?"

Dev looked at him as if Faramir were a bit slow, this day. "He caught you coming in, did he not?"

Faramir shook his head. "No, but when he asked where I'd been, that they hadn't been able to locate me, I told him I'd gone for a walk in the city." Faramir winced at Dev's softly mumbled curse, but Dev hadn't been there when Aragorn, nearly frantic, had greeted Faramir, when he arrived several hours late to the painting session. Faramir continued, "I explained that I'd wanted to get Eowyn a present, a surprise for her birthday, which was true- I did that earlier this morning, two new saddles. One made for a mother with small children, another the smallest of saddles, suitable for teaching Thea to ride, in a year or so. Aragorn said that he was not unsympathetic, but truly did not understand why the presence of two guards would have prevented me from running such an errand. Or, if I did not trust the guards' discretion, the presence of himself and his brothers." Aragorn had actually called Arwen's twin brothers Faramir's uncles, but Faramir really wasn't sure of that one, yet. Though Theodwyn claimed them happily enough, cheerful little heathen that his daughter was.

"Oh, that whole "Faramir doesn't like to lie," thing again." Dev made a face, "That's part of what I meant, actually, when I said that this wasn't working. Having you meet with Captain Alesseo wasn't so bad, that was mostly under our control, here at the docks of Minas Tirith. And Alesseo, himself, is as good a man as you'll find. But, Faramir," here Dev turned to face him, "at some point, one of these times someone with valuable information asks for "Faran the Merchant," something is going to happen, such that it comes to the attention of your father the King, or almost as bad, Spymaster Ethiron, that you ARE "Faran the merchant," and they are going to be livid." Not to mention, though Faramir and Dev were both aware, that Faramir took his life in his hands on some of these trips. "We can't keep having you sneak back in to the citadel, not when you get caught, for one thing." Dev noted, unhappy his friend had been in trouble for that, and that Aragorn thought Faramir merely neglected to take his guards on a whim. Faramir and Aragorn had enough to deal with, what with Faramir's ingrained distrust of father-figures, and, oh yes, and running two kingdoms.

"I've only been "caught" this once." Faramir clarified, "the other times I've had to meet a contact, all went smoothly. When I went out drinking with my cousins, and Aragorn and Uncle Imrahil turned up at the same bar, well, that didn't really count." Even Aragorn had agreed with that. The point of the guards was to keep Faramir safe; if three cousins and a new brother-by-law weren't enough to do that, then two guards wouldn't make a difference. "Still, I'd prefer not to be "caught" again." Aragorn had made it quite clear that this was Faramir's last warning on the guards question; future "mistakes" on his older son's part would result in a paddling.

"It's up to you, Fara. He's your father, and this would be your call anyway." Dev said thoughtfully, "but it might be best to make a clean breast of this one." Dev also did not like risking his best friend, King's son or not, when Faramir had occasional fits of idiotic nobility in the most stupid and inconvenient of places. Umbar, for instance.

"Perhaps I should," Faramir mused aloud, getting up and pulling on leggings over his sore backside with an uncomfortable hiss, before tugging on a velvet tunic. Not an embroidered one, but it was late enough in the day for the fine fabric to be sufficiently formal without wearing one of his tunics which had been recently modified to reflect the Telcontar coat of arms, as well as Ithilen's. Faramir and Eowyn had slowly over the past few years modified or replaced his garments and hers reflecting an affiliation to the House of Hurin, though Faramir had been, by law, his brother's heir. Finduilas had drafted the document, and left it with the Chief Archivist for when Boromir came of age, and Boromir had signed it.

"Tell me if you tell him." Dev said, also getting up. "Unless you want me to accompany you?" Dev tried to look willing and brave. He was willing; but he did NOT want to be present in the room when Aragorn, better known as King Elessar Telcontar, learned exactly how involved his beloved newly-found first born son had been in the southern spy network.

"No." Faramir shook his head, accepting Dev's help to re-don his boots with a small smile of thanks. "I'm not absolutely sure the time has come to tell him...but I will sound him out about it. How are you coming with getting one of your men into the King's guards?"

Dev made a face, "Don't expect it anytime in the next decade. I'm not kidding - Captains Magordan and Orohael want to have known a man for at least twelve years, before they even consider him. Most of the guards were taken from the northern rangers, some are even your kin, on your paternal grandmother's side."

Faramir sighed, and nodded. "Well, unless I tell Aragorn and he and Ethiron think differently, we will just have you and Kasim and someone else sweet-faced and kind-hearted go with us when we meet with the contacts who still demand to see Faran. Hopefully we can transition someone else into my role, sooner rather than later."

Dev quirked his head, "I think there's an insult in there, Faramir-my-friend. I'll have you know that I am both sweet-faced and kind-hearted."

"Hmm." Faramir said in response, stifling an amused grin, as he teased, "I suppose that you could pass as kind-hearted, with those who don't know you..." Laughingly dodging his best friend's answering smack, Faramir departed his rooms for the King's study, knowing that his wife would not expect him until dinner, since she had left him to sleep.

As he walked through the halls of the Citadel, so different now, then during his father..Denethor's reign, Faramir pondered his relationship with the King, his father, thinking to himself, "I'm afraid to tell him the things that he wants to know, and ashamed to admit that, even to myself. But the best way to do deal with a lot of my past is to pretend that it didn't happen, and make sure that the children I love are well cared for, that they never go through anything like I did with my father Denethor, and those he ...trusted, to look after me. And to make sure that I am the caring brother for Aragorn's children, my half-sibs, that Boromir was for me. That is how I deal with it. My lady understands, and does not press me. Eowyn has her own ghosts, though I am glad to say that she knew more love during her childhood, first in her parents' home, and then in her Uncle's, than I did here in my father's, Denethor's, house."

"My friend Aragorn, the King, on the other hand, has always pressed me, since the first we met. He has always demanded I have a better care for myself than my father ever required. At first it was like acquiring a slightly more reticent Boromir, but one with a lot more authority over my life (since Aragorn was always my King). Aragorn always has asked to know more of my past, and more of well, everything, about me. And as I grew to know him, and count him a friend, and a brother, there were things I found myself sharing with him, that I had never thought I would tell anyone but Boromir, Dev, or perhaps my cousins. But, being Aragorn's Steward and "tithen gwador," there were times when I could -and did - tell the King, "No, you are not my father, and you have no right to press me on this matter."

"Now, well, that particular excuse has rather come back to haunt me. I deeply regret having ever uttered those words to him, in fact, as Aragorn my father delights in throwing them back in my face. "Oh, well, Faramir, you had said I had no say in this as your King and your gwador, and I was forced to agree with you, however reluctantly. But you implicitly agreed at the time, that were I your father, as we now know I am..." So I, Faramir, formerly of the House of Hurin, now Telcontar, oldest son and second heir of the King, find myself, at the age of nearly 40, accountable to a father who cares very much about me - my health, my well-being, my happiness. I know that he acts so because he is a kind, caring, man, but it is very unsettling and frustrating nonetheless."

"The more so because I doubt him, not as friend but as a father. Aragorn my friend, my King, I had come to have confidence in, having served him for several eventful years without losing his faith. But Aragorn the father...Denethor did not think much of me. The old Steward gave me many chances, but always, I would disappoint him again, and he would push me away, outside of the circle of his affection. I could not bear that from Aragorn, as I have come to love him dearly. So, I can acknowledge, at least to myself, that I am keeping him at a distance, or trying to, in part to prepare myself from the inevitable pain of his desertion, once he realizes that I am not what he wants in a son."

"But Aragorn does not seem to understand this, though I can tell, from the way in which he grinds his teeth from time to time when I act as I am accustomed, that he very much thinks he is being patient with me. Arwen has told Eowyn that she thinks we both are being foolish. Eowyn, who is not shy about sharing her opinions, also tells me that our King acts as he does because he loves me as a son, just as much as he loves our dear Eldarion. I cannot see how that could be- Eldarion is lovable, and I know myself to be something of...a cold fish. If my father - if Denethor, who knew me as a young child, as strange a young child as I recall I was - did not love me, then how could Aragorn, who has only known me as a man, come to love me, let alone love me as a son? I suppose that time will tell. But as the King's Steward, and now his son, I do arguably have a duty to tell him of my continuing to go on trips as one of Dev's agents. Additionally," Faramir's lips quirked in rueful amusement, "I would like to avoid any further trips over my father's knee, coming back from such excursions."

Faramir smiled to see the door to the King's study admitting a pool of light into the dimmer hallway. Entering the open door, Faramir announced his presence by softly calling his father's name.

Aragorn smiled to see his first-born son and Steward, though he looked a bit startled, as well. "Faramir, I thought that I had given you the rest of the day's leave." The King greeted him, quiet joy in his eyes.

"You did, but I....could not sleep, and thought I might join you, if you do not mind." Faramir explained, with an answering smile.

"Of course I do not mind. You are always welcome. Please, sit...or stand, if you would rather." The King offered.

Faramir stood. He was not sure how to sound out his father, concerning the spying issue. Then Faramir frowned, "You seem worried, Aragorn. Is aught amiss?"

Aragorn sighed, and handed his son a report from Ethiron, and another from a Captain near their border with Harad. "These came in during the past few hours. Dev filled you in on his news, as well?"

"Aye." Faramir agreed, eyes widening in unhappy surprise as he read. "It sounds like the Haradrim are testing us. Seeing if we have the stomach for war. But that is just....stupid."

"I know." Aragorn agreed, glad for Faramir's cleverness, that he immediately grasped the nuances it had taken Aragorn several hours to put together, "they are less ready for it than we are, aye. It would be stupid, as it would give Gondor the excuse the Lords of the South have been wanting, to make Harad a client state by force of arms."

"Which would be short-term smart, long-term idiotic, on our part, at least." Faramir observed with a sigh, taking a seat beside his father with only the slightest of winces, as he perused the correspondence and maps the King had been looking at in greater detail.

"Hmm." Aragorn commented, his own sense of humor tickled by Faramir's frustration with Lord Tarsten of Lebennin, in specific. "That sounds a fair description of any proposal Tarsten comes up with, save for those that are just plain objectionable. I take it that you, too, have a long list of reasons why it would be a bad idea for Gondor to govern Harad?"

"At this point, yes, Aragorn." Faramir answered, looking up. "It would strain our resources past an acceptable point... do you not agree?" Faramir hesitated in confusion. Aragorn was giving him that look again, the one that simultaneously scared and warmed him. As if Faramir were the most precious thing in the world, to the King.

"I do agree, but it is taking me longer to put my thoughts into writing than I had hoped." Aragorn replied. "And I had thought to take 'Darion for a walk, before dinner."

Faramir smiled, all thought of talking to his father about the role he still played in the spy network having left his mind, once he realized the extent to which Harad was becoming a worry for Aragorn. It just wasn't the right time to bring that up, but another offer, "Go, Aragorn, play with your son. I can take care of writing a first draft of this." Faramir urged.

"You are my son too, disobedient yet caring soul that you are, tithen gwador....ion nin." Aragorn replied, catching himself at the last moment.

Faramir hid a wince. He had know HOW to be tithen gwador, to the King. Son was a new and terrifying prospect, only a few months old. Faramir replied carefully, "I know. And I am proud to be your son. But I think that Eldarion would be happy for an hour of your time, and I CAN take care of this. I cannot solve the problem of Harad in general so easily."

"Thank you, Faramir." Aragorn said, clapping his older son gently on the back, and leaving him to make sense of the profusion of papers which had grown on the King's desk during that afternoon. "But come join us, if you tire of this. It can probably wait until tomorrow, if it must. And Eldarion and I would be happy of your company."

Faramir nodded, though he had no intention of poaching any of the small amount of precious time Eldarion got with his father. But the nod seemed to satisfy Aragorn, though he hesitated. Then he bent to give Faramir's head a kiss, before leaving the room. Faramir shook his head. He really didn't know how he felt, about a lot of this.

Chapter Text

Eowyn, the Lady and Regent of Ithilien, woke before the dawn with baby Mithiriel, her youngest daughter, who was not yet weaned. Miriel settled down to sleep after nursing, and Eowyn handed her off with a loving kiss and whispered endearments to her handmaiden, Mistress Sion. Before, Eowyn would have gone back to sleep, Miriel safe, asleep in her own arms. But that was before.

Now that she was regent, her days started early and ended late. She was only regent of Ithilien for Elboron; Imrahil was Steward-Regent for her only son, in Minas Tirith. And they both had brought in assistance, Imrahil in the form of a nephew of the Lord of Lamedon, and Eowyn in the form of Calasilas, wife of Captain Anborn of the Ithilien Rangers. Four people, struggling to do the jobs her husband had handled with relative ease. And it was barely enough. Eowyn sighed as she began the unending work of the border Princedom, promising that if- when- Faramir returned, she would make sure that less of this fell on his shoulders. He would not ask, but nor would he not refuse her aid. That was not his way.

Two hours later, Theodwyn and Elboron, called Thea and El, within the household at Emyn Arnen, were also awake. Eowyn breakfasted with them, wondering again how her husband had managed it all. Granted, there had been the two of them, but she still felt as if Faramir had juggled parenthood and work more even-handedly than she. Eowyn frequently found herself short of temper, by the afternoons, not to mention the evenings.

"Your brother and sister-by-law should arrive mid-morrow, Eowyn." Calasilas reminded her at dinner-time, as Eowyn again explained to Thea that going down to the river without an adult was forbidden. Eowyn nearly groaned. Eomer's help she did not need, though Lothiriel might be some aid. Eomer was worried over her husband, whom he had taken to his heart as another brother. And Eomer expressed worry through anger. Eowyn had heard enough of that from Aragorn and Elrohir.

That evening, Nessaie and Tavan arrived, and Eowyn heaved a sigh of relief. Tavan was a teenager, and mature enough and a capable enough swimmer to watch Thea and El down at the river. Nessa's new son Dirhael was about Mithiriel's age, and the two babies more or less entertained one another under the watchful eyes of Nessa, freeing Sion to help Eowyn with household matters.

When her brother arrived, Eowyn was rested enough to let him rant for one hour. Then she pointed out that such vitriol was not good for his pregnant wife, and had the joy of seeing her elder brother gobsmacked and speechless. Not for nothing was Eowyn one of the better healers in Gondor, despite having only turned to the discipline in the last decade. With Eomer quieted, his sister was able to see to Lothiriel, who was healthy and glowing despite her worry over her missing cousin, and her youngest brother Amrothos, whose ship had last been seen fighting pirates, badly outnumbered.

Eomer, not to be diverted for long, returned to the topic of Faramir, and the folly of the King's son, Eowyn's husband, a Prince of the Realm, the first officer of the King, acting as a spy, of all things. Eowyn let him talk him talk himself out, which took until mid-way through dinner, when he asked, "Are you not angry, my sister?'

Eowyn smiled, glad to have been asked a question she could answer. "No." She replied. "I married him of my own choice; knowing him. I am worried, but not angry, because I am not surprised." Turning to her sister-by-law, Eowyn asked, "More venison, Liriel?"

Eomer was quiet, the rest of the meal. The next day, he took over training Eowyn's children, even Mithiriel, to ride. Eowyn was glad for it, but missed her husband. Specifically, his quiet worry at seeing their youngest baby in the saddle, and his shock, when Eowyn suggested they start working on making another one. The Lady of Ithilien wanted a large family, but was glad for the children they had already had. This, too, had been her choice.

Chapter Text

"It doesn't matter, 'Anna." Thirteen year old Crown Prince Eldarion explained, frustrated, to his seven year old sister.

"But it does, 'Dari." Melyanna insisted, nearly in tears. "It does matter. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. And Ada let it happen, he just let it!"

Eldarion sighed, "Look, you know and I know that Nana is just as important as Ada, that Ada always listens to her, and usually does what she says. It DOESN'T MATTER what misogynistic ar..um, jerks, like Lord Sendar, say. Sendar's not even that bad...I mean, he talks like he is, but his own daughter helps run his business. He wouldn't have her help like that, if he really thought women were idiots, or second-class citizens, or whatever it was that Eowyn was complaining about."

Melyanna glared at her normally intelligent older brother. If Eldarion couldn't understand why Lord Sendar and a majority of the council voting in favor of a woman being fined for publicly insulting her husband, and then imprisoned when she couldn't pay her fine, was a problem, then Melyanna wasn't sure how to explain it to him.

Mithiriel was eight, just a year older than Melyanna. But very, very good at explaining things. "'Dari," She asked her uncle sweetly, "what are the most powerful titles that a person in Gondor can have? Titles with set duties, mind you, not unofficial duties."

Eldarion blinked at the apparent non sequitor. He had fully expected Mithiriel to insist that Melyanna was right, the two little girls were normally as thick as thieves. "Miriel, what does that have to do with anything?"

Mithiriel gave him a pleading look with her big gray-green eyes. Eldarion had never known Finduilas, but he was no more immune to "the look" from the grandchild who had inherited her lovely eyes and red-gold hair then anyone else in their family. Thankfully Mithiriel really didn't seem to understand its power, and rarely used it.

"Fine," answered Eldarion grumpily, "King, Steward, Prince, Captain-General, Lord, Senior-Captain, Captain, Chief Archivist, Warden of the House of Healing, Guild Leaders," Eldarion paused, to see if his demanding little niece was satisfied.

Mithiriel was. "And they're all men. And they've all always been men, in those positions."

Eldarion groaned. "Yes, yes, but I'm sure they mostly listened to their wives."

Mithiriel shook her head. "In all of the historical conflicts you and Thea and El are learning about with Hallas,"

"The ones you're not supposed to be reading about yet, because my Ada said they're not age appropriate for you." Eldarion pointed out, frustrated again.

Mithiriel waved an uncaring hand to dismiss that irrelevant objection, "As if you'd tell. Anyway, when one group in society has all the power, and one group doesn't, what happens to the rights of that second group?"

"All RIGHT, Mithiriel, Melyanna, you're right, it matters." Eldarion agreed, finally, "It shouldn't matter, but it matters. I'll make one of you my Chief Archivist some day, how will that be?" Eldarion didn't think either of these two of his little ladies would make a particularly good Captain, although Theodwyn would, if girls could be Captains. It was an odd thought, but probably one worth pondering. Eldarion resolved to talk to Faramir about it. Not Eowyn. At least not this week.

"I want to be Warden of the House of Healing." Melyanna said, "Or at least a healer. The warden has to deal with all sorts of paperwork, and I'd rather help people."

Eldarion grinned, "Now THAT, I can do something about." He said happily, "Ada had me shadowing him and Eowyn at the House of Healing when I was your age, 'Anna. I bet they'd let you start, if you asked politely."

Mithiriel lost interest as the conversation moved into what type of activities a younger Eldarion had been permitted to help with at the House of Healing. She moved towards Eldarion's desk, and idly started correcting his essay on the Kin-Strife.

Faramir raised an eyebrow at his father, from the adjoining balcony where they had been listening to the breeze carry their children's animated conversation.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, ion-nin." Aragorn scolded half-heartedly, "I must use my power to over-rule the council's decisions sparingly, Faramir, you know that. You say so, often enough. This was a test case, ten years ago it would never have made it past the city court to the council, and the poor woman only lost by one vote." Aragorn had made sure that her fine had been paid, which it had, almost immediately after the judgment. More and more, this whole incident was starting to seem suspiciously like the fine hand of the Arwen and Faramir alliance for elvish progress in the societal norms of the reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor, about its work again. The woman's husband was a scholar, and Ethiron's men who had been at the fight said it had seemed more carefully scripted, then vitriolic. But if Aragorn didn't know that for certain, then if - or more likely, when- Lord Sendar came to complain to him later, about a man being imprisoned for insulting and striking his wife, since the precedent had just been established that insulting one's spouse alone was due a fine, and some clever lawyer might win on the argument that wives deserved equal protection under the law, well, Aragorn could honestly say he'd had nothing to do with that later development.

Faramir didn't look away. "I'm not saying what you did was wrong, not interfering." He explained carefully, "Just asking you to keep in mind, that it matters, to Mithiriel and Melyanna."

"I won't forget." Aragorn assured his oldest son earnestly. "I may not be able to move as fast on these issues as you - and Arwen- would like, but I am aware. And it matters to me, too."

Faramir nodded, then grinned as Eldarion squawked in outrage at Mithiriel having marked up his essay to the extent that he would have to re-write it entirely.

"Good, even you can do a much better job than that." Mithiriel encouraged her uncle.

"I think I should go rescue my daughter." Faramir commented, eyes twinkling. "And remind her that being a know-it-all is never attractive."

Aragorn chuckled. "I'd better handle that lecture, my dear son. You're likely to choke on your own hypocrisy, telling someone else - even our Miriel- not to be a know-it-all."

Faramir laughed back as the two headed inside, and toward Eldarion's rooms. "How she manages to channel Mithrandir, without ever having met him, I do not know, Ada." He replied ruefully.

"I told you naming a daughter after a wizard was a bad plan." Aragorn commented wryly, planning to have a brief discussion with his younger son and heir about spending more time on his homework, if a girl only two thirds his age could do a better job.

"Princess Gilmith's daughter, born a Lady of Anfalas, was also a Mithiriel," Faramir reminded his father, "She founded the university at Dol Amroth, and fought pirates."

"Everyone in your family has fought pirates," Aragorn teased, "even the cats. 'This is Fluffy, she fought pirates at the Havens with her own wee paws,'" He mocked gently.

Faramir chuckled, then walked more quickly as they heard a crash from Eldarion's rooms. They walked in to find Melyanna sitting on her brother's legs, while Mithiriel held his arms down, and Haleth, who was supposed to be in the nursery, tickled her uncle mercilessly.

"Well," commented Aragorn with good humor, "In our family, the women are definitely not intimidated by their arguable legal status as second class citizens under our misogynistic Kingdom's antiquated laws."

Haleth nudged Mithiriel, realizing that their Daerada's comment meant he had been listening. Mithiriel looked at Aragorn questioningly, before defensively pointing out, "Ada says if I'm old enough to ask the questions, I'm old enough to get real answers, if not complete ones."

Aragorn, who had picked up the crumpled essay to read Mithiriel's comments, nodded, "Yes, I recognize his phraseology in your correcting of Eldarion's rather, ah, brief explanation of the causes leading up to the conflict."

"And you promised me you wouldn't listen in on their lessons anymore, iel-nin, since I'd answered your questions." Faramir scolded mildly.

"I didn't." Mithiriel explained, "I listened in on their study sessions, and I read their books. But I did not eavesdrop on their lessons anymore, after we talked."

Aragorn looked up at the ceiling to hide a laugh. He'd never known child Faramir, to his sorrow, but his grandchildren could cut the truth almost as finely as their illustrious father.

"How...precise, Miri." Faramir observed with a sigh. "However, you knew I would disapprove, did you not?"

Mithiriel nodded, unhappy to have been caught, but not particularly guilty.

"Punish her, Fara." Eldarion urged grumpily, gently tugging on Mithiriel's braid. "She's always reading things she's not supposed to."

"Actually," Aragorn interceded, "I think perhaps Mithiriel should help you re-write this essay, Eldarion." The King's lips twitched into a smile, and his gray eyes twinkled. "I'm sure the essay would benefit from an in-depth exploration of the role women's fashions played during the era immediately preceding the kin-strife." Aragorn was gratified that he'd managed to cause all of his children and grandchildren to stare at him, nonplussed.

"Daerada, that's probably the only thing about history that could possibly be boring." Mithiriel commented, still astounded but hardly ever at a loss for words.

"That's the part you'll be researching, daeriel-nin." The King explained cheerfully. "Perhaps it will give you some insight into the lack of enthusiasm that most of us have for homework. I'd like you and 'Darion to have this finished by whenever this essay was originally due, which is when, 'Darion?"

"Two days hence." The Crown Prince explained, with his own grin, despite knowing he would have a fair amount of work to do, re-writing the essay. Fortunately he had this week off from the academy, due to Remembrance Day.

"Alright, I suppose." Mithiriel said begrudgingly, "Maybe I'll figure out some way to make fashion interesting."

"It wasn't a request, iel-nin. That was an order." Faramir pointed out gently, "And we need to have a little talk, first. Come." Mithiriel sighed and followed her father.

Aragorn gave his children and Haleth a grin, "Well, if anyone can make the history of women's fashions interesting and historically relevant, I'm sure its our Miriel."

Haleth nodded, before frowning, "You may have created a monster." She warned.

Hiding a groan, and hoping this was one of those times when Haleth was just worried, and not prophetic, Aragorn asked, "And where are you supposed to be, tithen daeriel-nin?"

Returning Haleth to Lady Lindorie the head nurse, playing a game with Haleth and his younger daughter Gilwen and the other young children, and helping Eldarion re-write his essay took up the rest of the King's afternoon. On the whole, the day ended better than it had begun, and Aragorn hoped that Eowyn would start speaking to him again, soon.

Chapter Text

Arwen the Queen swept her twin grandsons, her baby son Eldarion's sons, into her arms to comfort them. "There, there, my little loves," she crooned softly to little Elros and Kader, "Others have made the same mistakes, they are not so great. Soon enough, you will be able to accomplish this task, with no trouble at all." The twins, thus reassured, rushed off to rejoin their playmates. Soon enough, they were happily playing again with their cousin Ecthelion, Faramir's youngest son, who was less than three years their elder.

"Soon enough," thought Arwen, "In only the blinking of an eye. But who will comfort my great-great-grandchildren, when I am gone? Who will grant them the gift of perspective?"

"My grandchildren." Faramir answered, though Arwen had not spoken aloud. "Or your brothers, for however long they bide. But there is time enough, Naneth Arwen. Boromir gave me the same comfort, though he only had five years more on Middle Earth than I. Do not fret, dear Naneth. Our time as mortals is little, yes, but there is enough."

Chapter Text

Saddle bags on the bed, and his distracted oldest child scribbling last-minute instructions to his squire and chief-of-staff. Yes, Aragorn was just in time. He waited until his son was done writing to announce his presence.

“I’m coming with you.” Aragorn said, voice kind but firm.

Faramir was surprised, clearly. “How did you even know?” He exclaimed in surprise, and the twisting abyss of sorrow in his eyes hit Aragorn’s heart, hard as a blow.

“I do read my dispatches, ion-nin. And recognize the family names of your old officers and non-commissioned officers, at least the ones who meant so much to you.” Aragorn reprimanded gently, noting Faramir’s eyes widen in speculation as his son took in the nondescript traveling clothes the King wore, and Aragorn’s own saddle bag.

“Where are your guards?” Faramir asked, baffled.

“Hmm.” The King said pensively. “Unawares. They believe I’m in my rooms. Eldarion and Arwen know where we’re going.”

“Adar my King, that is…” Faramir shook his head. The Steward couldn’t approve of the King of Gondor and Arnor going to the far corner of Ithilien, unaccompanied save for his son, and next heir.

“Necessary.” Aragorn said briefly, brooking no disagreement. The village Faramir’s former corporal Mablung hailed from remained isolated, and its inhabitants didn’t easily trust outsiders. One of their villagers had passed word through a merchant of the recent death of Mablung’s grandson. Faramir would go, must go, to see what he could do for the youth’s family. But the hidden villages of Ithilien did not welcome outsiders, and his son would have gone alone. Guards would be unwelcome, Prince though Faramir now was. And Aragorn’s son would not bring further grief and fear to those who had endured so much. But even the most secretive of clans should accept Faramir’s own father, especially dressed as just another ranger.

“I…should still be en route from Dol Amroth.” Faramir marveled. “I came through the tunnels, told no one of my presence.” The implication, Aragorn shouldn’t have known Faramir was in Minas Tirith. Let alone planning a swift solo journey to the far end of Ithilien.

“Close your mouth, ion-nin, you’re catching flies. I knew what you would do because I know you.” Aragorn informed him gently, picking up one of Faramir’s saddle bags. “Come, we’ll take the tunnels, and borrow horses from the messenger post. We can use our ranger badges for that, and for lodging and food on the way.”

Faramir merely nodded, surprised and taken aback to have anyone know him so well, though he was becoming accustomed to having a father who cared for him so much.

“Just because I am a King, does not mean I am not a father.” Aragorn later explained to him gently, as they rode at best speed for the far corner of Ithilien, where Faramir had spent the end of what should have been his childhood. “More, I am your father, as much as I am Eldarion’s or Melyanna’s or Gilwen’s. When it is truly important, Faramir, we’ll support you. We don’t only know you, we love you.”

Faramir, who was not slow, hazarded a guess. “And Éowyn warned you.”

Aragorn shook his head, breathing in the sweet scent of trees and rushing river. “Nay, though she may have done, had I waited for the afternoon’s messages. I saw that the headman of a certain village had passed, and I knew that I would have to catch you up.”

“Magordan is going to be furious.” Faramir observed, a bit of a smile in his eyes, a heartening counterpoint to the grief.

“More with me than you, and I’ll deal with him or whoever else. We’re on this trip on my orders, now.” Aragorn offered, expanding, “But the twins will understand. Some things are important.” And knowing your children is one of them, Aragorn was as sure of that, as he was of anything. And Gilraen and Arathorn and Elrond had raised him to know when being a father was more important than being a King.

Chapter Text

“Beaui’ful.” Commented year and a half old Eldarion, pointing at Gil Estel, the star of hope. The crown prince smiled, delighted by the natural light show in the velvet dark sky above Minas Tirith. Eldarion’s gray eyes shone as brightly as the stars, and his dark, wavy hair was a dramatic contrast to the pale blue velvet that lined his warm woolen cloak. From the outside, the little Prince’s cloak was an exact replica in miniature of his father’s; a rich midnight blue, with the symbols of his house embroidered in white and silver.

Aragorn smiled tenderly at his small son, still in awe that this wonderful child was his own. “It is beautiful.” He agreed, “My edair thought so, too. Your Daerada Arathorn told me about that star when I was a little younger than you, and your Daerada Elrond called me by that star’s name, Estel, for many years.”

Eldarion snuggled happily against his adar. “Story?” He asked winsomely. Eldarion loved his night-time walks with his busy father. Everything smelled good inside the citadel, of green pine and delicious foods. But there were lots of people, and outside in the garden was lovely too, quiet and still. With the new snow on the ground, and the stars in the sky.

Aragorn laughed. “Yes, that star has a story. Would you like to hear it, ion-nin?”

“Story.” Demanded Eldarion. He was an only child and grandchild, as well as a Prince. Needing to ask for something more than once was an unusual occurrence, for the boy.

“What do you say, when you want something, my ‘Darion?” Aragorn prompted gently. He wasn’t going to get into trouble tonight for forgetting to ask that. Arwen had ears everywhere. Besides, their son was by nature kind and charming, but also demanding. Ingraining politeness in their little Prince struck the King as a sound strategy.

Eldarion frowned in thought. What did Ada want, he wondered.

“Edair and nenith are more likely to do as you ask when you say “Please,” Eldarion.” Faramir prompted gently, as he came into view on the garden path, the Lady Éowyn leaning more heavily than usual on his arm.

Aragorn smiled in welcome but shook his head at his two favorite patients, the Prince and Lady of Ithilien, also walking in the garden on this cold night. Still, Faramir was well recovered from the excessive demands he had put on his body defending Ithilien from an aborted invasion. Éowyn, too, had recovered from the difficult start to her first pregnancy. And Aragorn was sympathetic to his most important officer’s wanting to escape the demands of the Great Hall for a few hours. As Éowyn met her King’s eyes in mute appeal, Aragorn nodded. Yes, he would ignore that Éowyn’s healer, mentor, and good friend Elladan had not thought she needed to be about in the cold air. At least for awhile.

Eldarion, too, grinned to see Faramir and Éowyn. “How is baby?” He asked Éowyn. Eldarion found babies fascinating, and was excited that there would soon be another in the royal apartments.

Éowyn made a funny face. “Awake. I don’t think she sleeps.”

“Neither does her father, so she comes by that unfortunate trait honestly.” Aragorn teased, though he was half serious, and knew Faramir would pick up on the gentle chide. Whether the Prince of Ithilien would heed it, Aragorn quite frankly doubted. He was, in fact, planning to slip a sedative into Faramir’s wine tomorrow night, if his Steward and honorary younger brother didn’t appear more rested by tomorrow. Faramir’s exhaustion was understandable, Aragorn knew full well. Between his Steward’s normal duties, the continuing aftermath of the recent invasion of Ithilien (including arguing with his King about the necessity of Faramir’s personally touring his lands again before Yule, and the subsequent fast-paced tour upon Faramir’s having won that argument), and the social press of the Yuletide season for Gondor’s second ranking officer (after the King) and junior Prince (after his uncle, Prince Imrahil), the dark circles under Faramir’s eyes needed no further explanation.

Still, Aragorn also knew well that his Steward’s resilience was remarkable. Faramir was nowhere near the point where being overtired and overburdened would cause him to collapse, or withdraw into himself in grief. Not that Aragorn – or Éowyn or Arwen, for that matter – had any intention of ever letting Faramir, whom they all held so dear, reach such an extreme again. Faramir was, however, at the point where exhaustion and worry would cause him to make little mistakes, the kind few others would even note, but that would upset Aragorn’s perfectionist of a Steward.

Of greater concern to Aragorn was that Faramir had reached the point this past morning where he began making little mistakes in arms practice. Not at a level where Aragorn, or Elrohir, who had been Faramir’s sparring partner, could in good conscience ask the Steward to leave the field. But mistakes that Faramir would not normally make, these days. Errors that had caused Elrohir to leave the Steward with bruises, and scold him sharply. Aragorn wasn’t sure he would have noticed it, had it been anyone else. Elrohir, and Glorfindel and Magordan, for that matter, were of the opinion that leaving a bruise where an enemy could have left a wound taught a valuable lesson. Aragorn did not disagree, per se, but he himself was generally more careful with Faramir, given what he knew of his Steward’s difficult childhood. Elrohir would never have taught a small child with an unblunted blade, let alone left bruises on a child as he did his grown, seasoned pupils. And Faramir seemed to have realized that, as he was not upset by the bruises he received in practice bouts with Elrohir, or no more upset than the mistakes which had resulted in them would merit. But Aragorn did not like that Faramir’s tiredness was causing him pains, even small ones.

Unfortunately for Aragorn, Faramir didn’t think his being tired, if it didn’t detract from his official duties, was any of his King’s business. Aragorn had tried, in one manner and another, to “fix” that, but Faramir, when he wished, could be a very stubborn man. So Aragorn had to approach these matters obliquely. Hence, the teasing, before the sedatives, and the sedatives, before the rare orders. Faramir would obey an order, but Aragorn didn’t like to have to rely on his authority as King in his personal relationship with his young friend. Denethor’s ghost stood between Faramir and any male authority figure save Imrahil. It was at moments like this that Aragorn missed Boromir, keenly. Boromir would have relied heavily on Faramir’s willing help to be a good Steward, but he would have known what to say to Faramir, to get him to take better care of himself. Aragorn had to either appeal to Faramir’s common sense (which was nonexistent, in regard to Faramir’s own health, or at least so far as Aragorn had ever been able to tell); make Faramir feel guilty that he had worried Aragorn (which sometimes worked); trick Faramir into ingesting a sedative (which sometimes worked); or wait until Faramir became so exhausted that Aragorn could and should justifiably call him to account for it. Which neither of them liked. Another alternative, when Imrahil was in residence, was bringing the matter to his attention. But it irked Aragorn to have to do that, though he would, to avoid seeing Faramir worn even just as thin as this.

At this point, Faramir thought Aragorn was worried over nothing, and looked like he wanted to roll his eyes at the King, though he did not. Probably because Faramir was trying to set a good example of proper behavior for Eldarion, and that didn’t include, in Faramir’s world view, offering lese majeste to Aragorn in front of Eldarion. Aragorn was taking advantage of this, by seeing how far he could annoy Faramir before his friend would tease him back. It was an amusing game, in the King’s opinion, even if his inability to get Faramir to listen to him on these matters at times bothered him greatly.

Éowyn did shake her head tolerantly at Aragorn’s needling of her husband, before offering to Eldarion, “Our baby is saying hello now, by kicking. Would you like to feel?” The Lady of Ithilien had taken a seat on a stone bench beside her husband, and Faramir arose chivalrously that Eldarion might sit beside her.

Eldarion nodded eagerly, and Aragorn put him down next to Éowyn. The little boy giggled as he felt the active babe’s movements even over Éowyn’s dress and Faramir’s green cloak, which Éowyn wore.

Faramir shivered ever so minutely, but Aragorn noted it. The King sighed and draped his own cloak around the younger man, ignoring his Steward’s polite protest. For a Númenorean, Faramir felt the cold oddly much. Aragorn disliked thinking of how his dear friend had survived so many winters in scant comfort at Henneth Annûn.

“Arwen is going to gift you with yet another cloak, if you keep borrowing her husband’s.” Éowyn observed in amusement.

“Hmm, and why is that?” Faramir gently teased his lady back.

Aragorn chuckled. Éowyn, well into the second half of her pregnancy, normally felt overly warm. But the air was rather chill on this night before Yule, and Faramir’s cloak had evidently been appropriated by his wife. “It is no matter, tithen-gwathel.” He reassured Éowyn, “I find this weather only pleasantly brisk, after my time in the north.” That, and Aragorn wore his cloak only to set a good example for Eldarion.

“Please, Ada, tell me the story about Gil Estel?” Asked Eldarion, remembering his previous request, and settling down with his dark head resting gently on Éowyn’s rounded stomach. The White Lady wrapped her arm around the little Prince, and turned to her King with a soft smile, a mother’s smile, and one new to her.

Aragorn smiled back to see it, pleased his friends would soon be parents themselves. Putting an arm around Faramir, who stood at his side, the King began, “Long ago, in the first age, the men and elves were very afraid, because Sauron and his master Morgoth had taken over almost all of Middle Earth. They had enslaved almost all of the men and elves who lived there, save those men who became their allies. The people of Middle Earth had all but lost hope.”

“Like Middle Earth before Frodo destroyed the Ring?” Eldarion asked in his piping voice.

“Even worse, or so says your Daerada Celeborn.” Aragorn explained, “all of the free elves and men had fled to a single island, off the coast, and Morgoth and his minions, the orcs and the dragons, held sway over nearly all of Middle Earth.”

Faramir, and Aragorn, half turned at a faint noise in the same instant. This was unfortunate for Faramir, who had been in Elrohir’s line of sight, and now was wearing half of a snowball, having dodged the missile only partially.

“Really?” Aragorn asked the elder of his two elven twin foster brothers with some asperity as he helped Faramir to dust off the cold powder. “Snowballs, Elrohir?”

“‘Twas meant for you, Estel.” Elrohir protested, blushing faintly. “Faramir, wearing your cloak, looks too much like you.”

Aragorn and Faramir exchanged a look, then shrugged. They’d been told that before, but neither particularly saw the resemblance.

“And why, were you throwing a snowball at me?” Aragorn asked with a crooked smile.

“Because you never paid attention in lessons as a child.” Elrohir lectured, “The men and elves were in Lindon, on the coast, at the end of the First Age.”

“No,” Faramir spoke up in support of the King, “They were on the Isle of Balar, in a city called Lindon. Gil-galad’s Kingdom in the Second Age was also called Lindon.”1

Elrohir and Aragorn both paused to the stare at the Steward. They had both been educated by elves who had known elves who had walked Arda at the end of the First Age. Faramir had been educated by humans, so his knowledge of these esoteric facts was always a surprise to Aragorn and his family.

Faramir flushed, and explained, “I was Mithrandir’s research assistant, remember. I once made a mistake about which Lindon a certain scholar had lived in, and was subjected to a rather… pointed, ah, lecture, from the wizard about carelessness. Trust me, it was a point upon which I made sure I was clear, in the future.”

Aragorn chuckled and squeezed Faramir’s shoulder, “Only you, my Steward. Still, I am glad you survived. Mithrandir’s annoyance when he feels someone has made an error which cost him time…”

Elrohir gave Faramir a sympathetic look, “He was not always so irascible, Mithrandir. In fact, when he first came to Middle Earth, he was rather light-hearted in manner, much of the time. More often as he still was, when he sailed, with the littlest ones. But the years weighed on Mithrandir. His task was not an easy one.”

Faramir shook his head, giving them a rueful smile, “It was no matter. He was a kind friend, as well as an irascible researcher. I learned a great deal from him. And spending as much time in the archives as I did, I knew much more difficult taskmasters.” Unspoken was that one of them had been Faramir’s own father, though Denethor was not often found in the archives.

Eldarion, who alone of the group did not grasp the subtext, asked innocently, “What happened next, Ada? To the men and elves, during the First age?”

Aragorn smiled, holding his arms open. Eldarion leaped from beside Éowyn into his father’s warm embrace, and Aragorn continued, “Earendil the mariner, son of an elven Princess and a human hero, sailed all the way to the undying lands, to ask the Valar for help. And the Valar consented. Together with elves from the undying lands, they came to Middle Earth. The host of the Valar fought beside the men and the elves of Middle Earth. After 42 years, longer than our Faramir has been alive, they finally defeated Morgoth. But first, several years before the Host of the Valar arrived, the elves and men of Middle Earth saw Gil Estel, the Star of High Hope, appear in the sky.”

“How did it get there?” Eldarion asked, in awe but still trying to understand how his world worked.

Elrohir, who actually remembered Arathorn telling this story to a very small Aragorn, put in “The Valar asked Earendil to sail the night sky, with a jewel that had belonged to his wife bound to his brow.”

Aragorn smiled in thanks, more familiar now with analyzing the battle strategies used against Morgoth for possible lessons, than explaining the Mariner’s tale, before explaining “Our ancestors saw the star, and knew we had not been forgotten, or forsaken. That hope remained.”

Eldarion smiled in wonder, “Like a promise, a promise in the sky.”

“Very much like.” Elrohir nodded approvingly, “and you and your Ada, and your Naneth and I, are all descendants of Earendil. Even Faramir and Éowyn are, through the Dol Amroth line.”

Elladan, approaching from the warmth of the ball still on-going at the Great Hall of the Citadel, acerbically remarked, “And all of you are toast, if Arwen has to entertain Lord Andasond’s dragon of a wife by herself for much longer.”

Éowyn meekly accepted yet another cloak from her frowning mentor, as Faramir protested with a chuckle, “The Lady of the Stonewain valley isn’t that bad, at least not compared to Nessa’s grandmother, the old dowager Lady of Lossarnach.”

Aragorn stifled a laugh of his own, as he remembered old lady Ioreth well, and knew Faramir’s statement to be quite true.

Eldarion filed away for future reference that it was insulting to refer to an older woman as a dragon, and asked winningly, “Ada, the story isn’t done. Please, why did Daerada Elrond call you Estel?”

Elrohir and Elladan exchanged a look, and then Elladan explained, “We all called your Ada so because he was all of our hope, Eldarion-nin. Our hope that the the twilight of the Third Age was not the end of all the ages of men, that the Fourth Age could dawn with men still free, and not slaves of Sauron.”

“Much was sacrificed, by many brave and wonderful people, so that your Ada could grow up safe, nephew.” Elrohir explained, fighting tears. Unaccountable, after all of these years. But not unnoticed by Eldarion, who held out his arms to be cradled by his Uncle Elrohir. Elrohir found holding Arathorn’s grandson to be a blessing, though he still missed his friend, and many other cousins and friends, and a brother, as well, lost over the years. Fallen, guarding Isildur’s heirs.

Elladan put an arm around his younger brother Estel, and the family that had lost so much shared a moment of respectful silence, in the snow under the stars, the night before Yule. Faramir and Éowyn held hands and stood quietly, witness and welcome, but tactfully outside the circle of grief.

“Does Gil Estel still stand for hope, now that Sauron is gone, and Morg… that other one is gone?” Eldarion asked.

Aragorn pondered that, as he’d never considered it, before. Elladan and Elrohir also had no answer, though Elladan corrected absently, “‘Mor-goth,’ Darion-nin. He was… well, its complicated, but he was Sauron’s master.”

It was Faramir who answered Eldarion’s question, “Gil Estel still stands for hope, tithen ernil. At least,” Faramir smiled gently, “I like to think it does. Only now it is the hope that we, your Ada and Nana and you, and all of us who are your people, can make something of this world that the Ringbearer helped us to win, this world free of Sauron’s malignant power. That we can work together to make Middle Earth in the Fourth Age a place where all beings can grow up free of fear and hunger, and work to pursue their calling.”

“Well-said, Faramir.” Aragorn complimented his Steward with a proud smile, before giving his heir a tender look, “I would agree, ion-nin. Gil Estel is a hope that we can have peace with our neighbors, and not have to march to war against them again.”

The adults are shared a look of worry. The Haradrim were pressuring the southern borders, on and off. And the Easterlings were growing restive again, as well. War would not come this year, but it might well be that Gondor would find itself marching to battle again, ‘ere Eldarion was much older. And Mithrandir had warned them all, before sailing, that he was worried his former colleagues the Blue Wizards might have been up to no good, in the East and the South.

But Eldarion didn’t know anything of that. “Uncle Elladan told me that I could wish on Gil-Estel, and tell Adar Rhiw what I would like to receive as a gift for Yule.” :The little boy explained.

Aragorn, who hadn’t known how Elladan had learned that a soft toy eagle would be the perfect gift for his young son, cast a look of gentle approbation on the younger of his twin foster brothers, before turning back to his heir. “Oh, really, Eldarion.” He replied evenly to his son, “And what did you ask for?”

“I asked for an eagle,” Eldarion chattered ingenuously, “but its not what I most want. I most want a brother, but Uncle Elladan says I may not have one yet, that I am lucky to be getting a friend in Fara’s and Wyn’s baby soon, and that I should not ask Nana about brothers or sisters because it would hurt her feelings.” It was clear that Eldarion was rather hoping that his uncle was wrong, and that Adar Rhiw might bring him a brother, after all.

Aragorn, who remembered having asked Adar Rhiw for a brother his own age or younger, sympathized, but wasn’t sure how to reply. Fortunately, Elrohir had anticipated this gambit, or remembered, perhaps, what he had said to distract a much younger Aragorn, “A brother isn’t the type of gift one can ask for and just receive, my dear nephew. Now, a puppy, or perhaps a kitten…”

Eldarion’s eyes shone, “A puppy or a kitten of my very own?” He asked joyfully.

“Smaug will have kittens before my baby is born, ‘Darion.” Éowyn pointed out kindly, “Let’s you and I speak to your Naneth, and perhaps you can get to know Smaug’s kittens, and maybe take one back to your apartments with you when they are old enough.”

Aragorn mentally resigned himself to Eldarion’s acquisition of one of Smaug’s many kittens, as his disloyal Steward chuckled. “Just remember, Fara-nin, you will have a child of your own soon enough,” Aragorn warned, “and I could breed Wreck or Ruin, and give her a puppy.”

“Only if Éomer does not beat you to it.” Faramir said, his eyes laughing.

“True enough.” Aragorn conceded, as Eldarion asked Faramir, “Fara, what do you hope Adar Rhiw will bring for you?”

“Ahh…” Faramir was struck momentarily speechless, Aragorn noted with amusement. It was quite a feat, though this wasn’t the first time Eldarion had managed it. “I’m not sure, Eldarion.” The Prince of Ithilien answered honestly.

“Uncle Elladan says one should think about these things ahead of time, and let Adar Rhiw know.” Eldarion explained helpfully, turning back to explain to Elrohir again why Eldarion himself would make a very good custodian for a kitten.

“Does your answer indicate that you don’t know how to ask Adar Rhiw to package a long-term peace on your hostile border, or something else, tithen-gwador?” Pressed Aragorn gently, keeping Faramir back as the rest of their party proceeded into the warmth of the Citadel.

Faramir’s gray eyes met Aragorn’s in shared worry, “Mostly the first, iaur gwador.” Faramir tried to shake off his worry, and lighten the mood, “Though I don’t know as I shall be on Adar Rhiw’s good list, as much as I was in your bad graces this year.”

Aragorn chuckled and clapped Faramir gently on the back. “You need have no fear on that count, Faramir-nin. I told you when last we spoke of the matter that I had forgiven you for being excessively assiduous and cursedly reckless in defense of your people, and I know for a fact that Adar Rhiw has not forgotten you.” In fact, Aragorn knew that Arwen had enlisted Nessa’s and Éowyn’s help to commission a lap-harp that was large enough to produce an acceptable sound, but small enough to make the journey back and forth between Ithilien and Minas Tirith easily enough.

“Oh?” Faramir questioned, not quite immune to a child-like curiosity, and even less so to a desire to tease his friend and King in turn, “Are you and Adar-Rhiw on good terms, then?”

Grinning, Aragorn teased back, “Of course, tithen-nin. We edair have a special relationship with Adar Rhiw, after all.”

Faramir looked toward Eldarion, visible through the long windows as he bravely went to rescue his mother from a repetitive courtier. “Your son is wonderfully perceptive and kind for his age, Aragorn mellon nin. You must be very proud.”

“I am, and I love him well.” Aragorn agreed, choosing his words very carefully, “But that does not mean I could not love another, just as well.”

Faramir drew back as if stung, and Aragorn sighed. But he also noted his young friend’s eyes moving fleetingly in Éowyn’s direction, and a tinge of gratitude in Faramir’s eyes as he noted that the White Lady was not present. Twice, Faramir had refused the honor of being adopted into Aragorn’s family, as an adult heir of the King’s and Queen’s, junior to any other heirs of their body, but regent by right after Arwen for any underage sibling who inherited the throne. Once before Eldarion’s birth, and once since. Refused on the grounds that Faramir would not be an usurper, and that the Steward as an heir of the King’s was too much power for any one man. Faramir’s looking to see where Éowyn was told Aragorn that Éowyn had come to disagree with Faramir’s continued refusals. Aragorn couldn’t use that, yet. But it was useful information, in this dance of love and limits that he and Faramir were continuing.

At length, Faramir replied softly, “Sire, I thought you had said that you would not bring that up, again.”

Aragorn smiled tolerantly, “I didn’t bring it up, Faramir. You did. I only meant that I would welcome future children, after Eldarion’s asking Adar Rhiw for a brother.” Aragorn paused as Faramir looked at him disbelievingly, then proposed, “Perhaps, my dear young Steward, you have a guilty conscience, for as my son, I could order to drink something which would ensure sleep tonight. But, as you have taken great pains to point out, you are not my son, so I have not that right.”

Faramir looked away uncomfortably, but did not say again resentfully that Aragorn was not his father and had no right to comment on his sleeping habits, or lack thereof. Aragorn supposed this was progress. At length, Faramir offered, “I’ll take something, tomorrow. If I’m still having trouble sleeping. Sometimes on the eve of Yule I have visions. I wouldn’t want to miss one, if its important.”

Aragorn nodded, aware that this was as good as he was going to get, and pleased to have gotten even that much agreement. Faramir could be difficult, but he would do as he said he would, barring unforeseen developments, like another invasion of Ithilien. Aragorn paused a moment outside, after Faramir had bid him a rather stiff farewell. The King paused to ask Eru and the Valar to protect his son, and his son of the heart. And to hope that the Fourth Age would see their hopes realized, rather than their fears.

Chapter Text

*Crash*

Silence.

Nothing was broken, but the King of Gondor's favorite pipe was now filled with ink, which had also splattered all over the table it normally rested on.

"Well," Eldarion said firmly, "I am not explaining this to Ada. I explained the last thing."

Theodwyn frowned at her uncle and playmate. "You should. Balrog is your cat, and she knocked over the ink pot onto Daerada Aragorn's favorite pipe. Not us."

Elboron chewed on his lip, and put in nervously, "We weren't supposed to be in here, though, any of us."

"You're all cry babies." Alphros criticized boldly, "Where else were we supposed to have a cat race, other than in uncle Aragorn's office? Its the only one far enough away from the adults' dinner party that they can't hear the, uh, contestants, complaining."

"Silly argument." Grace said dismissively. "I tell Angry that Red say ink go in smoker. Then Angry think Red's fault. No problem."

The children stared at the beautiful but formerly feral elleth who frequently joined them in their lessons, their friend and playmate who most often still called Aragorn "Angry" and Faramir "Red."

"Ah, Grace." Eldarion asked uneasily, "What did Fara do to you, that you're scapegoating him?"

Grace cocked her lovely blond head in confusion. Theodwyn quickly explained, "'Dari means why say Ada told you, and not Uncle Elladan, or Uncle Elrohir, or Legolas, or anyone else?"

Grace gave them a mischievous smile. "Red say grammar important. Silly. And Angry never really mad at Red for joke. Any other else he angry at joke, but not at Red."

Eldarion grinned triumphantly. "She's right. Fara can get away with murder, so long as he's not actively putting himself in danger," Faramir's younger brother noted cheerfully, before concluding, "Ok, new plan, we do what Grace says." Eldarion would feel a smidgen bad about it, but he couldn't imagine his Ada spanking Fara for telling Grace that ink went into pipes. Eldarion or Thea, maybe. Alphros, almost certainly. Ada was still upset with Alphros over the sheep incident, although Eldarion thought that had been quite funny. But if Grace told Ada it had been Faramir's fault, Ada would probably just throw up his hands, and tell Faramir to be more careful what he said to Grace, or at least to give up on encouraging Grace to learn proper grammar in Westron.

The other children all thought this a fine plan.

"All hail Grace." Alphros said sincerely, bowing to the elleth.

Grace laughed merrily, the sound like chiming silver bells. "And my cat win race. Good day for Grace."

Chapter Text

"This tome compiles the sum knowledge of the healing arts and sciences I possess, gathered over nearly 3,000 years of life. It is my gift to you, young healer. That you may have the answers I desired when I was your age. That being said, please remember that anything and everything in this book could someday be proven wrong. Perhaps by you...but do your testing carefully. Remember, every life matters."

Aragorn looked up from reading the dedication to Elladan's magnum opus, 'Healing Herbs of Gondor and Arnor, and their Uses,' confused. "You put that everything might be wrong, on the frontispage of your text?"

Elladan nodded proudly, "Of course I did. I didn't want anyone to become frustrated, or get in trouble for trying to learn, as I did once as a young healer."

Elrohir gave his twin a tolerant look, "You were an elfling, then, not a healer yet, or even an apprentice healer. I know that because I was an elfling, then, too. And Ada and Erestor only spanked you for it because you took your quill and corrected those ancient and valuable texts. Besides, out of the hundreds of "corrections" you made, only a handful were actually corrections. The other parts were right - they just reflected things you hadn't learned, yet."

Elladan's eyes gleamed with amusement in a way that suggested Elrohir was probably right, but that didn't discourage the younger twin at all, "Well, yes, perhaps." Elladan recognized quickly, before continuing, "However, "Healing Herbs," is a book meant to teach folk how to heal. That's an important thing, and I would never treat anything important without the knowledge that I might be wrong. Acting like you know everything can get you in a lot of trouble, and its really annoying to others, besides. Just think of our Daeredhryn, or Ada sometimes, or Glor in a mood."

"I am right here, Elladan." Captain the Lord Glorfindel pointed out with some asperity.

Elladan offered him a sunny smile. "So you are, Glor. Note I only said you, when you're in a mood. Most of the time you're much less stuffy than Ada or Erestor. Even though they're much younger."

Glorfindel rolled his eyes. "Sometimes I think your father didn't spank you enough, growing up, elfling, as impertinent as you still are." He teased Elladan good-humoredly, before commenting, "And I would like to think that having been reborn gives me a slight amount of insight, in respect to looking at the world with fresh eyes."

Elladan's face shone with interest, and Elrhoir looked intrigued as well. Aragorn suppressed a smile, realizing that the twins had engineered this entire conversational gambit, by coming into his office to show him Elladan's completed manuscript, all for the purpose of trying to get Glorfindel to talk about being reborn. Which he was never willing to do.

Glorfindel didn't wait for the twins to even ask, "No, Elrondionnath." He denied them sternly, "I have not changed my mind about not being able to tell you what being reborn is like, just because your father has sailed and my rule-minded inyo is not here. It is a rule; not something I made up to discourage their insatiable intellectual interest."

"Well," Elrohir remarked, equally good natured, "It was worth a try."

Aragorn frowned, amused but also annoyed. "Do the two of you ever get tired of using me as a prop to carry out your twisty plans?"

Elladan laughed, "Oh, no, muindor-laes. That's the lot of a youngest child- and you're a terrific sport about it."

"Much better than Arwen." Elrohir agreed, "I'm glad you married her, much as I hated the idea at first. You seem to have mellowed her."

With that, the twins went off to boggle someone else's mind, and Aragorn turned back to Glorfindel with a smile. "Where were we?"

Chapter Text

“I’m human, and I loved the little elfling books when I was young.” Aragorn explained. “I don’t understand why Eldarion thinks they aren’t relevant to his life. He’s, what, almost a third elven?”

“But he’s not an elfling.” Faramir pointed out quietly. “An elfling grows more slowly. Eldarion at seven years of age knows he is more mature than Thalion and Rian’s daughter Calenwen, who is the same age as he, and more mature than Haldir and Silwen’s son Laeriant, who is a year older. ‘Darion just doesn’t want to be called an elfling, when he isn’t.”

Aragorn sighed and nodded. “I suppose, but I just want to have something else to share with Eldarion. From my own childhood.”

Faramir cocked his head to the side and smiled a little, his ‘I have an idea’ smile. Then he suggested, “Ada, why don’t you just ask Elrohir to write a few new stories about a little human boy, instead of an elfling? The first one could be “Little Lad and the Ghosts,” after the time that Eldarion and I went to talk to the spirits.”2

Aragorn stared at his oldest son in confusion.

Faramir frowned, and then chuckled. “Don’t tell me that you didn’t know that Elrohir is “Golwembel the Elf,” the author of those books?”

“No…” Aragorn answered, startled, “Elrohir, really? Why would you think so, ion-nin?”

Faramir gave his father a loving but disappointed look. “Oh, come on, Ada. Right after you run into a mountain lion and call it a bad kitty, a book entitled “Little Elfling and the Bad Kitty” comes out. Don’t tell me you didn’t catch on, at that point.”

Aragorn, dignified, but obviously considering his son’s suggestion, protested, “Running into a hurt mountain lion is the type of thing that happens to lots of children.”

Faramir, hiding a smile, replied “Of course it is, my King.”

Aragorn glared lightly at his firstborn, “Faramir, if you keep saying ‘my King,’ like what you want to say is, ‘you idiot,’ then we are going to have words.”

Faramir looked away to keep from chuckling, “Oh, look, it is time for council.” He remarked in a light tone of voice.

Aragorn assumed a more Kingly expression, but he managed to tug gently on a lock of Faramir’s red-gold hair, as they took their seats. Faramir’s eyes were laughing, but when he addressed his father during the meeting, his voice held only respect.

Chapter Text

It was a beautiful late afternoon in the spring, and it seemed as if every child in Minas Tirith had come to the large, fountain-filled park on the first level of the city. Grinning younglings with high-pitched voices cavorted on the large interconnected wooden tree forts, and played games involving running and chasing and tossing of balls on the sun-drenched lawn. Two of the children, a slender, sturdy lad of four or five, and a slightly younger girl with strawberry blond curls, mandated the presence of several well-armed, well-trained men, although the children themselves otherwise blended in to the happy crowd of their fellows.

Brithadan, the youngest and newest of the Royal Guards of the Reunited Kingdoms, started forward when he saw young Prince Eldarion’s foot nearly slip on a ladder while climbing up to a tree fort.

A hand grabbed Brithadan’s arm, pulling him back. But it was well enough; Prince Eldarion steadied himself, and kept climbing.

“Captain Aragorn’s sons are fine.” Captain Magordan’s deep voice rumbled from beside Brithadan, as the venerable warrior loosened his hold on the younger guardsman’s arm. Now that Magordan had pointed out his presence, Brithadan realized that Prince Faramir, the chaperon of this expedition, was indeed right beside the ladder in question, urging Eldarion on.

“Eldarion is awfully small to be climbing up to that wooden fort unaided.” Brithadan worried. “Should we tell, ah, “Captain Faramir?’” By royal order, the guards referred to members of the royal family when they were abroad in the city on unofficial business by their lesser titles, to avoid attracting attention. The royal guards themselves dressed to blend on these excursions, although it was still fairly clear to an interested observer that these were fighting men, whose first priority was the safety of their charges.

Well, safety from assassins and true dangers, which apparently did not include tree fort ladders, as Magordan chuckled, and shook his head, “Darion’s older than his Adar was when Aragorn would routinely climb from the balconies of Imladris down to the gardens, or so the Elrondionnath tell me. And Faramir is right there. And Theodwyn is trying it too – see, she slipped, just now, and Faramir caught her. Its fine, Bridan.”

Brithadan didn’t have children of his own, but this was the Crown Prince, the only legitimate heir of the King. “His Adar doesn’t let him, oughtn’t we tell Captain Faramir that Eldarion isn’t permitted to climb that high?”

Magordan snorted. “Don’t tell him; he doesn’t want to know. As it is, everyone involved can pretend they don’t know what the other father figure would say.”

Brithadan blinked, “But, isn’t it dangerous, and isn’t Captain Aragorn the, uh, senior officer?”

Magordan gave his newest elite guardsman a tolerant look, “Climbing that ladder is not particularly dangerous. Other children near Eldarion’s age, who are particularly agile and bold climbers, are also managing the feat. One thing you must learn, Bridan, is that we are not here to stop the Captain and his children from living. They need to figure out things by themselves like any other family, and they won’t thank us for interfering. We’re here for when who they are makes life more dangerous for them. And tree forts, as a general matter, don’t count.”

Brithadan nodded, but thankfully for his nerves Eldarion and Theodwyn soon moved on to a spirited game of “chase me, catch me,” with a herd of other children. There were a few rough moments for the new guardsman when older children would push and shove, accidentally knocking over the heir to the throne and his little niece. But Eldarion and Theodwyn were tough little kids, no sooner were they down then they were up and running again.

Chapter Text

Eye the target; pull an arrow from the quiver; nock the arrow while re-focusing on the target; pull the string back while aiming; a heartbeat to adjust the aim; and loose.

Faramir's hundredth arrow of the morning thudded into the target, but only into one of the outer rings. The former Captain of the Ithilien Rangers didn't stop to sigh or curse; he was already drawing the bow to loose another arrow, when a quiet voice interrupted, "Very impressive, my Steward. But I think that particular target has seen enough of your arrows, for the nonce. And I am quite sure that your healing shoulder has been exercised enough, as well."

Faramir was exhausted. He'd barely caught a cat-nap the night before (in fact, Whisper, Tabby, and the half-grown kitten Faramir hadn't named yet had all slept longer), and he'd slept less in the past week than he had during, say, the last Battle of Osgiliath, or the Battle for the Pelennor. He was aware that his hand ached, and that his shoulder was very nearly at the end of its endurance. He was also aware of the incipient headache he'd gotten, forcing his eyes to focus and aim in the poor light of dawn and earliest morning. He'd also been aware of the King and his guards joining him and a handful of other early risers on the practice courts. But he'd intended to finish out this quarrel of arrows, before going to bathe and ready himself for another challenging day of dealing with a new King, a fractious council, war-damage, and who-knew-what surprise emergencies, major and minor.

Still, the voice that had addressed him belonged to said new King. So there was really only one answer. Faramir knew enough of chain of command, and the respect due to the man who ruled Gondor, to know that. "Aye, Sire." He replied with a half-bow.

The King sighed. "Please don't do that, Faramir. That...the bowing thing. You know I hate that, from you."

Faramir sighed. "Yes, Sire, I know. I apologize, it is early and I forgot." Faramir gave the King an apologetic look, then had to look away as something in King Elessar's eyes unsettled him, again.

Pretending to yawn, as if he were merely tired and not...unnerved, by the....fond yet perplexed look in his sovereign's eyes, Faramir begged the King's pardon. Then Faramir turned to gently instruct his squire, giving the youth a faint nod and an approving smile as the yawning lad trotted towards the target to collect Faramir's arrows, which were specially made to fit this bow. They were not terribly unique; many of the rangers still used a long-bow similar to the one Faramir had practiced with this morning, such that the stores at Henneth Annun and even the armory here in the city would have spares, but Faramir had learned not to waste arrows at an early age. Faramir himself usually carried an even larger long-bow; this one was his bow from his early twenties, before Faramir had reached his full growth.

The King frowned at Faramir's bow. "'Tis a beautiful bow, and you make good use of it, even in this indifferent light. But it seems that you might be straining yourself. May I?" The King asked,

Faramir blinked in startlement, and handed the King his bow, "Of course, Sire."

King Elessar...or Aragorn, as he had repeatedly asked Faramir to call him, as if he were just any other ranger, smiled faintly and handed the bow to one of his shadows, the light-haired elven Prince from the Mirkwood...the Greenwood, Faramir mentally corrected himself. Prince Legolas got twitchy when his homeland was called "the Mirkwood," and preferred its ancient name of the Greenwood. Which Faramir supposed was fair enough...he hated it when anyone called Ithilien "forsaken," or "barbaric," or any other derogatory term.

The King was giving Faramir that look again, and Faramir fought not to squirm, or turn away, or look away, as King Elessar gently scolded, "I meant your healing shoulder, youngling, not your bow, although I'm sure my gwador Legolas is pleased for an opportunity to admire it."

Prince Legolas smiled, "It is a lovely bow. Well-treated, although it looks like it has been years since anyone used it regularly."

Faramir, startled, nodded again, and then cursed himself as he instinctually drew away as the King reached out to touch him.

"Sorry, Sire," Faramir apologized immediately, before forcing himself to hold still for the King's appraisal.

The King, however, had paused. "I am a healer, you know." He reminded Faramir, with a concerned look on his face. He did not try to touch Faramir again, and even took a careful half-step back, as if Faramir were a skittish young horse.

"Aye, Sire, and rather a good one, as I recall," Faramir remarked with a light, self-deprecating grin, "Fortunately for myself, and Lady Eowyn and Sir Meriadoc, and many others, as well."

"And myself as well, upon occasion." Prince Legolas remarked lightly.

The King gave the blond elf a fond, half-scolding look, an elder brother's expression of...of almost, "I'm glad that I could be there for you, that time, but do try to stay out of trouble in the future, hmm?," and while Faramir appreciated the insight into the relationship between his new King and a long-time friend and ally, it also made him wonder. The King's term for Prince Legolas, "gwador," or sworn brother, was the same that the King used for Faramir's uncle, Imrahil of Dol Amroth. And the King and Legolas seemed to know all about one another's lives. And Faramir's uncle had just learned of a half-dozen or so incidents that Faramir, with the assistance of Adrahil or Boromir, had deemed it wise to keep Imrahil ignorant of. Faramir was vaguely worried that his Uncle, perhaps overwrought at learning of Faramir's mistreatment at the hands of his armsmasters when Faramir had been seven years old, might have mentioned it to the King, and that was why the King was now...giving Faramir space. Sighing inwardly, Faramir decided that he had no control over what the King knew or didn't know, as of this point.

"May I?" The King asked again, and Faramir nodded, overcoming his reluctance to let a healer, or an authority figure, touch him. Faramir extended his arm, as he had once extended his trust, to the newly-returned heir of Isildur.

Elessar Telcontar gave his Steward a warm smile, as his well-trained healer's hands gently manipulated Faramir's shoulder. "No archery practice for you for the next several days, my Prince." The King scolded lightly, "And I think a visit to the healer's may be in order."

Faramir did sigh at that, and Legolas smiled at him in sympathy. The King's voice was chiding, but the look in his eyes was kind, and not without some sympathy.

"I understand that you might be more comfortable with a healer whom you know better," Elessar told Faramir, as his hands gently felt down the length of Faramir's arm, frowning at the lack of a bracer, "But you should see someone. The enemy arrow did a great deal of damage to the muscles and ligaments in your shoulder, and,"

Being nearly burned alive hadn't helped, either. Faramir interjected, "And what happened afterward exacerbated the condition. Yes, the healers mentioned. The Warden will no doubt be glad to see me again." There. Let King Elessar think that Faramir would see the healers. And Faramir would, if he had time and his shoulder actually bothered him. The discomfort he felt now was well within the range of normal, for a healing wound. Faramir didn't want to waste the King's valuable time, or the Warden's. Not to mention that the look in the King's eyes....it reminded Faramir of his mother, or of Boromir, or of some mix of the two. It was unsettling. And Faramir liked to understand what was going on around him. He didn't like unsettling, even good unsettling. Well, except for Eowyn, and King Elessar made him feel nothing like how Eowyn made him feel.

"Very well." The King said, sounding...reluctant? His hands now gently cradled Faramir's hands. "May I?" The King asked, again.

Faramir wasn't sure what the King wanted to do now, but the King had saved Gondor, had helped to save all of men, really. He could have Faramir's hands, if he really wanted them. So Faramir nodded mutely.

The King tsked over the blisters forming on Faramir's hands from the morning's marathon archery session, then his own royal hands magically rubbed the soreness from Faramir's. Faramir couldn't help but sigh in relief.

Legolas smiled knowingly. "He's good at that, isn't he? Elrohir is actually better, though."

The King made a face at his friend, "He has had a bit more practice, Legoas." He rebutted, still ever-so-gently massaging the pain from Faramir's blistered fingers.

"Excuses, excuses..." Legolas murmured loftily, winking at Faramir with a smile.

Faramir smiled back, although he couldn't imagine ever teasing the King with such levity. But it didn't seem to upset the King. As a matter of fact, Elessar Telcontar didn't mind when even his guards teased him.

Now Elessar called to the chiefest amongst his guards, the Dunedain ranger captain Magordan, "Magordan? Could you give me some of that liniment you always carry?"

Magordan frowned, "I do not always carry liniment." He retorted, but as he did so, he tossed a small pouch he'd fished from his belt pouch towards the King.

Elessar just grinned. "Thanks, old friend." He told Magordan, as Prince Legolas began humming a nursery rhyme. Faramir imagined that the implication was that Magoradan was a bit of a nanny goat.

Magordan gave the elven Prince a very dark look,as the King began to rub a small amount of the liniment carefully into Faramir's hands, avoiding the open blisters with infinite skill.

"Legolas." Elessar reprimanded, voice amused, but somehow sharp at the same time, "Stop harassing my guards, and go help Faramir's squire with the few arrows at the top of the target."

Legolas laughed musically, blew Magordan a kiss, and walked cheerfully over to the target.

"Faramir," the King commanded, as he gently released Faramir's hands, "Get some sleep."

"Aye, my liege." Faramir murmured, "Thank you." And Faramir did plan to sleep. Once things were more rested, or for that matter, when he absolutely had to. But for now, he needed to figure out a way to get the Northern lords to propose to share their stores of winter wheat, and in such a manner that they thought it was their own idea, or could at least act like it was their idea. Faramir pondered that, instead of pondering his new sovereign, as he left the practice yard.

Chapter Text

"You are very drunk, my young friend." Glorfindel observed to the Steward of Gondor.

Faramir blinked at him, not sure whether he should say, 'The twins and Melpomaen all say that you would know drunk,' or instead, 'You were the one who told me that I needed more practice at being drunk.' Instead, what came out was, "If I'd gone on the Quest in my brother's place, he would still be alive. I stayed here, where I was useless, save to lead my men to their deaths."

Glorfindel pulled up a chair, and sat down beside him. "Hmm. You're a maudlin drunk, young Faramir. We'll have to work on that. Estel tends towards it, sometimes, and we've made great progress with him. Here, drink more, sometimes that helps." Elrond's Captain and Estel's first armsmaster pushed a glass of ale towards Faramir. Faramir squinted at it dubiously.

"Honestly, Laure." A frustrated voice commented from just behind Faramir, and the Steward somehow managed to trip over his own two feet whilst still sitting, in an attempt to stand and bow before the Lady of the Wood.

Glorfindel caught him, and Galadriel shook her head, and gentled her tone, "Stay seated, Faramir. This is a kitchen in the middle of the night, not a court. And we are kin, however distant, for Mithrellas is my adopted sons' aunt, and my own cousin."

"My Lady," Faramir toasted her with the ale, only to have Galadriel take it from him with a tired sigh, and a withering look for the amused Glorfindel.

"Will you never grow up, Laurefindil?" The Lady of the Wood teased Imladris' Captain, "You of all people should know that what Faramir needs now is water and tea, or at the least more of the wine he has been drinking, rather than ale which he has not touched this night."

Glorfindel's eyes held both laughter and sympathy as he replied, "I thought the youngling was trying to make himself truly sick, in which case ale and then perhaps brandy are both called for, 'Tani."

Galadriel muttered a curse she hadn't used since Findecano, later called Fingon, threw up on her skirts after losing a drinking contest with a much younger Glorfindel and Turgon, oh, and also a much younger Galadriel, then called Artanis.

Faramir's eyes widened in surprise. "Surely that is an anatomical impossibility..." He murmured, shocked.

Galadriel's eyes widened, and Glorfindel laughed merrily. "You can't curse even in Quenya around Faramir without him picking up some of it," the Balrog Slayer explained in between chuckles, "It is not quite as bad as cursing around Erestor or Melpomaen or Elrohir, but it's bad enough."

"Ah." Galadriel commented quietly, smiling despite herself, "Well, I shall endeavor to behave in..." the lady paused.

"A manner befitting a lady?" Glorfindel suggested, still laughing.

Galadriel didn't dignify that with a comment. She was a lady; but to be conventionally lady-like was a limitation she had never accepted.

"A ringbearer?" Faramir suggested quietly, around obedient sips of water, as all of the ringbearers whom he personally knew were paragons, of one manner or another.

"Nay, I am no longer that, thank Eru." Galadriel declined, at last choosing, "I shall endeavor to behave in such a manner so as not to shock you, little cousin."

"S'ok." Faramir offered, feeling the wine even more now that he had stopped drinking it, for some reason. "Boromir said shocking things all of the time. I could curse a blue streak by the time I was eight. Mithrandir was shocked, as I recall."

Glorfindel and Galadriel exchanged a look of deep amusement. "I'm sure he was, guren." Glorfindel said softly, then paused, looking to Galadriel for assistance.

"Are you just drunk and stupid tonight Faramir, or do you really feel you were useless to Frodo in Ithilien?" Galadriel asked bluntly.

Glorfindel shook his head, and confided apologetically to Faramir, "Her brothers called her 'Lady Tact,' but only because she had little to none."

Faramir had to laugh, though he answered honestly enough, "I don't...know. Frodo says it mattered, that our encounter gave him heart, and much needed supplies. Some days, I believe all unfolded as it was meant to be...others," Faramir shrugged, "I think I should have tied Boromir up, sedated him, and left for Imladris myself. Or just gone after I had the first dream, before the dream came to my brother for my cowardice."

"Cowardice?!" An irate voice demanded.

Faramir winced, Glorfindel laughed, and Galadriel smiled serenely.

"She only does that because it's annoying." Glorfindel commented in an aside to Faramir.

"Well met, Gimli son of Gloin." Lady Galadriel said calmly, "But lower your voice; Faramir knows he is gathering foolish fears as chaff to throw into the wind. It is a normal thing, on such an anniversary."

Aragorn came and squeezed his Steward's shoulder, as Legolas murmured something...calming or inciting...to his friend the dwarf. "Hmmph. My cousin Dain II Ironfoot died at the gates of Erebor, and many dwarves and men laid down their lives beside him, defending Erebor and Dale at the end of the Ring War. You're no coward, brother of Boromir. And I for one will not take any more such talk from you." Gimli said sternly.

"Nor would Boromir." Legolas commented with deceptive lightness, as Faramir watched him warily.

"Is a mercurial and dubious sense of humor a trait all golden haired elves share in common?" Faramir asked plaintively.

Aragorn choked in laughter, as Glorfindel and Legolas looked at one another and shrugged.

"There are more stories about you, Glorfindel." Legolas commented, a teasing gleam poorly hidden in his eyes, "There's one about.."

"I knew your father during the War of the Last Alliance, and you when you were just past crawling." Glorfindel pointed out kindly, but quickly, "I'd drop this line of thought, Thranduilon, but it's entirely up to you."

Legolas smiled and desisted, but then temptation got the better of him, and he had to ask, "Weren't you the elf who dropped an elven Lord from the West into the ocean, in full sight of King Finarfin and the Maia Herald Eonwe?"

A pause of confused silence.

"Legolas," Faramir essayed tentatively, "I don't think that Glorfindel was um, there." Saying the word "dead" about the balrog slayer seemed to be something that Elrond's family did not do, and Faramir tried to pay attention to these unspoken taboos.

"That was my husband, actually, Legolas." Galadriel corrected, her eyes weighing the Prince of Eryn Lasgalen carefully, as if she suspected her youngest elven cousin of looking for this story on purpose, despite his innocent expression.

Aragorn didn't drop his ale, but it was only because he was sitting next to Faramir, and his poor young friend didn't need any more misery on the night of the anniversary of Boromir's death. "Daerada Celeborn dropped an elf into a harbor in front of your father?" Aragorn said in shock.

Glorfindel chuckled, putting together one fact and another.

Galadriel poured Faramir another cup of water, and began, "Normally I would not tell this story...it is really Celeborn's, or perhaps Ingloren's, or Faronglas'. But tonight...I think it fitting." Galadriel smiled gently at Faramir, "Though my husband lost his temper that day,"

"Understandably." Glorfindel interjected with a grin.

"Another friend of mine learned the value of a friend unlooked-for." Galadriel continued, unruffled, as Faramir absently wondered if dealing with Glorfindel's interruptions had trained all of Elrond's family and Erestor for the future existence of the twins.

First Age 545, When the Host of the Valar Arrived at the Isle of Balar

Faenglorien stifled a sigh as the great ships of the Host from the West arrived. Here was hope, real, tangible, at last. Surely with the Maia Eonwe, the great Manwe's herald, and the Vanyar, and Aran Arafinwe, and the countless elves they had brought from the West, they might defeat Morgoth. It was good that this fleet numbered so many; out of the dozens of elves of Faenglorien's family who had traveled over the ice, and their many descendants, only five survived. Faenglorien herself, her brother, her husband, her son, and a distant cousin who found them too painful a remembrance of his lost own lost family to spend much time with them at all. Other families of elven exiles had taken similar losses... of all of Aran Arafinwe's children and grandchildren, only Galadriel and Ereinion survived. And the Sindar of Doriath had suffered staggering losses, as well. Some at the hands of her own kin by marriage, though they had just been following their foolish Lords' orders.

Since Galadriel had been a talented if challenging adolescent, Faenglorien had been her friend, first her teacher and then her student in the arts of prophecy. And Faenglorien saw only darkness in the coming days. Darkness, and little hope of victory. She feared the West had come too late.

Celeborn, Faenglorien's lord since his marriage to her lady centuries ago, squared his shoulders, and went to assist other elves and men of Balar with greeting another ship. Faenglorien had little sympathy in her sorrow, but she spared some for Celeborn. He was a great leader amongst his surviving people, had been a great King's valued officer and nephew, but the arriving Noldor and Vanyar saw him only as a barbarian. Still, he greeted them with a smile on his face, and welcome in his voice. Galadriel, on the other hand, had retired to their home, pleading a sick headache, at her ladies' insistence. This day would not be improved by Galadriel striking a foolish, loose-tongued would-be savior from the West, and that had nearly happened twice already. In fact, Faenglorien thought Galadriel had been about to help a certain Vanya cousin into the harbor. Even that thought could not wring a smile from her, though she did reflect that Celeborn's strengths were different from her lady's, and tended more towards endurance. But they were no less worthy.

Celeborn and Faenglorien and her husband Sinyefal rowed out to the next ship, to help guide it into its assigned place in the harbor for disembarkation. To Faenglorien's pleased surprise, one of the elves on this ship struck up a conversation of his own free will with Lord Celeborn.

Celeborn seemed pleasantly surprised as well. He gently corrected the curious, pleasant elf's pronunciation of Sindarin and the language spoken by the Edain, and slowly, Faenglorien realized that this elf was..."Inglaurel!"

Inglaurel, one of Galadriel's dearest friends and her social escort before they had left Aman, smiled brilliantly. "Faenglorien!" He caroled in relief, coming to embrace her, "You are well, praise the Valar. And..." Inglaurel hesitated as his expression turned worried, "Your Lady Artanis, um, Galadriel, as she is called now? She is well?"

Faenglorien hastened to reassure Inglaurel that Galadriel was well, only suffering from a headache.

Celeborn, who spoke Quenya perfectly well, looked curious.

Inglaurel, coming to the logical assumption that Celeborn must know Galadriel, and the perhaps forgivable assumption that this Sindarin elf probably didn't understand Quenya, switched into his broken Sindarin, "I am Galadriel's friend and betrothed." He explained to Celeborn earnestly.

Celeborn dropped him into the harbor, and Faenglorien felt rather bad for not having explained sooner that Celeborn was Galadriel's husband, or that Inglaurel had been Galadriel's escort to a number of family parties, just as a friend. She would reflect later that it was unfortunate that Inglaurel had confused the word for "escort" and the word for "intended bride," as well as the past and present tense. And that it was also unfortunate that several Noldor lords had said rather loudly in Celeborn's hearing earlier that morning that Artanis would have been better off marrying that absent-minded weasel of an alchemist, Inglaurel, rather than some barbaric Sindarin princeling. But at the time, Faenglorien couldn't stop laughing. It helped that Inglaurel was promptly fished out of the harbor by some of Balar's most talented human blacksmiths, from whom he received a new name, Ingloren, and with whom he struck up a lasting friendship. It also helped that Inglaurel, or Ingloren, as he called himself thereafter, had an excellent sense of humor, and didn't blame Celeborn in the slightest. In fact, he'd immediately apologized for the misunderstanding, and Celeborn had promptly offered to give Ingloren language lessons. Although Faenglorien was not sure if that had appeased Celeborn's rather appalled father-by-law.

Third Age Year 3020, Kitchens of the Citadel in Minas Tirith

Legolas had laughed so hard that tears were running down his face. "Oh, just wait 'til I tell Adar." The elven prince chuckled. And Glorfindel was laughing so hard he had trouble forming coherent words.

Aragorn and Gimli had been consumed by mirth as well, and even Faramir had cracked a smile.

Galadriel sat in the midst of the laughing males. Smiling gently, she informed Faramir, "Faenglorien had been unsure if she could carry on the fight, before that. Meeting Inglaurel...Ingloren, again, and the, ah," Galadriel paused.

"Hilarity that ensued?" Offered Faramir, quiet good humor in his eyes.

"Yes, that." Galadriel agreed with an appreciative smile for the Steward's gentle wit, "gave her the strength to go on. If you did the same for valiant Frodo, who carried the fate of us all..."

Faramir nodded, "I see, my La...um, cousin Galadriel. And I take your point, both of them."

Galadriel nodded, adding, like a gentle wind into Faramir's mind, *Faenglorien, if she had not found her strength, would have stayed on the Isle of Balar, and survived the war. As it was, she died to save me, in battle. I know...* Galadriel spared a kind look for Glorfindel, who had told her this, *I know, for a fact, that Faenglorien never regretted her sacrifice. Never regretted riding to war at my side. I am sure your brother would feel much the same, and someday, many decades from now, he can tell you so himself.*

Faramir nodded, more at peace than he had been in the week since he realized the date. Aragorn poured his Steward and friend another cup of water, and the night turned to remembrances of times past, and friends still present, and those dearly missed. And a Princess enjoyed one last night amongst her younger family members and friends whom she would soon have to bid farewell, while a Reborn Balrog Slayer quietly reassured an old friend that she would be sailing to a warm welcome home.

Chapter Text

A missed movement, and Theodwyn lay, dazed, in the dirt again. Why, she wondered to herself, didn't I just to decide to give up on this dream?

A strong, calloused hand appeared in her field of vision. Most of Theodwyn wanted to just roll away, and slink back to her bath and then her warm bed. But a stubborn, bright part of her, something at the core of Eowyn's and Faramir's oldest daughter, reached out, and grasped Glorfindel's hand.

"Again." The reborn elf demanded, tugging Theodwyn to her feet, "That time was better, but if you're going to be fighting men twice your size, you're going to have to first acquire twice their skill. Your Daerada and I insist on it, as do your twin great uncles."

"Eldarion learned this drill much faster," Theodwyn complained, "And you let him sleep in today." But even as she objected, Theodwyn got into position to run the exercise again.

Glorfindel grinned at her, "Eldarion is almost half an elf. Or maybe I just like you better, because you're prettier and sweeter spoken."

Theodwyn laughed, which distracted her, and she missed an obvious parry. Disarmed, and cursing a blue streak (as she was not sweeter-spoken than Eldarion, although the survey differed on whether she was prettier), she was taken by surprise as Glorfindel whirled her about, and smacked her once on her leather-clad bottom with the flat of his blade.

"Ye-owch!" Theodwyn yelped, again glad there was no one else to witness this pre-dawn training session. "Captain Glorfindel, that smarts!" She complained, aggrieved but not forgetting to call one of her favorite elven "uncles" a more formal title, since they were on the practice courts.

"Of course it does, Theodwyn-my-student." Glorfindel chided her, gesturing that she should arm herself again, "It's meant to teach a lesson. And you're lucky, as Eldarion would have gotten two."

"Stupid half-an-elf." Theodwyn muttered under her breath, and Glorfindel chuckled.

"Again, Thea-nin." He commanded. "If you work hard, I'll put money on you, tomorrow."

Taking up position again, and promising herself not to let Glorfindel's banter distract her, Thea asked, intrigued, "Bet on me to do what?"

Glorfindel grinned, and Theodwyn could well see why Erestor had told Mithiriel that his grandfather had once been called "Laughing Laure."

"I'll wager that you'll soon manage to put your almost-half-an-elf uncle on his almost-half-elf arse, in the dust of this very practice yard." Glorfindel promised her, "If you keep coming to practice an hour early, and staying an hour late, like you've been."

Theodwyn straightened, her determination renewed, "Please let's run the pattern again." She requested, "And try half-speed this time, instead of a third speed."

Glorfindel grinned at her again, this time proud rather than amused, although the amusement was there, too. "That's my girl." He praised, and attacked again, at just a bit slower than half-speed, coaching and encouraging as his blade met Theodwyn's.

This one, Glorfindel thought to himself of Faramir's eldest girl, this one had the spark. Yes, Estel's oldest grandchild would make quite a swordswoman, some day.

Chapter Text

Fourth Age Gondor, some time after FO. 34

“Haleth,” Éowyn tried again, “Just because you’ve earned something, because you can have it, doesn’t mean that you must take it. You have other choices.”

Haleth looked carefully at her mother, stirring her tea. “I love you, Nana. But I’m not you. What I planned for, dreamed for, even plotted for when I had to…it is still what I want. I know that I could choose something else, anything else,” Haleth added, stifling a chuckle at her mother’s well-known persistence, “and you and Adar would support me. I appreciate that. I do. But joining the Silent Service, as an officer now rather than just a trainee…it is my choice. It’s always been.”

Éowyn regrouped, “It’s no life. It is…there will be no certainty, my river otter. You will have to be always alert, always on your guard. Please, Haley, reconsider.”

Haleth’s gray gaze was unwavering, “But Nana, it’s the life I want!” She said, sure and soft. She had picked her words carefully; Éowyn was certain.

“Bah.” The white lady said, conceding the point with ill grace, “You are all your father’s children.”

Haleth’s eyes danced. “Not Elion.” She pointed out, “He’s your little healer. And he can’t be subtle to save his life.”

Ecthelion, called Elion, stuck his tongue out at his sister, then laughingly dodged her half-hearted smack. Unsubtle he might be, but ungraceful he was not.

Éowyn smiled at her youngest children, glad to have them both home.

And then Haleth left again, leaving her mother to remember her own wishes, when Éowyn had been so young…
Rohan in T.A. 3018, Meduseld in Edoras

“The wheat harvest was poor in the south.” The cook whispered to her mistress as they pretended to plan the week’s menu’s, “But well enough in the north. If you will, my Lady, I think we should have Lord Cynefrid ‘lose’ some of it on the way to Edoras, and misplace it on a wagon headed south. My…”

A whisper from the door, a faint sensation of cold, a momentary feeling of hopelessness, helplessness…the two women turned their attention in earnest to the menus.

“Gladwine,” Éowyn interrupted, just a bit too loud, “I think tonight’s roast could use garlic. Lots of garlic. It is said to be good for ridding a home of foul ghosts.”

Gladwine hid a satisfied smile, though her eyes remained fearful for her mistress, who taunted the fiend. Gríma, who held their King in thrall.

The whisper faded, a brush of a cloak against a door. Gone, and the kitchen was as it had been. But Éowyn had learned to distrust even the silence, so she waited until late that night.

Late, when those men who were feeding off Gríma’s largesse were drunk and happy, and those men who cursed their inability to aid their King were drunk and depressed. When Gríma himself was occupied, fondling a serving girl. He wanted Éowyn, but he did not yet have the support it would take to force her. He’d tried. They both bore the scars.

But Éowyn still stood against Gríma; carefully, though it did not seem so. Éowyn made herself seem his opposition. She flounced in frustration. Meanwhile, more quietly, she sent those men and women who were not ruined by depression, by Gríma’s dark spell, to Gladwine the cook, and Swidhun the stablemaster. Éowyn watched, she listened, and she marked. It was not easy for her; action rather than reflection was her nature. But being whatever she had to be, whatever she was needed to be, that was also her nature. Éowyn endured.

Late that night, she went to Gladwine to complain that there hadn’t been enough garlic. More quietly, she said, “Not Cynefrid.” Éowyn had seen him tonight, seen defeat in his eyes, “Ask Hild instead. Tell her half the surplus is to go to Aldburg in the Eastfold, and half to the Hornburg in Helm’s Deep. If the winter lingers, they will both see refugees.”

Gladwine nodded, and Éowyn paused. The din from the hall had shifted tone. It was time to to go to the hall, to speak loudly and scornfully of the days when Rohan’s men had fought valiantly against more than their wineskins. To show Gríma her face as his enemy, so that he continued to believe that her open disdain was all he had to fear. So that Gríma watched her, and not Gladwine and Hild, not Swidhund and Anhaga.

Éowyn strode toward the great Hall, wishing with all her might that things were different.

Instead all was whispers, and fear. A defeat by poisoning, by a great man’s falling asleep and failing to see his kingdom fall to darkness.

Not while Éowyn was alive. But she had to be careful; cautious; clever. All things she hated. She wanted to be bold and brave.

But Éowyn would be what she had to be, for Rohan to keep functioning. Long past when hope died, Éowyn would endure. But she wished….for a clear enemy, on a field of battle. One she could attack, and if fate was kind, even defeat.
Fourth Age Gondor, some time after FO. 34

Then the walkers had come, with the wizard who had been her husband’s friend, and Éowyn’s uncle was freed. The re-routed wheat fed them in the Hornburg, and Helm’s Deep held again.

After, Éowyn had made her own wish come true through deception. And through the good offices of men like Anhaga and Swidhund, who remembered how she had protected them all during Gríma’s reign. Remembered, and did not bother to mention to Éomer or Théoden-King that the White Lady had not remained in Rohan.

Then Éowyn saw battle, and and found that she longed for peace. But Haleth was different, and her battles would be different. A mother could only hope she would come home safe, every time.

“Don’t worry, Nana.” Elion reassured Éowyn with a gentle squeeze to her hand and a kiss to her cheek, “I packed her extra healing herbs and bandages, and Haley’s careful. She’ll be fine.”

Éowyn hugged him gratefully, and wondered when the youngest of her babies had grown so wise. “You’re becoming so tall, Elion-mine.” Éowyn observed in wonder, “Soon you will be at the academy, and the twins not long after you.” It made Éowyn feel old to think that Eldarion’s sons would soon enter training, though if fate was kind she would have at least twenty years, maybe even forty, before she was called to Mandos’ halls.

Elion straightened, and Éowyn saw for the first time a shade of herself in her youngest son, the cheerful, oft-indulged baby of their family.

“I’m not going to the academy.” Elion said firmly, “I want to keep learning healing from you and Uncle Elladan and Theli. I only have at most a century and a half to spend as a healer, and I don’t want to waste any time falling off of horses and learning to hit things with a glorified stick.”

“Ai, Bema.” Éowyn murmured, shocked. Mustering a smile for her determined, worried son, Éowyn said lightly, “Well, that should liven up our next visit to Minas Tirith,” then added firmly, “you should tell your Adar.”

Elion’s worried eyes decided Éowyn. She would fight for him, in this.

“Do you think Ada will understand?” Elion asked doubtfully. Faramir was a good listener, but at Elion’s age he’d already been several years at the academy, and even in peace time Faramir still spent part of every day with bow or sword.

“I think….” Éowyn paused, “I think he will want you to have choices that he did not have. Do not fear, Elion, we will work something out. We may all need to be patient with eachother, and willing to compromise,” Éowyn added firmly. Compromise wasn’t Elion’s best skill. “But we will figure it out. Do not fret, my dear little healer.”

After Faramir came home, and they had retired to the privacy of their bedchamber, Éowyn complained, “Your youngest daughter is impossible, and your youngest son is going to shock poor Aragorn when next they meet.”

Faramir’s eyes laughed as stole a kiss, “My youngest children, eh? Nothing to do with their mother, who was such a sweet and biddable lass, when she was young.”

Éowyn huffed a laugh as she relaxed against him, “I was what I had to be, until I could learn what I wished to be.”

“They’ll be fine, love.” Faramir reassured her, though she could tell he was worried about Haley and curious about Elion, “And Adar could use a shock. Our twin nephews have been visiting Dol Amroth, plaguing Alphros all this past month. I think Aragorn misses them.” Faramir massaged his wife’s shoulders, relaxing her further, as he added, “Besides, Ada survived me…I’m sure he can handle Elion’s latest notion, too. Whatever it is.”

Chapter Text

Rohan, A courtyard of Meduseld, in Edoras, FO. 12

Lothiriel Queen of Rohan, tired from being up most of the night working out how to settle a squabble amongst certain of her husband’s riders, closed her eyes. Maybe, her children would disappear if she wasn’t looking at them anymore, and reappear in a state which did not make her feel like yelling in a manner unbecoming to a fishwife, let alone a lady. She opened her eyes; no, no they were still there, smelling of duckweed. Elfwine and Théodred, covered in mud, and between them their cousin Haleth, who was only soaked and not grimy. Lothiriel sighed, and counted carefully to ten.

Her cousin Faramir, who seemed to handle extremely muddy children having ruined their most exquisite outfits with admirable aplomb, asked calmly, “The pond had no fish; so you have been saving live fish and eels from the barrels we brought from our voyage, which were intended to grace the dinner table. And you have been releasing these creatures, two or three a night, into the garden pond.”

Five year old Prince Elfwine nodded, pleased that someone seemed to be following his explanation. Éomer-King’s oldest son and heir was quite well aware that his mother was extremely displeased. He hoped his uncle might intercede on their behalf.

“Then Snowfeet was eating them, so we had to stop her.” Prince Théodred added in his piping child’s voice. Lothiriel’s younger son was three years old, and did everything his brother did.

“They said we had to stop her.” Haleth distinguished quietly, “I told them that Snowfeet was just being a cat, and cats eat fish, not biscuits.”

“Ah.” Said Faramir to his youngest daughter, “So you are only wet because…”

“Haleth helped me pull Theo out of the pond, after he went in too deep trying to make sure the fish we rescued from Snowfeet wasn’t hurt.” Elfwine explained apologetically, “I shouldn’t have let him. I’m sorry, Nana.”

Lothiriel sighed again, reminding herself that all three children were fine, just muddy, after their morning adventure. “Elfwine, Théodred, I’m really not sure what you were thinking, but you are never to go in the pond again without an adult beside you. Is that understood, my sons?”

Elfwine and Théodred nodded, and Lothiriel opened her arms to hug them, despite the fact that doing so muddied her gown beyond easy repair. Then it was Mistress Hild’s turn to sigh, and try to brush the mud off of Lothiriel’s gown, before giving it up as a bad job.

Éowyn laughed, free and happy. “Here, Lothiriel my sister,” she offered, taking off a gauzy wrap which she had only worn over her dress because it was a gift from Arwen, “We’ll add this as an overskirt, covering most of the mud.”

Haleth smiled, “Its very pretty, Aunt Liriel.”

“Who knows,” Faramir jested in gentle good humor, “You may even start a new fashion.”

Éomer, dressed formally and nodding in response to something his elven friend Lord Rúmil of East Lórien had suggested, stopped short as he saw his children and his youngest niece. “Horselords!” The King exclaimed, “What were the three of you doing swimming…in mud…now?”

“The pond needed fish, Faeder.” Elfwine explained.

“And Snowfeet was bad, and was trying to eat them.” Théodred added.

“Elfwine and Théodred think that they owe the fish protection, because we saved them.” Haleth tried, “and so they felt they had to stop Snowfeet from acting like a normal cat.”

Lothiriel patted her incredulous husband’s arm comfortingly. Squeezing her hand, he paused a few moments before saying, “Elfwine, Théodred, that could have been dangerous. You are not to go in the pond alone; or add fish to it or…”

“Eels.” Haleth helpfully supplied.

“Or eels, or rocks, or anything else, without an adult to supervise you. Is that clear?” Éomer asked sternly.

“Yes, Faeder.” The two boys chorused obediently, gray-blue eyes wide.

“Now.” Éomer shook his head, a slight smile appearing on his face, “I’m really not sure what to do with you three…” Éomer, Lothiriel, and the Prince and Lady of Ithilien were required at this morning’s ceremony honoring the bravery of several young Riders of Rohan.

Rúmil, his eyes twinkling with amusement, offered, “Faronglas can take care of seeing my small cousins bathed and fed and napped, if it meets with their parents’ approval.”

Faronglas shook his head, but his eyes also gleamed with good humor, “As your absence at this event would be a slight, my Lord, whereas mine would not, I could certainly do so, with Mistress Hild’s kind assistance.”

Their parents accepted this suggestion quickly and with gratitude, but Elfwine and Haleth exchanged a worried look. Mistress Hild didn’t think much of children getting muddy and wet when they were supposed to be keeping clean.

“No naps.” Théodred argued, before subsiding at Haleth and Elfwine’s hissed ‘no, Theo’s.’ Théodred frowned. He and his cousins had been fighting a battle against naps this month, and he didn’t understand why today was different.

“We’re already in trouble, nitwit.” Elfwine whispered, as they followed Captain Faronglas and Mistress Hild to the nursery.

“Don’t worry, littles.” Faronglas reassured them with a kind, amused smile. “You’re not the first younglings to decide that a pool just needed fish.”

Mistress Hild snorted. It was something a young Éowyn might have done. Well, not the fish so much as getting her fine clothing muddy.

“Who was, Faron?” Haleth asked, intrigued. “The first youngling to decide that a pond needed fish, I mean?”

Faronglas laughed, “Well, as to the very first, I’m not sure, although one of my Lady Galadriel’s cousins…no, two of them, once ate several of her pet fish at a formal garden party, long ago in the undying lands, long before the sun.”

“Ate them!” Théodred exclaimed, horrified.

Elfwine was equally appalled, “But elves don’t eat live fish….why did they do such a thing?”

Even Haleth was a bit upset, “Elves aren’t cats. Snowfeet was just doing what was natural…but that was mean of poor Lady Galadriel’s cousins.”

Faronglas chuckled again, as he helped the small Princes out of their filthy clothing, and ran them a bath. On the other side of a screen, Hild was running a bath for Haleth, who preferred to dress and undress herself. “Well, they were young and foolish and drunk, and their older brother made them quite, quite sorry that they had eaten Lady Galadriel’s fish. But that was a different story, and you should ask Lord Glorfindel or Lord Ingloren for it, as they were there and I was not. However, I was there when my young Lord Rúmil collected twenty-five bright, silvery minnows from a shade-dappled stream in Caras Galadhon, to keep in a bucket. I did not, however, know that he intended them to grace his Naneth Galadriel’s pool, in her garden.”

Haleth, who knew a little about the importance of Lady Galadriel’s garden from their elven cousins, gasped, “Cousin Rúmil didn’t!”

“Oh,” Faronglas said with a smile as he handed Théodred a wash cloth, “Yes, he most certainly did.”
Approximately Year 3 of the Third Age, Lady Galadriel’s Glade in Lothlorien

Lady Galadriel ran a gentle hand over the surface of the water, allowing her mind to move freely. Soon enough, images took shape. Unrest in a strange, foreign human town, one that looked Eastern. A familiar expression on a face amongst the strangers; and then another, arguing with the first. She frowned in worry, and almost stopped breathing, she so desperately hoped to see more. If their enemy was in the East…and if she could see the faces of those who were his allies…that might be information that could help her protect her people, and their allies.

Then, exotic carpets in a market; fine horses on a field. A small silvery fish amongst the horses….Galadriel blinked. A minnow had no business in a horse field. The fish stopped to nibble at a bubble, and Galadriel realized that the minnow was reflected in the mirror. It was real.

“Now how did you come to be here, small creature?” She asked the minnow rhetorically, as two others joined it. Galadriel was perplexed, as no fish usually swum in the stream which fed her pool.

Then she heard a splash and an elfling’s cry of surprise, and Galadriel raced with the quicksilver speed of a worried mother to the stream which fed her pool. Carefully, she fished out the youngest of her adopted sons.

“Rúmil,” the Lady of the Wood said in resigned, bemused surprise to the thirteen year old elfling.

Rúmil smiled at her sweetly, his wet hair plastered against his forehead, and his hands still clutching the wooden box that normally held his collection of animal figurines. The container was still half-full of water, and quite well-endowed with startled silver minnows.

‘Well,’ the Lady thought to herself, as she wrapped her dripping child in her own overrobe, ‘one mystery solved.’

“You, tithen ion-nin, are up entirely too late.” Galadriel scolded her son gently, “and it most certainly was not your fate to be out of bed tonight, so don’t even venture that excuse.”

“But, Nana Adriel,” the elfling protested aggrievedly, “I had to give you the fish for your pool tonight…foxes are nocturnal!”

Talan of Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, in Caras Galadhon, minutes later.

Celeborn was reading a book, waiting for his wife to return from her scrying, when he was surprised by having a rather damp Rúmil deposited in his lap.

“Apparently, the rabbit would have been eaten by the fox if there weren’t minnows in my garden pool for the fox to dine on instead.” His wife observed wryly.

Celeborn shook his head, torn between amusement, affection, worry and irritation, “I told you it was just a story, laes-nin, did I not? That it was an imaginary rabbit, and an imaginary fox?” He asked Rúmil intently.

Rúmil started to answer, pale blue eyes wide and innocent, before sneezing. Celeborn sighed, and kissed his young adopted son’s wet head. “Well, let’s get you clean and dry, elfling mine, and then we’ll have a little talk about why it’s against the rules to leave the talan by yourself, especially at night, no matter what woodland creatures are in peril.”

A short time later, Rúmil had been bathed, dried, dressed in a warm, borrowed night shirt, and lightly lectured and smacked by his adoptive Adar. Then he’d had a glass of warm milk, and was now safely and contentedly tucked into bed between his adoptive parents. It touched Celeborn’s heart to see his tiniest elfling smiling in his sleep, despite his sore little bottom.

Rúmil and Galadriel slept undisturbed through the rest of the night, but Celeborn awoke at one point during the night to three blond heads, one silver, one strawberry blond, and one the shade of cornsilk, peering into the room. “Rúmil’s fine here; go back to bed.” He told them, and they did.
Rohan, Royal Nursery in Meduseld, in Edoras, FO. 12, later that same day in the evening.

“And Lady Galadriel didn’t keep the fish, but she let Rúmil and his friends put them back into another stream in Caras Galadhon, so that they could still all be friends together.” Elfwine told his father, “at least that’s what Faronglas said.”

Éomer sat in his sons’ bed, cuddling them both. “Well, Rúmil’s fish were caught from the stream, with permission and the assistance of an adult.” The King of Rohan pointed out.

Théodred’s lip trembled, “Please, can we keep our fish? The ones that Snowfeet didn’t eat?”

“And our eels.” Added Elfwine.

“They’ll have babies.” Pointed out Haleth, “And then you can eat those.”

“Haley!” The two princes exclaimed, horrified.

Haleth thought explaining how, when one presented ideas to grown-ups, one had to always show them what benefits were in the suggestion, for them. But her Adar shook his head, so Haleth subsided.

Éomer chuckled, “Well, in order to accommodate fish, our pond is going to have to be expanded. Cousin Rúmil says that he and Faronglas could show us how it is to be done, if they had helpers…”

As the three children clamored their willingness to assist, Éomer held up a hand for silence, “It is very good of the three of you to volunteer, and I think that it is appropriate for you to help make a new home for the fish that you, ah, liberated. However,” the King’s face grew more stern, “stealing the fish,”

“And eels.” Added Elfwine, to make sure his father understood the full extent of their misdeeds.

“And eels,” Éomer added, trying very hard not to break into laughter at the poorly-hidden amusement on his brother-by-law’s face, “was very naughty. Those fish belonged to the cooks, to make for dinner for everyone, and they had to send out extra hunting parties in order to find more game to replace them.” And oh, had Éomer heard about the mystery of the missing fish, from Lothiriel and Éowyn, who had heard it from Gladwine the head Cook.

“We’re sorry, Faeder.” Elfwine apologized, “Its just that the pond needed fish.”

Éomer sighed, and continued his scold despite his son’s adorable, sad face, framed by chestnut curls. “My dear son, I know, but you can’t just take action without talking to me or your mother, or Hild, or some other adult. It would be like if I just decided to move our herds of horses without telling anybody. It would worry the Riders and the horsekeepers, and cause no end of trouble.”

“And none of the three of you are yet strong enough swimmers that you should have been past the shallowest part of the pond, for any reason.” Faramir added, his gentle gray eyes pinning each of the children intently.

“Are we in trouble, Ada?” Haleth asked breathily.

“Obviously,” muttered Éomer, before continuing in a more fatherly fashion, “For muddying your fine clothing and stealing, all three of you are to go to bed early every day this week. And you’ll help the cooks with their chores, for the rest of the time Haleth is visiting.”

The children nodded solemnly.

Éomer looked to his eldest son, and sighed. Théodred was truly too young to have known better, about the pond, but Elfwine should have been more responsible. Éomer opened his mouth to tell his heir that he’d earned a smacking, and Haleth interrupted, “Its not fair just to smack Elfwine. If you’re going to smack Elfwine, you should smack me, too. But not Theo.”

Elfwine, who didn’t want to be smacked, still appreciated the noble gesture. And he agreed, “Yeah. Theo’s too little.”

“I’m not too little!” Argued Theo, even though he also didn’t want to be smacked.

Faramir’s eyes said, ‘I told you they would say that; they’ve become close, these three,’ and Éomer sighed gruffly.

“Elfwine, Théodred, I will smack you both, but just a little smacking.” Éomer told his sons in a kind but very firm tone, “But if either of you ever do anything so dangerous again, I will spank you soundly, and your Nana may have something to say, as well.”

Wide-eyed, the Princes of Rohan nodded. Hating the task before him, their father gently moved Elfwine aside, and laid Théodred over his lap, lightly smacking the little boy’s bottom though his night shirt a handful of times. Théodred yelped in surprise, but didn’t wail as he had the one other time he’d been spanked, for dashing in front of a horse. Théodred was vaguely aware of his brother saying that he had been brave, and of Haleth getting a similar spanking from Uncle Faramir.

When Éomer gently righted Théodred, and cuddled him for a moment, Théodred had tears in his eyes, but mostly from having disappointed his Faeder, rather than from the mild sting in his bottom.

Then Éomer handed Théodred gently to Faramir, who was reassuring Haleth, but had room to hold Théodred on his lap, too. Haleth took his hand, and Théodred watched unhappily as his Faeder spanked Elfwine, just a little harder than he had Théodred. Elfwine also got three more smacks.

After the children had been comforted and tucked into bed, Elfwine asked worriedly, “Ada, do you still love us? Even though we stole the fish, and were naughty?”

“Of course I do, my beloved sons. I love you both like a pool loves fish.” Éomer answered seriously, stroking his sons’ soft curls again, before bidding them fair dreams.

Chapter Text

'Come on in, now, my love.' He said, not aloud, but with the twinkle in his gray eyes as he held a hand out to her, waist deep in the sun-warmed ripples of the creek near their children's home at Emyn Arnen. Hip-deep in the cool water, drips of water over the still-taut muscles of his bare chest, he might have been the young man she fell in love with, decades ago.

Arwen smiled at her husband, glad to have a moment when it was just the two of them. Even if she wasn't sure about getting into the water, just a few months after giving birth to a third child. Her body still felt odd and strange, and not...an object of desire.

A raised eyebrow from her love, and a sexually-charged, challenging gleam in his eyes, a tilt of his chin and half a nod.

Arwen's lips curved up. She could never resist a dare.

Aragorn chuckled in satisfied triumph, pulling Arwen in her light gown into his arms in the flowing water. Her lips met his, and she thought that perhaps Luthien's choice had been worth it, even just for this moment.

An hour or so later, floating gently in her husband's strong arms, Arwen gave him another kiss, and made herself get up, and walk towards the shore. "Faramir and Eowyn have had the entire tribe, plus Alphros and the littles, for long enough."

Aragorn gave her a dubious look, "Fara and Eowyn are perfectly capable. And what else are grown children for?"

Laughing, Arwen encouraged, "Yes, but we have guests coming tonight. I need to remind Eldarion and Alphros and Thea that not everyone loves finding lizards under the table."

Aragorn shook his head, suppressing an exasperated smile at the antics of his children and grandchildren. "Go on," He told his wife as he stretched, twisting his torso and making muscles ripple and old scars pull, "I'll be right behind you - I'm just going to swim a ways up the creek first, without being pounced by a little demanding that I pretend to be a sea monster and give rides. Again."

Arwen smiled at her husband, who was a good sport about that type of thing. As she stepped out of the water, her thin, wet dress clung to her every curve, and she was glad for the sun-warmed blanket awaiting her on the shore.

Normally, Arwen was very aware of her surroundings. She'd been trained by Glorfindel, and had grown up in the same household that boasted two of Middle Earth's premiere pranksters. But she was still recovering from Gilwen's birth, and her thoughts were scattered like bunnies released into a clover-filled field. So her first warning that she was being stalked was a slightly larger than expected ripple of water against her calf.

Then, "Smack!" came Aragorn's hand against her right bottom cheek, barely protected at all by the wet, nearly see-through gown and underthings. Whirling to face her husband with a blush on her face and one hand flying to her offended bottom, Arwen was struck by how young he looked as he grinned saucily at her. Oh, there were little lines by his eyes and smile lines around his mouth, and scars and wear...but the soul that gazed at her through well-loved gray eyes was ever youthful, ever renewed. Ever glad for her, and the life they'd built together.

"That was for making me have to dare you, to live a little." Aragorn teased. "Just be lucky for my restraint, 'else you would have a charmingly pink bottom and a becoming blush on your fair face through to dinner."

Arwen fought a laugh, putting her hands on her hips and giving him a mock-stern look, and loving the appreciation she saw in his eyes for the picture she made. "To spank me, you must first catch me," she challenged him, using higher ground to shove him into the faster moving current, as she darted the other way. Spluttering and then laughing, he gave chase.

It turned out that Faramir and Eowyn watched all of the children for several hours longer that lovely summer day. It also turned out that there were about twelve brightly colored lizards under the dinner table that evening, as Alphros, Eldarion, and Thea had figured out that they were extremely fond of vegetables. Mostly the lizards didn't bite, and Uncle Legolas's Adar, the most important guest, liked them just fine.

Chapter Text

Elessar Telcontar did not govern his Kingdoms only from finely appointed stone rooms in their capitals, and mostly, his heir was glad for it.

Today, however, as the torrential spring rains continued, Eldarion Telcontar would have rather been in Minas Tirith, with his lovely betrothed lady and his mother and sisters. Stifling a sneeze, Eldarion looked with some renewed interest around the Poros Fort he and his father (and their guards and the army company they rode with) had just entered. The fort had only recently been completed, and had seen rather a lot of action, given the brigands active in the Mountains of Shadow across the border, and the smuggling that went on along the route of the Poros river that flowed into the Anduin and from there, into the sea.

However, most intriguing of all to Eldarion was that the fort flew not only the flag of Gondor, and the flag of Ithilien, but also Eldarion's older brother's personal standard. He'd be glad to see Faramir, but for the White Company to still be here rather than further north, meant they must have run into trouble.

Aragorn gave his damp offspring a fond look as they dismounted, before addressing the Captain of the regiment, "Ah, Captain Mardil. Your new home is looking well."

"We're rather pleased with it, my King. Seeing a lot of action, and holding up well." The Captain reported proudly, but Eldarion could see he was a bit...worried, or...concerned, over something, as he led them towards the neat stone building.

"Good for you. We'll be here over the next few days, and I'd love to hear more about it. Captain-General Galdoron and my son your Prince have both been happy with your progress here, and that of your men." Aragorn praised.

The Captain relaxed slightly, then tensed again when his King asked, "Please ask Prince Faramir to attend on us at his earliest convenience. I would like to see him, and Captain Beregrond as well."

"Um." Captain Mardil paused, "Prince Faramir and Captain Beregrond went with some of my men, to assist a small company of traders from Taduin who were attacked in the mountains yesterday."

Eldarion winced, and Aragorn repressed a sigh, saying resignedly. "In the mountains, over the border. Of course they did. Well, let's get out of the rain, and then you can brief me on what my son and his company and your men have taken on. Perhaps we should send another company to support them."

A new, but familiar and much-loved voice commented from a map covered table in the bright dining hall, "Ada said that when you said that I was to tell you, 'kettle, pot,' Daerada." The Lady Theodwyn grinned at them, amusement in her gray eyes and a white sling around her left arm.

Eldarion grinned through his worry at his oldest niece, and Aragorn moved to carefully embrace Theodwyn. "Did he, now? My Adar wished for me more careful children, but I do suppose I deserve the ones I've got. What happened to you, guren?"

Theodwyn made a face, and Eldarion found his arms full of clean, muscular blond teenager, who smelled a bit of cleaning herbs. Hugging her back, he asked, "That bad, huh, Thea?"

"That stupid." Theodwyn countered, "I thought I'd wear my sleeveless mailshirt, since it was so hot yesterday...Ada told me to change, we argued about it, and I said I would. He got busy sorting out some equipment problems, and I forgot. Then I took a slash from a bandit's sword, when we rode out to cover the traders we could see riding hard for the border."

Aragorn gently lifted his granddaughter's chin, "Not a mistake you'll make again, eh, daeriel-nin?"

Theodwyn shook her head sadly, "No, Daerada. Not again. Bad enough I'm stuck here, but I probably won't be able to do much for several weeks, so I'll miss the rest of our patrol, effectively. So far as being in the action is concerned, anyway. Ada said I can still ride with them, though." Theodwyn added, hoping her grandfather wouldn't countermand that.

"Hmm." Aragorn replied thoughtfully, "We'll see, Thea. And once we're done here, I'll take a look at your arm myself, and we'll see if we can't cut down on the time until you're entirely fit again. Unless its paining you, in which case I'll look at it now."

Theodwyn shook her head, "Nay, the numbing salve is working. It's just a twinge - the healer here is good, but he's not you. I'd be glad to have you look at it, but you can finish with your duties first."

Eldarion admired Theodwyn's talent for gaining control over a situation, and turning an order into a request. Aragorn, from the smile he repressed, admired it too. But he just squeezed Thea's uninjured arm, and turned to discuss men and material with Captain Mardil. Eldarion and Theodwyn mostly listened, asking a question or venturing a comment occasionally, mostly when Aragorn subtly indicated such would be welcome.

When the last light of day was slipping from the sky, three riders came in wearing Faramir's colors. Theodwyn recognized them, "The youngest, and two transfers from the city guard." She murmured quietly to Eldarion.

The three reported that the bandits had retreated into the mountains, and that Faramir had found a local who knew the area well, and had taken his companies in pursuit.

Eldarion exchanged a look with Theodwyn, "Your Ada's in big trouble." He said under his breath, as Aragorn gently but thoroughly interrogated the messengers, tension obvious in his powerful frame and kind face to those who knew him as well as his son and granddaughter.

"He's Ada." Theodwyn countered with a grin, "Would it be spring if he and Daerada weren't arguing about something?"

Chapter Text

By midnight of the next night, the White Company had returned, successful, with an unharmed but slightly damp Faramir amongst them. Faramir's horses and men had all been fed, and spaces were found for them as well as the King's men in the now-crowded Poros Fort. Eldarion had made the sacrifice of sharing his small room with his niece Theodwyn, and sleeping on a cot so that she could have the bed. It was a bit of a sacrifice for Theodwyn as well, as she knew Eldarion would want to rhapsodize about his betrothed, and Thea had a limited tolerance for that sort of thing, even where she was fond of both of the parties involved (which, fortunately, she was, of both her uncle and his intended). Even the King of Men was sharing his room, with his oldest son whom he wanted a chance to question more closely.

"Hmm...and I think it was best, to turn the bandits over to Taduin for justice..." Faramir mumbled quietly, lying on his stomach on the bed in his father's room, completely naked except for a sheet pulled up just to his waist.

"It was good diplomacy, and politics at the least." Aragorn replied, thoroughly massaging his eldest son's tense back and shoulders. "And taking down the names of all of the bandits, and having Kasim and the others draw sketches of them, was a clever precaution. That way, if Captain Mardil's men arrest the same bandits, they will know to turn them over to Gondor for justice, and can explain why to Taduin."

"'S what I thought." Faramir slurred, exhaustion overcoming his worries of the day. Relaxing under his father's and healer's kind ministrations, he murmured, "Feels good, Ada, thanks. Shoulder doesn't even hurt anymore."

"Hmm, I thought it might be bothering you, difficult child, what with all the rain." Aragorn murmured, taking even greater care with Faramir's left shoulder. "I'm not thrilled that you didn't mention it to anyone, or that you were out in this. But I'm fair enough to acknowledge that your choices all seem to have been....reasonable, under the circumstances."

"Pot, kettle." Faramir murmured, with a wry half-smile. "You would have done the same thing. You would have sent 'Darion back with the messengers, as I would have Thea if she had been well. But you would have done the same thing."

"Hmm." Aragorn murmured thoughtfully, strong hands massaging lower on his son's back, "Mayhaps I would have. Certainly I would have, before I was King, and in my younger years. But I do not know the Mountains of Shadow as well as you do, nor have I your contacts there. However, even with all of the questions that you answered to my satisfaction, Faramir muin-nin, there was one that somehow didn't come up."

Faramir sighed, but didn't tense. "Yes. I led the attack on the bandit's camp myself, in our front line. Yes, I know...well, I would suspect, that we will have more than words about that, you and I."

Aragorn sighed, and brought his hand down once, firmly, on Faramir's bottom, covered only by the thin sheet.

"Owww, Ada." Aragorn's oldest son, a senior Captain of Gondor, the Prince of Ithilien, the Steward of Gondor, one of the most determined and toughest men Aragorn knew, whined like a ten year old.

Aragorn couldn't stop his own exasperated smile, at the whine. Probably Faramir's intention. Still, "You know better, ion-nin." Aragorn scolded.

"I know. I know. Beregrond was displeased as well, and I think Orohael would have snitched, had I not come clean." Faramir admitted, stretching and making a soft sound of contentment as Aragorn pulled a soft blanket over him.

"Good. That's what I pay Orohael for, after all." Aragorn replied lightly, dimming the lights and lying down in the bed beside his eldest child. "We'll discuss this matter further in the morning," he reminded Faramir, "for now, ion-muin-nin, sleep."

"Mmm. 'Kay. Love you, Ada...sorry worried you." Faramir mumbled, trailing off as sleep claimed him.

"I love you too, you reckless idiot." Aragorn replied, rather glad at times that his own Adar wasn't here to laugh at him, having children just like himself. Though Aragorn would cheerfully have put up with almost anything, if Elrond could have stayed longer, for him, and Arwen, and Eldarion, Melyanna, and Gilwen, and also for Aragorn's oldest child, the one who had never really been a child, and his children. "You would be so proud, Ada El. Of all of them." Aragorn murmured to the quiet room.

Faramir's sleep mumble of, "No cinnamon on my eggs, please," was the only answer, and so Aragorn smiled, and shook his head bemusedly, and quickly fell into a deep, true sleep. The King of Men had barely been able to catch a cat nap the previous night, so worried had he been. But tonight, his chicks were all safe, and all was well with the world.

Chapter Text

Sometimes Eowyn would stop listening to what Faramir said, and just revel in the sound of his voice. Walking beside him in the orchard they had planted together, just a stone's throw from the home where they had raised their children, Eowyn marveled at how different this was from the life she had pictured for herself as Theodred's teenage shield-maid. And how fine it was, though she missed her poor cousin still.

Faramir reached out and squeezed her hand as he spoke, and she let his deep, melodious voice wash around her. The sun was setting, turning the thousands of white petals that danced in the early spring breeze to palest pink. It was Eowyn's favorite time of year, the time of year when she had first met her husband, when the ring had been destroyed, and hope had blossomed at the same time as their new love. The season when they had been married, and the season when she had given birth to their last baby, their long-awaited fifth child and second son.

"And then he said that we should leave the southern-most three fields fallow, for this season..." Faramir paused, and reached out a calloused hand to tuck a wisp of blond hair away from his wife's face. Eowyn's wheat-gold tresses were liberally streaked with white. Ithilien's Rose of Rohan was nearing eighty years of age, and bore but a little Numenorean blood. The day was coming, not this year or the next but perhaps a mere dozen years hence, that Faramir would have to take this walk without her. Already Eowyn felt her age. She did not begrudge it, save that the aches and pains that came with her years made it more difficult to keep up with her loved ones.

"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you, oh-surefooted-mare-of-my heart?" Faramir teased, his lips curved into a loving smile. His red-gold hair, only lightly streaked with white, blew in the breeze. His gray eyes were amused, and his face only faintly lined. Faramir, at almost ninety years of age, was only accounted a man of middling years, given his strong Numenorean and elven heritage.

Eowyn's countenance, though still attractive, clearly showed smile lines, and finer lines around her eyes. But then Eowyn smiled back at her love, and years melted away from her face as she did so. "The southern fields to rest, and winter wheat in the northern-most land." She retorted, pulling her husband into her arms for a kiss. His lips met hers, and the kiss was better than the first ones they had shared, in their earliest springs together. Almost five decades of practice make perfect, or near so.

Faramir's arms wrapped around his wife as their kiss deepened, and all thoughts of land husbandry left his head. He was just beginning to wonder if they should move, either back to the house, or past the orchard into the sheltering old-growth trees. Some place where no young or not-so-young eyes would be offended or intrigued by the sight of the Prince of Ithilien and his lady in a passionate embrace.

Then they heard an aggrieved cry of "Theodred! That's not fair!"

The voice's two parents ceased their kiss, the mood ruined.

"Ecthelion." Faramir observed with a sigh, shaking his head. He set off at a rapid, though not panicked, pace in the direction of the field used for the practice of archery.

Eowyn grinned at her husband, and kept pace. She wasn't worried that Faramir couldn't handle the situation, but she always enjoyed seeing her younger nephew, her lost cousin's namesake. Even when he was yelling at her younger son. Perhaps because her nephew so much resembled the first Theodred she had known.

The leaves barely fluttered, not even a twig snapped, and Legolas was beside them. At his heels was Cellillien Veasseniel, one of the two warrior ellith that Theodwyn teased were 'Legolas's devastatingly attractive bodyguards.' Legolas had once been wont to tease back that Theodwyn and Eowyn were Faramir's devastatingly attractive bodyguards. But now Theodwyn lived far away with her own husband, and Eowyn used her blade less frequently.

Legolas's grey-green eyes, the shade of the soft moss that grew by the hidden pools in Ithilien's sheltered glens, met Faramir's and Eowyn's concerned gaze. Their friend and neighbor assured them, "Elion is fine."

Faramir paused, "Are you sure? He sounded...aggrieved." Faramir's youngest son was the most even-tempered of his offspring, excepting perhaps Haleth the spy-turned-Empress.

Cellillien shook her head with an exasperated smile. Legolas, who was more and more often these days a bit quiet, explained with a rueful half-smile, "Your Ecthelion fetched the arrow that Theodwyn lost during her first archery lesson, many decades ago."

Eowyn's eyes flew to the crook of a tall oak tree that Legolas and Gimli had together schemed to save when the ground was cleared for building the manor house, administrative center, and outbuildings of Emyn Arnen. The arrow which had bisected a high branch for years longer than Ecthelion had been alive was now missing.

"He..." Faramir took a deep breath to calm his racing heart, "Young, reckless idiot."

"But a good climber." Eowyn noted, humor beginning to penetrate the terrified numbness, "He must take after you, my love."

Faramir glowered as Legolas laughed, and commented, "Aye, my gwador Aragorn will no doubt agree, when I tell him of this."

Taking a deep breath, Faramir asked with returning good humor, "I take it Elion returned to the ground safely, and that Theodred has taken him off to explain why that arrow should best have stayed where it was?"

At that moment, Theodred re-emerged from the trees, an arm around the slender shoulders of the chastened teenager Ecthelion.

Ecthelion blushed to see his parents, "Ah...it was a dare..." He mumbled, guessing that Legolas and Cellillien, who'd also been at the archery field, would have filled their friends and neighbors in on the excitement.

Faramir raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

Eowyn laughed. "Well, if it was a dare, then of course you had to risk your life. If you hadn't, someone might have called you a coward, and then you would have melted."

Ecthelion blushed and apologized, "Cousin Theodred already told me how foolish it was. I am sorry." Giving his mother and father his best puppy dog's eyes, Ecthelion decided he wasn't too proud to rub his sore bottom in an attempt to look pathetic and well-enough lessoned that his father wouldn't feel that Ecthelion needed a second spanking this day. Cousin Theodred's hand had been firm enough, in Ecthelion's opinion.

Legolas put a brotherly arm around Faramir, telling Ecthelion with a grin, "Now, Elion, don't you fret. Your Adar knows all about doing stupid, dangerous things for some nebulous reason such as "honor.'"

Elion dared a small grin, as it was Faramir's turn to blush and sigh. Eowyn's silvery laugh floated through the trees on the early-evening breeze.

"It was one duel," Faramir reprimanded Legolas quietly, "and it was..." Faramir broke off, and then confessed, "Ok, that was rather stupid, in retrospect."

Eowyn snorted delicately. She'd told her husband it was stupid, at the time. Well, her betrothed. He hadn't been her husband, yet.

Legolas shook Faramir gently, "Ai, tithen gwador, I was not just thinking of the duel. I was thinking of the afternoon, not so long ago, when you and I nearly came to blows because you would not tell my dear iaur gwador that he was your father, nor accept a loan from him to clear those fields so that your people would not go hungry during the winter. Or when you decided to test whether you were Aragorn's son by risking your life. Or..."

Legolas could obviously have continued, but Faramir, laughing, admitted, "Allright. I may never have climbed up a tree to retrieve an arrow on a dare, but I, too, made many mistakes. Ecthelion, as Theodred has already dealt with this matter, we will consider it closed."

Ecthelion brightened, and said softly, "Thanks, Adar."

"Thank your Uncle Legolas." Faramir recommended dryly, but his gray-eyed gaze on his youngest son was fond. And when Legolas loosed Faramir, chuckling at Ecthelion's fervent, "Thank you, Uncle Las!," Faramir's arm collecting Ecthelion for a hug was gentle.

Legolas lingered behind as Faramir and Eowyn and the younger men headed towards the house.

"What's wrong, tithen-las?" Cellillien asked her Prince and friend.

Legolas, startled, immediately replied, "Nothing, Celli." Wincing, as he was sure that would not go over well with the elleth who was almost like another older sister to him, Legolas offered, "It was just a shock, seeing Ecthelion up that high in the tree."

Cellillien kicked her Prince, none too gently. While Legolas was yelping and hopping on one foot, she lightly shoved him to the ground. "Try again, Legolas-nin." Cellillien encouraged.

Legolas, rubbing his shin, made a face, "How do you always know?"

"Not always." Cellilien countered, pushing back a lock of chestnut hair and dropping to sit beside Legolas. "But I've known you a long time. I got to hold you the first day you were born, since I was in your parents' apartments that day, keeping your sister company. When you were little, Eryntheliel and I dressed you up like a doll yourself. In our games you were the handsome prince who would marry the loveliest of our dollies."

Legolas chuckled, "I vaguely remember that. Thalion and Thandrin came in, and made you two stop. I don't think I minded it though, since I recall you both bribed me with biscuits."

Cellillien grinned back at him, "We did. And also with trips to the stables and the kennels, and out-of-doors. You were our precious elfling, Legolas, and as a little, you were eminently bribeable." Her smile fading, Cellillien asked, concern for Legolas clear in her voice, "So I can tell that something is eating at you, now. I wish that you would not insist on bearing the burden of whatever-it-is, alone."

Legolas sighed deeply, "Eowyn is...so many of them are...I won't have them for much longer, Celli. Not Aragorn or even Arwen. And not Theli, either." Legolas blinked away tears, "Mortals...they're all like so many blossoms in the wind." Legolas waved his hand at the white petals blowing around them, falling to the ground and being trod under foot.

Cellillien swallowed, suddenly wishing that Thalion was here, or even better, Thranduil. She felt a little out of her depth. "Ah.." She said softly, putting an arm around Legolas, and hoping it was enough that she was there, and cared for him, and sorrowed with him, "I am sorry, Legolas. I have come to love them, too. I will miss them, too."

Legolas laughed lightly, grief and joy mingled, "Thank you, Celli. I..." Legolas trailed off, "We should go join them. These early days of spring, when the blossoms blow, are beautiful. And not to be missed."

Cellillien let her Prince help her to her feet, and accompanied him. Absently, she picked up the arrow that Ecthelion had retrieved at such peril, and handed it to him when they caught up with the Prince's party in the orchard.

"What will you do with that, Elion?" Theodred asked, fondness for his cousin overwhelming his earlier furious worry at Ecthelion's antics.

Ecthelion grinned, resembling in that moment a different Theodred, who was no longer with them. "I'm going to send it to Theodwyn, in Rhun." He jested.

Faramir, Eowyn, and Theodred all laughed, but Legolas laughed the most merrily of all. He was determined not to waste the days he had left with these friends.

Chapter Text

*I think I hate him,* Faramir the toddler said with his eyes. He rarely if ever spoke aloud.

"You do not." Finduilas told him, not stern but sad. "Look into his eyes, when he avoids yours."

So Faramir did, because his mother gave him good advice.

The next time the small child came to visit his mother in the Hall of Healing, he told her, *You are right. He is too sad to hate.*

"So are we all, my little love." Finduilas assured him, "At some level, so are we all."

Chapter Text

Plains of Rohan, Year 17 of the Fourth Age

The family of the Prince of Ithilien traveled frequently. Eowyn and Faramir's children knew the well-traveled road between Minas Tirith and Emyn Arnen well enough to navigate it in their sleep. The younger daughters, Mithiriel and Haleth, knew the road from Minas Tirith to Annuminas nearly as well, for they had traveled it frequently in the company of their paternal grandparents, the King and Queen of Gondor and Arnor. Elboron, by then, was often at the academy, and then posted to one unit or another within Gondor, though as Eldarion took on more responsibilities in the north kingdom, Elboron was frequently by his side.

Every year in the warm season, the children of Faramir and Eowyn traveled to Dol Amroth, where their Great-Uncle ruled, to visit with their cousins. Their young Uncle the Crown Prince Eldarion frequently went with them, as did his sisters the Princesses Melyanna and Gilwen. They all grew to love the waves, and the thriving cosmopolitan port city. Then, as the summer turned to fall, they returned to Emyn Arnen and Minas Tirith, but the long way, through Rohan. They would visit with Eomer-King their uncle and Lothiriel-Queen, their aunt by marriage and their Father's cousin.

Elboron's home, later in his life, would be wherever his family was. That would be true for Theodwyn, as well. Mithiriel loved Imladris the best, though she would have lived wherever her husband desired to bide, such was the sacrifice she felt he had made in marrying her. Ecthelion the youngest (called Elion), would do his best to keep an eye on all of his siblings during their later life. And Haleth, like her eldest sister, would find love and a life far away from her beloved childhood haunts. But something of Haleth's soul would always love the whispering song of the grassy plains of Rohan, best of all the places of Arda.

The fire shone warm against the gathering darkness, and the youngest of the King's grandchildren, aged eight, leaned against her mother's side.

"The night air smells good, Nana." Haleth said sleepily. "Like you."

Eowyn smiled, and kissed her daughter's soft blond head. "Summer's last flowers, and sun-warmed grass. 'Tis one of my favorite scents, too."

Haleth smiled back, and then stiffened as she saw something change, on the darkening horizon. "Rider coming in fast, Nana."

Eowyn saw it scant seconds later, and called to her husband and their guards, "Faramir, Orohael? Were we expecting anyone?"

"Not that I know of." Faramir said softly, lifting his bow. Haleth scooted behind Orohael, touching her dagger hilt to make sure it was where it should be, and lifting her own child's bow.

A few moments later her parents relaxed, but Haleth waited to be told to put down her weapons. Soon, the rider was close enough to see that he wore the symbols of a rider of Rohan, though she thought her parents had recognized him from even further off.

"Barden." Eowyn's soft voice greeted the newcomer, evidently a Rider of Rohan.

"My Lady." The Rider greeted, accepting a skin of water from Faramir, "Prince Faramir. Sorry to bother you when you're on your way back to Gondor, but we lost one of our trainees, tonight. He told his fellows he was off to track a rabbit for the stew pot, but he's late getting back, and he's town-bred. Doesn't know the plains well enough."

Eowyn's expression had grown worried during that explanation, and so had little Haleth's. Well she remembered how easy it was to get lost on the featureless plains of Rohan, if you didn't know them well....

Approximately the same place, four years earlier

Four year old Haleth frowned intently at the grasshopper, then grinned delightedly as it took off again. Great, great leaps the large insect made, and the littlest Lady of Ithilien followed it carefully. Further and further into the long grasses, nearly as high as her shoulders, Haleth followed the grasshopper. Finally, it made one more leap, and there wasn't enough light for the sharp-eyed little girl to see where it had gotten to. Haleth looked up and saw the moon rather than the sun, and knew, knew, she was in trouble. Not get scolded trouble, not even get yelled at and smacked trouble, but real trouble. Might be lost forever, trouble.

She'd been warned not to go far from the camp; they all had. Swallowing to combat her sudden dry mouth, Haleth looked around, seeing only waving grass as far as her eyes could see. At that moment, she'd be thrilled to see her Nana or Ada, or Uncle Dari or Thea, even if they were scolding her. Or even Orohael or one of the guards or Calasilas.

Thinking of her Ada and Nana made Haleth think of what they'd told Elboron and Eldarion and Thea, about what to do if they got lost on one of their rambles.

"When you realize that you don't know where you are," Haleth could hear her Ada's calm, reassuring voice say, "retrace your steps if you're absolutely sure of them, and maybe that will help you find your way. But if re-tracing doesn't get you anywhere, STAY PUT."

Haleth nodded firmly, and followed the path where she had trampled the grass down. When she got to the point where she couldn't tell where she'd come from, she sighed and sat down for a rest. Her bright red hair ribbon caught her attention, and Haleth grinned. Then she pulled grasses into her lap, and weaved the stiff, sweet-smelling green stalks together until she had a long, braided staff of grass twice as tall as her own frame. To the top of that, she tied her bright ribbon, and held it over her head, hoping for the best.

Soon enough, but not before most of the stars had come out, little Haleth heard the pounding of hooves, and looked up with a relieved smile as her Ada and her uncle 'Darion rode up, in company with Orohael and several others.

"I thought I was lost forever." Haleth told her father as he swept her into his strong arms, and gently settled her on his saddle before him.

"Hmm." Faramir said quietly, but the joy and relief in his eyes was palpable, to those who knew him well. "I was a bit worried about that myself, but look what a clever girl you were, with your red signal ribbon."

"If a soft-headed idiot for wandering off in the first place." The Crown-Prince chided his youngest niece, "What were you thinking, Haley?"

Haleth hadn't been thinking; she'd been following the grasshopper to better admire his great jumps. And she would have just told Ada that, since he wasn't a lecturer. But she didn't want to listen to a lecture from Eldarion, who tended to be scoldy when worried, just like Daerada who was his Ada. So Haleth said, "I was practicing getting lost, Eldarion, what were you doing?"

Faramir stifled a laugh as Eldarion gave Haleth a look.

"Ah." Haleth added, before Eldarion could muster a response to that, "You were practicing how to sound just as stuffy and scoldy as your Ada."

Eldarion said something under his breath which made Faramir shake his head reprovingly as Haleth relaxed against him, and then Eldarion retorted, "Haley, 'scoldy,' isn't even a word."

"Hmm." She murmured tiredly, "Now you're practicing being Mithiriel."

"Too true." Faramir agreed, stifling another chuckle.

Eldarion muttered something under his breath that had Faramir object quietly but firmly, "Muindor-laes!," and then Haleth fell asleep, and the next thing she knew, she was being pulled into her Nana's worried arms.

"Ai, Haley, never, ever, wander off like that again! Not here! There are no trees or riverlets or glades as landmarks here, you foolish girl!" Eowyn scolded fiercely, holding Haleth tightly against her.

"I know, Nana. I'm sorry....I just wasn't thinking...there was this cricket...I think I may hate crickets." Haleth babbled, apology and relief and apprehension and love, all mingled in her tone.

Eowyn was startled into a laugh despite her worry, "It wasn't the cricket's fault, my heart, and I suppose I can't say too much, really...when I was your age I think it was a bunny..."

Haleth brightened a bit, "There are bunnies? Do you think we might see one?"

Faramir shook his head as he ushered his wife and youngest daughter into their tent, "Well, we can look tomorrow morning, iel-nin. It will distract you from your discomfort, if nothing else."

Haleth sighed, but was unsurprised to have that unpleasant suspicion confirmed. That night, she slept in her mother's arms, as Eowyn was unwilling to let go of her. Before they went to sleep, Theodwyn and Elboron had hugged her tightly as well, though both had also told her again what a silly girl she'd been, to go off a wandering alone into the whispering plains of Rohan.

And Haleth's Nana said the same thing again the next morning, and Haleth, laid over Nana's lap with her bottom bared, and Nana's strong hand landing smack after smack, listened well. It was indeed an uncomfortable ride for Haleth that morning, though Nana and Ada and her sibs and Uncle all helped her look for bunnies. And they even saw a few, though mostly just their white, cottony tails as they hopped further and further away from the humans on their horses. Haleth envied the bunnies their white tails, but felt no urge to follow them. At least not without the company of an adult or two who knew the plains well.

Plains of Rohan, Year 17 of the Fourth Age

Now Haleth helped her parents pack their saddle bags, and then found herself keeping a sharp look-out, riding behind her mother, as they helped to search for the missing rider. Their remount followed behind them, and Haleth saw, in the far distance...

"Nana...there, a spot where the grass isn't."

Eowyn looked, and called, "Ansley!"

A young voice called back, "Thank Bema! I'm here! Who calls?"

Eowyn grinned in relief, and Haleth grinned back.

"Eowyn of Ithilien, late of Rohan!" The White Lady called, "And will Rider Barden ever be happy to have you back!"

The sun-burnt young rider-trainee who leaped gracefully onto their remount smiled gratefully, "Well, he'll be glad enough to give me a tongue lashing, at least! Some rider-trainee I am, getting lost going after a rabbit!"

Haleth gave him a sympathetic smile, knowing from experience that a young warrior-in-training, who looked to be in his mid-to-late teens, would not appreciate having a younger child tell him he was probably in for more than just a tongue-lashing.

Eowyn chuckled, still relieved to have found the missing youth, "Well, it was foolish of you, young Ansley. But it happens to the best of us..." Eowyn shared another smile with her daughter, and let Haleth use the horn to call that the missing had been found.

When they got back to camp, the Rider Barden did indeed give his missing trainee a tongue-lashing. Though he pulled the youth into a rough but affectionate embrace, and ruffled his hair as an older brother might a younger, first.

Then Faramir suggested that they all go practice reading the stars, so they went off together, with Eowyn, and several Riders, who knew the grasslands well, leaving Barden and Ansley to mind the camp. And by the time they got back, Ansley was standing near the fire, eating one of the rabbits whom he'd followed so heedlessly hours earlier, that Barden had expertly roasted. From how stiffly Ansley stood, and how careful he was to avoid sitting, Haleth was quite sure the rabbit wasn't the only thing that had been roasted.

Haleth accepted some rabbit and roasted fruit and vegetables, and pondered how to help the poor, sore young rider. Looking around, she wished that one of her cousins were there, or her brother or Uncle. Finally, she settled on her Adar as her best option.

"Maybe you should give this to Ansley." Haleth suggested, holding out a small pot of salve.

Faramir chuckled, smiling back at his compassionate child, "Maybe I should, hmm?"

Haleth nodded. "He'd be embarrassed, if I offered."

"Tactful as always, little otter." Faramir praised, stroking his daughter's tawny blond braids. "Allright, then."

And when they parted company from Barden and Ansley and the other riders the next morning, Haleth noted with approval that Ansley sat his horse with almost the grace of yesterday afternoon. And that he gave her Adar an appreciative look, in parting. Haleth herself he gave a wilted flower, a rare blue-gray bloom that he'd found during his nearly disastrous wanderings of the night before.

"Thank you." Haleth said with a smile, "Perhaps the seeds will grow in Ithilien. We don't have any flowers exactly like this, there."

"It matches your eyes, Lady Haleth." Ansley replied with a cheerful, respectful smile, "And if it does not grow in Ithilien, you'll just have to return to Rohan frequently, so that we have the joy of your company."

"Perhaps you should come to Gondor, Ansley who likes towns, and has never lost his way amongst people." Faramir countered thoughtfully.

"Ah, Prince Faramir." Barden chided with a smile, "Didn't Eomer-King make you promise not to poach anymore Riders for Gondor's armies, and his sister not to take any more of our finest stock for her stables? At least not this season?"

Eowyn and Faramir laughed, but Haleth remembered Ansley. And when he came to train with Dervorin and her father some years later, she and her mother showed him the glades of Ithilien, where gray-blue flowers bloomed, all grown from the one he'd given her, long ago on the plains of Rohan.

Chapter Text

In some ways, she had been alone for almost all of her life.

Not when her mother and grandmother had been alive. Spirited Theodwyn and Morwen Steelsheen had understood Eowyn, and loved her, always.

Then they were gone, and she and Eomer went to live with their uncle, Theoden King. Uncle Theoden and Theodric and her brother all loved her, but they never understood her. She was a lady of royal blood, but she longed for their lives. Sword in hand, instead of the infernal waiting and curtsying.

Finally, because he loved her, and respected her, though he still did not understand her, Theodric said she could be his shieldmaiden. And Eowyn loved her cousin for that, even though her uncle would not permit such a dangerous life for his only living niece.

Then there was Grima, and she was alone, though she had friends and allies. For she alone had the authority, the right, to go behind the King's back, and keep her pretty neck once he came back to himself.

Which he did, when the Wizard Gandalf came, with his strange and wonderful companions. Too late, oh too late, for poor Theodric. But in time, if only just, for Rohan.

She fell in love with them, and the hope they brought to a hopeless hour. Well, mostly with Aragorn, who was human, and sad, and burdened by something that set him apart so that he seemed alone, too. Only he wasn't, and she hated herself for his kindness when he gently told her that he could not be hers.

Then she rode to war, because she couldn't stay, again, and be true to herself. Staying, she would have lost herself forever. She didn't go seeking death, but she wouldn't have stood aside to save herself. She was a warrior, and young, and desperately grieving. And alone.

But she wasn't alone when she slew the monster, nor even through all of her charade. That there was anything left of Eowyn to save, she always thought she owed as much to Merry's bravery and kindness as to Aragorn's healing, or Imrahil's eagle eye.

Though alive, she was wounded, in body and spirit. The army left her behind to march to the Black Gate, and she was alone again. So alone that she would have almost rather have been dead.

Until the day she realized that the quiet, grieving new Steward of Gondor was lonely, too. And from that day, she was Eowyn and he was Faramir, and they were never alone when they were together.

Things were not always easy, between them. Their marriage, their love, worked, even flourished, because they worked hard at it. They respected each other's scars and hurts, among other things. They respected one another's ghosts, and even if they wanted to help lay them to rest, they waited to be asked. Or at least until there was no choice. Because each knew what it was, to be haunted by loss and pain.

That was why Eowyn had never asked, about the trips to Harad. If she had to do it again, she still wouldn't of. Between Aragorn and Faramir, she trusted Faramir, because he was hers, and she loved him, and she knew him.

But oh, was she glad that he came home to her, home after six months disappeared, and believed dead. Even if he hadn't, having known him, she would never again have been as alone as she once had been. Great love has that power, even when the lover has gone beyond reach of mortal hands, all the way to Mandos' halls.

But oh, was Eowyn's life with Faramir incomparably more wonderful than life without him. He was her greatest blessing, he and the five children they had together. And Eowyn would have given up anything to have ended up with him. Because, in the end, shieldmaiden or healer or mother, a woman is who she makes of herself. And Eowyn knew that she was the best of herself, loving Faramir, and growing and learning beside him for the rest of their lives. She would have chosen him, every time.

Chapter Text

Alphros walked first through the cave, afraid of nothing.

Eldarion walked behind his older brother Faramir's young cousin, who was over a year the Crown Prince's elder. Eldarion held the lantern.

Theodwyn walked almost on Eldarion's heels, jostling him. She wanted to be first.

Elboron came tentatively behind, scared but wanting to keep up with his sister and uncle and cousin.

Later that day, after several wrong turns and a rescue party, the four children lined up in front of Faramir's desk.

"We were explorers. You can't 'just stay in the glen as you were told,' and still be a good explorer." Alphros explained, not the least bit intimidated.

Eldarion added, "You got lost in that cave once, Fara, looking for Lady Mithrellas."

Taking a deep breath, Faramir raised an eyebrow at his own children.

"Eldarion was going." Theodwyn said, and there really was no need for further explanation.

Faramir looked to his wife, and commented quietly, "I think every time Imrahil, Elphir and Aliisa send Alphros to us, something like this happens, and then I feel that I can hear their laughter from Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith."

Not looking up from bandaging a cut on one of Elboron's hands, Eowyn offered, "Maybe Ada Aragorn would like to take them all camping."

Alphros brightened, "That would be good. He hasn't wanted to, since the sheep incident."

Eowyn, who got some joy out of Aragorn's misery, smiled cheerfully back at Alphros, "Well, maybe in a week after you're all done being grounded, and helping me at the healers for two hours every afternoon."

Faramir had to fight a feeling of deja vu. It was still odd sometimes, being on the other side of the desk.

Chapter Text

This hallway at Emyn Arnen had forty-three steps. Eldarion knew them all, and he hummed as he walked.

Eldarion's son and heir was not soothed, and continued to cry, a thin, mewling sound. Both of Eldarion's twin sons were sick, with colds. His wife Jalila had caught the cold from their sons, and she was resting. This was not how Eldarion had planned to spend his leave from the army, but to shirk from his children's care was unthinkable.

"Here," Glorfindel, his brother's guest, commanded, "Let me see to him while Eowyn has the other. You should rest."

Eldarion surrendered his son, because he was exhausted, and knew it was the course of greater prudence. But he couldn't stop himself from accusing Glorfindel, "Go ahead and say it. You think I am too young, too."

"Did I say that, pen-neth?" Glorfindel asked Eldarion in gentle rebuke, as he hummed a lullaby to the baby that had Elros quieting, at long last.

"You're all thinking it." Eldarion said, pushed past politeness by frustration, and worry. And exhaustion.

"Some might be." Glorfindel agreed, "But I do not actually think you are too young. You are young, but you are human. Or mostly human. It is different, for you. None of your family would say that you are too young, 'Darion. And I suspect that is not what has you so upset."

Eldarion made a face. It wasn't. "What if the Lords of Gondor are right, and I've hurt...my children, and their children, by marrying the woman I love?" What if Jalila's so-called "thinner blood," made it so that their children would die from some unnamed illness? Not this illness, as the twins seemed to be recovering, but some other fever or chill, the kind that Eldarion, as Aragorn's son and Arwen's, was more or less immune to.

Glorfindel rolled his eyes. "Even elflings get colds, Eldarion. And the people you rule are more than just those of Numenorean ancestry. Understanding the fears they face, in regard of their children's health, will help you and your heirs to be greater Kings. Gilraen's bloodline was not so strongly of Numenor as Arathorn's, and many disapproved of his choice, wedding her, for that. But 'twas Gilraen's subtlety and patience and endurance that your father inherited, which helped him to win the war against Sauron. I doubt that not at all."

Eldarion nodded, equilibrium restored. These fears were born of exhaustion more than sense, and it was time to put them and him to bed.

"Now, go to sleep, guren." Glorfindel urged the Crown-Prince, just 26 years old.

Eldarion obeyed, wrapping his sleeping wife in his arms, and hoping that the next day would be better.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, the nightmares and memories would hit him hard, and there was nothing to do but get up, and find a brightly lit place to wait until morning returned.

It was worst, in the days a few months after the war ended, when the fact that he had survived first hit him.

And it was bad again, in later years, when he returned from a mission gone bad, or from a patrol that had turned into a skirmish.

Safe in his bed, his children sleeping in their rooms nearby, he would be unable to sleep. To rest. To even remain in the dark near another breathing body.

His beautiful, lovely wife was the world's furthest thing from a creature of darkness or an enemy, but some part of his subconscious didn't know that, and it wouldn't let him relax.

Somehow, his father - Aragorn, Elessar, the King, always knew. Even when he was still "my King," before he was even Aragorn.

Faramir would look up from a balcony of the King's House, the one angled to see the dawn the earliest, and find himself no longer alone.

Aragorn would give him a gentle smile, a fond nod. And they'd wait.

The night always ended.

Chapter Text

"Are you sure that...thing...is safe?" Aragorn asked his oldest son Faramir worriedly, as he eyed the modified pack Faramir wore on his back.

The pack was filled with one year old Elboron, Aragorn's first grandson. Elboron himself was gurgling with delight, his little hands wound in Faramir's red-gold hair, and his little feet, clad in Eldarion's out-grown boots, kicking Faramir's back, as he ordered, "Go, Da! Go!"

Faramir chuckled, gently grabbing one little foot to still it. "Ada will go soon, El-nin. Just as soon as he's done talking to Daerada."

"Go NOW." Theodwyn ordered, stamping one foot. She stood to Faramir's right, holding Lord Dervorin's left hand.

Eldarion hid a grin. He knew that Ada had a hard time saying no to Thea, but she wasn't supposed to ask like that. No one knew where Thea had gotten stamping her feet...neither Faramir nor Eowyn had ever did that, not that Eldarion had ever seen. Because Eldarion didn't want to miss out on their hike up Mount Mindolluin, he nudged Thea, and told her, "You say, 'I want to go now, please.'"

Because saying 'please' wouldn't get them out of this courtyard right away, which might prompt a Thea tantrum, Dervorin gently picked Theodwyn up, and whirled her around the courtyard. Eldarion, distracted, followed, asking for his turn, which Dev obliged, putting Theodwyn down to whirl the Crown Prince around in a circle.

Faramir smiled at their antics, before reassuring his concerned father, "It's more than safe enough, Aragorn. Elladan tells me that mountain folk have used similar contraptions for carrying their wee ones for thousands of years, and Thea was never so much as bruised when we carried her all over Ithilien in this one. More, when I was a young ranger, I carried eggs in packs not much different from this one, at a run over rough terrain, without breaking a single one."

Aragorn had to smile at that, "Eggs from the farms which didn't exist."

Faramir's grey eyes twinkled merrily, "Aye, eggs from "wild" chickens. Everyone knows that after the Council said to abandon Ithilien, all of the people left."

Dervorin, whirling by with Thea in one arm and Eldarion in the other, interjected, "There are no secret farms in Ithilien!," which made his best friend and the King both laugh a bit.

Elboron's blue eyes were less amused, as he didn't get the joke, and really wanted to get moving. "Da, go, pls!" The one year old pleaded.

"Oh, do stop fussing, Ada Aragorn, they will be fine. And we should let them go whilst all three children are still in a good mood." Eowyn complained, as her husband winced. Faramir had been trying to avoid using the word "fussing" as a description of the King's behavior. It seemed..unkingly, or at least discourteous. But Eowyn was nearly at term with their third child, and poor temper on her behalf could be explained by that.

"True enough," Aragorn conceded, though his eyebrows had raised at the term "fussing."

Soon enough, Aragorn's sons, grandchildren, Lord Dervorin, and their guards had left for their excursion, Eowyn had gone to nap with Arwen as company, and Aragorn was left with the companionship of Legolas, whom the King thought was probably too amused to be sympathetic. But Aragorn tried anyway.

"I used to be braver, before I had children." The King complained.

Legolas chuckled, then pointed out, "Before you KNEW that you had children."

Aragorn sighed, "Aye, before that."

Amusement at his good friend's predicament gave way to sympathy, and Legolas offered, "In all truth, gwador, you were always brave when something had to be done. But you were always very protective of those in your care, such as our beloved hobbit companions." Legolas' smile turned nostalgic, and he recollected, "Though by the end of our time together, they had become quite fierce indeed. As I'm sure your children and grandchildren will, given time." Legolas lips quirked back into a wide, teasing grin, "Theodwyn already is fierce. Where did she learn to stamp her little feet like that?"

Chuckling, Aragorn declaimed, "I'm honestly not quite sure."

Gimli, joining them towards the end of Legolas's last comment, poured himself and the king and elven prince each a goblet of ale, as he speculated, "Perhaps she got it from Faramir's Dol Amroth family. I could easily see, say, Boromir or Prince Erchirion, stomping to emphasize a point."

Aragorn's gray eyes went distant with memory, "Actually...Boromir did just that, stamping his feet when he was particularly emphatic, when he was a little boy. I remember...I was still, on and off, in Denethor's graces, then."

"To be fair, I think that Boromir might have stamped his foot at us once or twice to make his point, even during the quest." Legolas pointed out, his voice wavering between fond nostalgia and sorrow. It had been almost a decade since the war was won, but they all still felt the loss of their fallen companion, and Frodo's departure as well.

Aragorn smiled gently, "I don't think that he actually did, though I'm sure he wanted to, quite often. Denethor had no patience for a cute blond toddler stamping his feet, and would smack Boromir when the lad did so. Boromir had mostly learned not to do that, by the time he was five years old," Aragorn paused, "well, at least not to do that, around his father."

"'Tis lucky for Theodwyn that Faramir and Eowyn are a different sort of parent." Gimli commented.

Aragorn rolled his eyes, "Faramir is putty in their small hands," He complained of his son with tolerant affection, before mimicking Faramir interacting with Theodwyn, "You want to stay up late tonight? Well, I suppose so, if you let Ada read his reports, and play quietly with your books and toys, and amuse your baby brother." The King paused as his friends suppressed smiles, and then continued, "Or, as Faramir said to Elboron just the other day, "Oh, you don't like vegetables? Well, neither did I, at your age. Just keep trying them every so often, and we'll ask the kitchen to mix vegetables into fruit drink for you, or drown them in sauce." Aragorn rolled his eyes again, "Honestly. Its a good that that Eowyn is made of sterner stuff."

"And she thinks you're fussy." Legolas added with a grin, and the light of mischief in his eyes. "What?" the elf protested, as his human gwador glared at him, "I was just filling Gimli in. He was off overseeing builders this morning when you decided to play the worried Nana."

Legols merrily skipped out of the way as Aragorn made a grab for him.

"Stop playing about, ye'll upset the ale." Gimli scolded them, "Honestly, children, the both of ye. Sit down, I've a toast."

Aragorn sighed, but resigned himself to being called a child, as well as fussy, in the same day. Eowyn and Gimli, rather like Aragorn's twin foster-brothers, followed their own rules in terms of what was and wasn't appropriate to say to whom. They were blunt and truthful, and worth their weight in gold to a King who was surrounded mostly by people who told him what they thought that he wanted to hear.

Legolas was a little put out that he hadn't managed to lure Aragorn into a full-fledged game of chase, but was curious enough to sit and lift his refilled cup. Gimli rarely made toasts.

"To Boromir, and to Frodo." Gimli's deep voice rumbled, "And to Boromir's mannerisms in Faramir's girl, and Frodo's smile on Merry's wee lad."

"To Boromir, and Frodo." Legolas agreed, nodding firmly to thank Gimli for knowing what to say. This was probably better, for helping Aragorn, than a distracting game of chase.

Aragorn didn't say anything, but his eyes shone as he clinked his goblet against those of his friends. As they honored Boromir, Aragorn promised himself that he wouldn't say anything, anymore, when he witnessed Faramir seeing Theodwyn stamp her foot, and just letting it go with a fondly nostalgic smile. Well, at least not for a few months.

Chapter Text

Eldarion watched Faramir, as his older half-brother walked across the Pelennor to stand reverently beside one of the many stone wells that dotted the plain. Images like this were part of Eldarion's very earliest memories, but this year was different.

Still, well he knew these wells, and the names written on them in stone. Eldarion could remember his tiny fingers, tracing the names, written in stone. On walls. On fountains. On wells. Gondor was a city of stones, and when it was rebuilt after the war, Arwen had determined that the names of its heroes and its lost would be written on those stones.

Some of Eldarion's earliest memories included tagging along behind his father, his mother, and/or his older half-brother the Steward, to different remembrance day ceremonies, or dedications of wells or fountains or walls to the soldiers who had fallen, and the villagers who had lost their lives, as Sauron's forces had made their last advance towards Minas Tirith.

When he was very little, Eldarion would get bored of all the talking. His parents or his brother often would have predicted that, and would have brought along young Lord Veantur or Eldarion's niece Theodwyn to keep him company. Eldarion could remember Faramir kneeling to address the three of them on one occasion, and saying, "It is a rather long day for little ones, I know. You can amuse yourselves by tracing the names on the wall, if you will. But please, be on 'company manners' as you do so, and behave respectfully. Many of these men whose names are written in stone served Gondor, and died for the peace we have today. Some of them saved my life. Some of them were my friends. And one of them, was my older brother."

With that in mind, Eldarion, Theodwyn, and Veantur had been very solemn indeed, tracing the names on the walls with their small fingers. Eldarion could faintly remember that their actions - three young nobles of the Kingdom, respectfully reading of their fallen- had drawn approval, from those who had gathered to remember, or to mourn. That hadn't been their intention, but Eldarion had realized in later years that his parents and his brother were not averse to having a single action serve more than one purpose.

Now Eldarion just stood, in the cool autumn breeze. Smelling apple blossoms in the wind, and wondering which skirmish Faramir was remembering, what unwritten battle had taken his brother out of bed so early on a fall morning, out of bed and down to the field where the survivors of that mostly-unremembered skirmish had, most of them, met their fate.

"Maybe you should ask him." An impish voice suggested.

Eldarion turned in surprise to smile at his wife, dressed in her customary warm pink cloak with blue and silver embroidery. Crown Princess Jalila was expecting their first child, and her stomach beneath her white-and-pale-blue gown was just beginning to gently round.

"'Lila," he greeted her, his voice welcoming but slightly worried, "I didn't mean for you to have to come all the way down here this morning. I was planning to come meet you at mid-morn, to see the healers." Eldarion turned a frown upon the guards who had accompanied Jalila, Captain Brithadan and Lieutenant Borlas. The Prince rather felt that their guards should have been able to gently redirect his pregnant wife from making the long trek down all seven levels of Minas Tirith to the Pelennor.

Captain Brithadan shrugged helplessly, "She insisted, your highness. And Gaeranwar told her where you were."

Eldarion's disapproving gaze shifted to Gaeranwar, his half-brother Faramir's current squire. Gaeranwar met his Prince's gaze squarely, seeming not at all intimidated. Which he probably wasn't. As Eldarion's youngest sister Gilwen's playmate, Gaeranwar was more or less immune to all but the most serious forms of princely disapproval.

Eldarion sighed, as Jalila came to his side. Even though he hadn't wanted her there, having her small, sweet-smelling body tucked up against his own was comforting. It made something raw and hurting inside Eldarion feel a bit less awful.

His arm around Jalila, Eldarion confessed, too softly for their guards and companions to hear, "When I was younger, I used to sometimes wish that I could share Faramir's pain. That I had been there when Osgiliath fell, and during the desperate defense of the Pelennor. Wish that I was a hero, like him, with sad tales of my own."

"Ai, Darion." Jalila said sympathetically, wrapping her arms more securely around him. "I think everyone wishes for foolish things when they are small, before they understand how awful such things are. Children just want to be like those that they love. I used to wish that I was like my older half-brothers, who lived through the war. That I had their scars, and more importantly, their delicate attentions from our father. He loved me, but he often treated me like an annoying pest under foot, or a delicate songbird that had somehow fluttered out of its gilded cage."

Eldarion gently, oh-so-gently, squeezed his wife back, kissing her dark hair, which gleamed with black highlights in the morning sun. Lips curving into a half-smile for a second, Eldarion managed a chuckle, "Well, my Ada only treated me like an annoying pest under foot when I was one, and he never treated me like a creature which ought to be caged, even on those occasions that I acted like one."

"Mmm." Jalila agreed, "I chose well when I chose my husband, and his family." She told Eldarion with a happy sigh, before her beautiful brown eyes turned sad, "Two of my half-brothers died on this field. Fighting for the wrong side...one of them may even have been he who wounded Faramir. They were very skilled warriors, I was always told."

Eldarion's arms tightened again around his bride, the wonderful woman who carried their future child. "That doesn't matter to me." He told her, "though I am sorry for your brothers. And everyone who died in a war that wasn't really of their own making."

"I know, Habibi." Jalila said, love and understanding in her brown eyes. "Habibi" meant beloved in Jalila's native Haradrim, and if she hadn't been confident that they were alone (well, as alone as they ever got to be, outside of their family's private rooms and retreats), she never would have used it. Jalila was very careful to use only Westron or Sindarin, in public. She was Haradrim of Umbar by birth; but when she'd married Eldarion, she'd promised to put his own Kingdoms before the land of her childhood, and the peoples she was born to.

"But now, Darion, your thoughts turn to Veantur," Jalila continued, her melodious voice almost a gentle scold, "and you wonder if, perhaps, you had not had such foolish thoughts as a child, you would not have lost a friend fighting pirates, this summer. And I tell you," Eldarion winced, for his clever, charming 'Lila was definitely scolding him, now, "You are a fool, in thinking this."

Jalila was definitely emotional, Eldarion realized, for her grasp of grammar in Westron was normally better than this. "I am thinking that," Eldarion agreed, with a calming kiss to his wife's lovely coffee-and-cream colored cheek, "But I know it is not...true. I just miss him. And," Eldarion paused, collecting his thoughts. Jalila's hand squeezed his tightly, as he remembered one of his best friends, Lord Veantur of the Lefnui Vale.

"We used to both run around these fields, as children." He told Jalila quietly, "Veantur, and I. Sometimes with Theodwyn, and Alphros. Later, with Elboron. Veantur and I were at the academy, together. He stood up for me, at our wedding. His wedding to Saerhil was the first official event that you and I attended as Crown Prince and Princess after our own wedding. I just...I just can't believe that...he's gone." That now, Veantur's name would be one of those that Eldarion traced, on stone walls. That Veantur, so good and so skilled, the son of one of Gondor's most famous naval heroes, the great-nephew of another...had died, fighting pirates, before he was even thirty years old.

"Veantur died doing what he wanted to do." Jalila reminded Eldarion, sympathy and sorrow in her dark brown eyes, "It doesn't make losing him any less of a tragedy, but Veantur was a soldier, 'Dari. He'd been raised to be one, and he took protecting the innocent seriously."

Eldarion squeezed his wife's hand, thinking of those who'd died the same day as Veantur, who had not made the choice to be soldiers. Who had simply been about their business, fishing and sewing seeds in the field, when pirates had chosen to attack them. Jalila had taken one of the fisherwomen whom Veantur had saved from the pirates during his last day as one of her maids, after the woman's family and livelihood had all been taken from her by those raiders. It was his wife's quiet, meaningful way of honoring Veantur, and Eldarion loved her for it, even as it was difficult for him to see the solemn young widow amongst the citadel staff without remembering his own loss. It was getting easier. If only thinking of his life without ever seeing Veantur's smile again, would get easier. But maybe it shouldn't. Maybe it should always be a shock.

"I guess...I just understand, better now. How death can happy to any of us. How a patch of wet on a ship dock or a second's distraction at a woman's scream can be the end of anyone, no matter how good a warrior he is, or how much he is loved." Eldarion quietly told his wife.

"And not just soldiers, Darion." Jalila reminded him. Her nimble mind had little space for pity, but her dark eyes were loving and full of empathy as she reminded him, "Not all of the dead that day were soldiers. More were fisher-folk, or farmers. People who just lived out their lives, trying to provide a decent life for themselves and their families."

Eldarion's arms tightened around his wife again, as the thought of how easily he could have lost her, before they were even wed. Several years ago, when she had bought the freedom of a bandit-chief's child hostages, by offering them the future bride of the Crown Prince of Gondor and Arnor as a hostage in exchange. Jalila, daughter of Emir Asad of Umbar, had the heart and spirit of a warrior in her slender, feminine body.

Jalila clung to Eldarion, wordlessly offering him her support. After a moment, both of their gaze moved to Faramir, whose fingers were gently brushing over a part of the stone well. Eldarion could not believe that one of his best friends would just be a name on a stone wall, naught but a ghost of a memory, however beloved. He couldn't believe that Veantur would never be there again, to counsel Eldarion, or to spar with him on a fine fall day. Worse yet, that Veantur would never to be there, to hold his infant daughter Merilwing, to guide her as she grew.

"I wonder how many ghosts there are around Fara," Eldarion said aloud, eyes still on his elder half-brother, "I wonder who he would have become, how he would have been different, if they had lived." Eldarion could remember his father remarking once, when Faramir had been missing, that if Boromir had lived, they never would have come so close to losing Faramir, that time or so many others.

Arms still wrapped around her husband, Jalila commented quietly, "Eowyn and Mother Arwen say that he would have laughed more. Father Aragorn agrees."

Jalila's voice had been soft, but the wind changed, carrying a whisper of her words to the Steward on the field. Faramir's head turned, and he smiled faintly at them, and raised a hand in greeting. Eldarion rather thought that his brother had been aware of their presence for some time, but as Jalila and Eldarion had stood near the guards and companions that had trailed the three of them that morning, had assumed that they did not need him, and had merely been intent upon finishing his remembrances.

Now Faramir walked back towards them, his midnight-blue cloak flapping around him in the breeze, as his boots crunched quietly through the grass and the blown leaves. Eldarion also noted the high collar of Faramir's light-green tunic. Most of Faramir's tunics and even his undershirts all had high collars now, to hide the scars from the emergency tracheotomy that Eldarion had done, when poison meant for Jalila but ingested by Faramir had closed his brother's throat.

"Do not fret, my beloved brother." Faramir scolded Eldarion gently, as he drew even with the young couple. "You saved my life that day. I have scars from much less worthwhile causes. I do not conceal it out of sorrow at such a souvenir from living; but merely because I do not care to constantly be explaining such matters to the curious."

Eldarion flushed a bit, looking down at the ground. "Adar or Uncle Elladan, or Ecthelion or even Eowyn, could have done it better, Faramir. Left less of a scar, and made it so that it took less time for you to heal." He complained, as Jalila left him go to stand on tip toe and kiss Faramir's cheek in greeting.

"Good morrow, little sister." Faramir greeted Eldarion's wife, "You are glowing, whilst my little brother is being foolish." Faramir reached over to ruffle Eldarion's shoulder-length hair, "What would any of them say, to your demeaning the fine work you did in saving my life, hmm? As a matter of fact, what have they said, muindor-laes?"

"That it was lucky for you that I knew how to do it at all. That it's not normally something a teenaged healer could be expected to manage correctly on his own." Eldarion answered absently, his mind back on that night, when he'd used a belt-knife that Faramir himself had given him to cut open his brother's throat, while the courtiers around them had speculated that Eldarion was giving Faramir the coup-de-grace. Jalila had stood beside Eldarion that night, though. Her slender hands holding a spare knife, water, wine and towels converted into bandages, exactly what Eldarion had needed exactly when he'd needed it. Mere minutes later, healers summoned from the House of Healing had finally arrived at the Hall of Feasts. But they hadn't known the poison that had closed Faramir's throat and nearly cost him his life. Only Eldarion had known it, because Uncle Elladan and Cousin Theli had taught him of it.

"I am glad that you are here, 'Darion, 'Lila." Faramir said softly, calling Eldarion's thoughts back from that difficult night some five years ago, back to now, to Pelennor Fields in their late autumn glory. To the walls on which Faramir's brother's name was carved, and the names of his men, and soon, the name of Veantur Telemnarion. "Would you like to walk with me, muindor-laes, muinthel-laes? I would be glad of the company." Faramir continued, offering them a sad smile.

Eldarion had to smile back, and reach out a hand to clasp his brother's shoulder. It was still a relatively new thing, this being adult enough to share in his brother's sorrows. Often, he was not sure it was worth the price he'd paid for it, but that Eldarion's mere presence could make Faramir's burdens lesser, that was something. Something meaningful, too meaningful to be disdained or discounted.

Feeling lucky in her elder brother-by-law, Jalila smiled too, though she was beginning to feel tired. Jalila liked how Faramir never failed to welcome his much younger siblings, or his children, for that matter, through any door, once they had reached the appropriate age or experience. And she didn't want to decline the invitation, even though she doubted that Faramir would take offense.

"Will they put Veantur's name here, Faramir-brother?" Jalila asked softly, "Eldarion and I are wondering what else there is to do, for his fallen brother-friend."

Clued in to his younger brother's emotional turmoil by Jalila's unusual stumbling over the mixture of Westron and Sindarin that the royal family used when amongst themselves, Faramir frowned thoughtfully. Then he pulled his younger half-brother and his young sister-by-marriage into an embrace, reassuring them "We - you two, really- are already doing what Veantur would have wished. You two immediately summoned the most experienced healers back to Lefnui, to aid his wife Saerhil in birthing their baby Merilwing. You have Veantur's wife and daughter even now ensconced in your own household. You have both been involved in preparations to ensure that in the upcoming council session, Merilwing's right to be the Lady of Lefnui and Saerhil's right to be her regent are respected, including holding off on a formal announcement of Jalila's pregnancy until tomorrow's council meeting, so that we have the momentum of that to help force the confirmation of Veantur's wishes. There is not that much more that is in our control to do. As they say in Dol Amroth, you cannot stop the waves, or still fate's sword. You can only rebuild the sea wall after the storm is over, and give the new widow grain for the winter, and seed to replant her fields."

Eldarion hugged his brother and his wife, standing in a three-way embrace that momentarily defied the chill wind and their shared sorrow. With a kiss to each of their brows, Faramir released them. He and Eldarion looked across the field to a group of armed men approaching.

"Captain-General Galdoron in the lead, and then Dervorin," Eldarion recognized, his elven heritage giving him a slight advantage in long-distance sight, "With Sayyida, beside Dev, in a purple dress."

"Orchid," Jalila corrected with an amused grin, "We call that shade of purple 'orchid,' my love. 'Purple' proper, as in royal purple, is the color that Tavan is wearing."

Rolling his eyes tolerantly at his wife for being so very female, Eldarion continued, "And Tavan, in the more garish purple." Eldarion didn't really blame Tavan, of course, it was the color of the Lebennin coat of arms and banner, and Tavan was Lord of the Lebennin. But Eldarion liked to tease Tavan, and he was somewhat out of practice.

Faramir's lips twitched in amusement, "And Elboron," he added, recognizing his older son, and then his youngest half-sister, "and Gilly, in the academy uniform."

"So it is." Eldarion agreed, "I suppose Tavan or Elboron must have gotten her out of classes an afternoon early." Elboron was currently serving with the Lebennin levies, as Tavan's squire, and Eldarion's youngest sister Gilwen was amongst the handful of athletic, clever girls who had been admitted to the army academy in Minas Tirith. Which was a break in tradition for Gondor, although the guard of Imladris and the army of Greenwood had historically permitted ellith to serve. Eldarion loved both of his sisters equally, but Gilwen could be harder to take on an already difficult day than Melyanna. 'Anna was only five years younger than Eldarion, and Gilly more like nine. In fact, Gilwen had been the youngest child in the family until the birth of Faramir and Eowyn's youngest son Ecthelion, and Elion wasn't yet two years old. Not having any age-mates of her own within the immediate family (except Haleth, who didn't always want to play), and being rather bored by the company of the quiet and scholarly Melyanna and Mithiriel, Gilwen had spent what seemed to Eldarion to be entirely too much of her young life trying to catch up with Elboron, Theodwyn, and Eldarion.

But this morning, the youngest Princess of Gondor seemed cheerful if subdued, exchanging a few words with Gaeranwar as their group dismounted and left their mounts in the care of the guards.

Quiet greetings were exchanged, as Eldarion realized that this must have been a planned meeting. At least between Galdoron, Dervorin, Tavan, and Faramir. Curiously, the Crown Prince regarded the three of them, all survivors of the Ring War that had pre-dated Eldarion's birth. Tavan had been too young to fight, but he'd stayed in the city, boiling pitch and serving food for the armed men who had defended Minas Tirith.

In short order, Dervorin's wife Sayyida had convinced Jalila and Gilwen to return to the Citadel with her. Eldarion favored the elegant Sayyida with a grateful look, as this way he didn't have to be the one to convince his wife to take a nap, or his youngest sister that her high spirits might be in bad taste. Eldarion thought that Jalila and Gilwen might have argued more, except that Gilwen was following Jalila's lead, and Jalila really liked Sayyida, who was also of Umbaran birth. And except that Sayyida had expressly said that it was Eowyn who had asked for Jalila, and his wife wouldn't want to put the two of them at odds. Eldarion knew that Eowyn had hated Sayyida at one point, for something having to do with Faramir's time as a spy. He'd never gotten the whole story from his brother, and Eldarion made a note to try again in the foreseeable future, or perhaps to have Jalila ask either Sayyida or Eowyn, or maybe both at the same time. No one liked to deny a pregnant Crown Princess anything, Eldarion was realizing.

Eldarion's gaze followed his wife until he couldn't see her pink cloak anymore, then he hurried to catch up with his brother and the others.

"Veantur's name will most likely be added to the new sea wall along the River Lefnui, or to the walls of Dol Amroth." Faramir related with quiet sympathy.

"That...is probably what he would want." Eldarion replied, throat tight. His nephew Elboron nodded, and placed a reassuring hand on Eldarion's shoulder. Eldarion nodded, and patted his nephew's hand. He was aware of sympathy also being directed his way by Tavan and Captain-General Galdoron, but was glad that they allowed him a moment to conquer his emotions in silence. There wasn't much more to say; he'd already heard from the Captain-General and from Veantur's own Admiral that his gwador had been one of the best, and that all of Gondor mourned his loss. Little as that had helped, when it had come time for Eldarion to comfort Veantur's mother Lindorie, one of his own childhood nurses.

As they walked, Eldarion imagined that Veantur walked with them. Veantur had always liked Faramir, the quiet in Veantur's nature finding answer in Faramir's own serenity. Eldarion could remember Veantur's father, the famed Admiral Telemnar, relating to a much younger Eldarion that, "There are two sides of the Dol Amroth princes, like there are two sides of the Dol Amroth harbor. Prince Adrahil, Erchirion, and I, we are the storm. Imrahil, and Faramir and Veantur, they are the shelter."

Telemnar had died several years ago, but Eldarion could see him walking with them, too. And Telemnar's brother Menohtar, who had died lifting the wounded Faramir onto the saddle of a Dol Amroth knight, that long-ago day during the Battle of the Pelennor. Suddenly, even though he'd never seen them outside of portraits, Eldarion could see Lord Boromir, as well. Walking beside Faramir, the older brother to Eldarion's half-brother that Faramir had been to Eldarion, or more like how Eldarion had been to Elboron, for Boromir and Faramir had been close in age.

Captain-General Galdoron had been one of Boromir's good friends, a closer friend in the years just preceding the Ring War than in their youth. But Boromir's best friends had been Tavan's father, Tavisond, and Dervorin's cousin Gendarion. Eldarion hadn't seen them either, except in sketches by Lady Ynithe, Lord Gendarion's widow and Prince Erchirion's wife. But he could see them now, walking just beside the ghost of Boromir, Gendarion with a pale ghostly hand upon Dervorin's shoulder. In Eldarion's imagination, or perhaps the sensitive second-sight that he'd inherited from his mother, since he'd never known a ghost to wink at him as Lord Boromir was, Eldarion could see the ghost of Tavan's father reach out a hand to place on the young Lord's shoulder.

Tavan shivered, remarking, "Bit of a chill breeze, today. Cooler than in the city."

"It is." Faramir remarked quietly, his gray eyes unfathomable. "But then it often is, on the Pelennor." Faramir stopped walking, as they'd apparently reached their goal. The same well that had so captivated Faramir's attention, earlier that morning.

Eldarion knelt beside it, looking at the names that were on the stones he recalled his brother tracing earlier. "Malthenion, and Edelharn." The Crown Prince murmured, reading the names.

"Malthenion," Captain-General Galdoron gruffly informed Eldarion, "Who was my blood-brother Tavisond's last squire. Boromir took him on, after Tavisond fell. Malthenion was knighted young, and slated for early promotion to Captain. That was before he died in a skirmish, on this day many years ago."

Nodding in sudden understanding as to why Galdoron and Tavan had come, Eldarion looked discreetly to his brother, asking quietly, "And Edelharn?"

Faramir knelt beside him, his hand gently covering Eldarion's and squeezing, whether to give comfort or gain it, Eldarion was not quite sure. After a moment, Faramir answered, "Edelharn was the cousin of one of my lieutenants. He died on the same day in an ambush, in Ithilien. His family, Damrod's mother's kin, were from Minas Tirith."

Eldarion shivered at the weight of the ghosts who surrounded them. Growing up, almost everyone he'd known had lost someone in the Ring War. Few of his playmates had more than one grandfather, and most were missing uncles. Anyone who was more than four years older than Eldarion had almost as often as not been missing a father, as well.

"We can be glad that we're losing men in fewer numbers, these last thirty years." Galdoron commented quietly, "Glad that we have more time to train you, and are better equipped and rested. But it doesn't take the sting away when the man who falls is one whom you loved like a brother. Or when an enemy or cruel circumstance cripples a bright, promising lad, who still has his whole life in front of him."

No one disagreed, and Eldarion was fairly certain that he wasn't the only one who felt the sting of tears in his eyes. Without much more in the way of talking, their party headed back towards the Citadel, picking up their guards along the way. By the time they reached the family rooms of the King's House in the Citadel, it was just Eldarion, Faramir, and Elboron.

"Elboron ion-nin," Faramir asked quietly, "Please do me a favor, and check with my squire to make sure that the plans for tomorrow's council sessions are proceeding apace."

Elboron's blue eyes widened fractionally in surprise, but he quickly agreed, leaving Eldarion alone with his older half-brother in Faramir's private study.

"What is this?" Eldarion asked with weary good humor, "The 'you should take more than just two guards if you're going to follow me to the Pelennor,' lecture?"

Faramir chuckled wryly, giving Eldarion's dark hair another brotherly muss. "No, baby brother. You are getting me mixed up with Adar." Humor dissipating, Faramir fixed Eldarion with an affectionate but firm look. "This is the 'stop feeling guilty about Veantur's death because there was nothing that you could have done to prevent it,' lecture."

Eldarion groaned, then tossed a pillow at his brother's head, complaining, "I've already gotten this one from Adar, Naneth, and my Uncles, by letter. I also got it from Uncle Imrahil, in person."

Faramir just caught the pillow and placed it aside, "Then maybe you should have taken it to heart, 'Dari-nin. Your guilt is a palpable thing, and completely unfair to yourself. It poisons your spirit when you owe it to yourself and Jalila to be joyful over your own impending fatherhood, and it muddles your mind when it should be clear for the upcoming council meetings. Despite our and the archivists' best efforts, settling Merilwing Veanturiel as Lady of the Lefnui in her own right is going to be a feat. Merilwing, Saerhil, and I are going to need you to be at your best, not still wallowing in pointless grieving."

Most of that was true, but it still grated on Eldarion's frayed emotions. "You're one to talk!" He told his brother harshly, "Adar says that you didn't even speak your brother's name if you could help it, not for months after he died!"

"It was more like years," Faramir corrected, his voice still calm and steady, his gray eyes sympathetic rather than condemning, "Eldarion, I didn't say that I handled my own grief well. I am saying that I need you to realize that while Veantur's death is and was a tragedy, it was not your doing, and none of your fault."

Eldarion growled, reflecting that his father was right. The way that Faramir just stayed quiet when you yelled at him really did make a person want to to yell more, just for the sake of getting a reaction. "You still blame yourself for Boromir's death," Eldarion snapped back, hoping to incite Faramir to some sort of upset, or perhaps just lashing out in his own grief, "So, maybe you should work on that, before lecturing me!"

Faramir just sighed, which made Eldarion want to scream and curse at him. Eldarion thought that Faramir probably picked up on that, as he saw Faramir suppress a rueful half-grin at Eldarion's expense.

"If you smile at me again, I'm going to hit you." Eldarion told his brother. He didn't really mean it, since he didn't want to hurt his brother, and Faramir would decide at the darnedest times that he simply wouldn't even try to act like he'd ever been trained to defend himself. Mostly, Eldarion was just going for a reaction.

"Hmm. That puts you ahead of me, 'Dari." Faramir confessed, the smile still threatening, "I received a similar lecture from Adar, concerning Boromir's death, at one point. I didn't hit Adar, because he was the King, you see. But I did do my best to hit a wall."

Eldarion laughed, but it was a choked-off, bitter sound. "Did the wall move?" He asked.

Faramir shook his head, still repressing a grin. "No, Ada did. Before I knew it, I was tangled up in his arms, on the ground. I cried myself to sleep on his royal shoulder, with him offering to do an older brother's service in Boromir's absence, and give me a sound smacking if I ever said again that it should have been me dead in my brother's place, or that it was my fault that Boromir had died. Even though I had some reasons for feeling that it was so, but that's really not relevant to this discussion." Upon seeing the inquiring look on his younger brother's face, Faramir sighed, and offered, "I promise that I will tell you all of it after the council meeting, Eldarion. But since I am your older brother, and since you know better than to punish yourself for living when it is the last thing that Veantur or anyone would want, I think we need to have another discussion, now."

Eldarion made a face, and complained, "Not fair, big brother. Ada let you off."

Faramir huffed a laugh, and tossed the pillow back at Eldarion. "Ah, yes, but Daerada Elrond had already had a go at me. And if Ada sees that you have lost weight, we'll both be in trouble."

"Ada won't be back for weeks yet," Eldarion wheedled, even as he let Faramir gently guide him into position over Faramir's lap.

"Probably not." Faramir commented levelly, with a brotherly tug to one of Eldarion's dark locks, "But I'm still your older brother. And I may still be mourning my older brother, nearly thirty years after his death. But there is no doubt in my mind that had Boromir been there the year after the Ring War, he would have smacked me himself for my guilt over his death, even as he understood why I would mourn him."

Eldarion groaned again as he felt his brother lift his tunic up, and pat his buttocks, still covered by his dark-blue leggings. Muttering quietly about double standards, Eldarion hugged the pillow with his arms, and tried to brace himself.

"Get your head straight, Eldarion-nin." Faramir lectured in a kind but firm tone, as his hand smacked down hard over Eldarion's leggings, "Veantur would not want you to blame yourself. Nor would he want you to lose sleep, or stop eating, over grief." Faramir's hand landed methodical spanks on Eldarion's bottom, causing the Crown Prince to wriggle indignantly, even as his older brother's other hand held him firmly but gently in place to have his rear end warmed.

After what felt to Eldarion like an unnecessarily thorough spanking, but was probably less than twenty swats, in all (not that Eldarion had counted; he'd been too busy trying to project mild offense and, at the same time, an unspoken promise to do better in the future), Faramir's hand stopped swatting him, and instead helped him to rise.

Pulling his younger brother into his arms, Faramir murmured, "I hate to see you hurting, Eldarion. Life will dole out pain in great measure, heedless of our virtue or our vice. Please do not let grief and guilt rob you of those joys which can be equally great."

Eldarion suppressed a sob, realizing as he did so that Veantur would probably kick Eldarion's rear himself, if he knew that Eldarion was letting his sorrow over Veantur's not living to see his daughter born ruin Eldarion's joy over Jalila's pregnancy. Faramir's arms just tightened around Eldarion, and the Crown Prince stopped fighting his tears, and gave into them.

After a time, Eldarion stopped crying, and just listened to the sound of his brother's heartbeat. They had come to be sitting upon the green settee in Faramir's study, although Eldarion couldn't quite remember when that had happened. "Thank you, I think." Eldarion told his brother hoarsely.

"What are brothers for?" Faramir asked rhetorically, and Eldarion could see the shadow of long-ago grief in his eyes.

"Boromir must have been a very good older brother." Eldarion said softly, half in apology for his earlier temper, and half because he thought it true, "For you have always been the best of brothers, to me."

"He was, and I've tried, for you are wonderful in your own right, muindor-laes, and deserving of the best." Faramir replied, his hand reaching out to fondly ruffle Eldarion's hair again.

Eldarion half-grinned back, happy that Faramir had not taken offense, and that all was well between them. "I can't believe I'm going to be a father, come the summer." He told Faramir, with an open, happy grin. One of the first that Eldarion had given anyone but Jalila, since hearing the news of Veantur's death.

Faramir smiled back, "You will be a wonderful father, of that I am sure, Eldarion. And Eowyn is more than ready to baby-sit, while Elion is very excited to have a new playmate."

That got a laugh from Eldarion, who noted of his younger nephew, "Elion wants a boy."

"Boy or girl, he'll be pleased. Elion calls Merilwing 'his' baby, and she'll be leaving us, come the spring, to return to the Lefnui, if all goes well." Faramir noted. A pensive silence returned as both brothers contemplated the maneuvering that would be necessary, to establish Veantur's daughter as a ruling Lady in her own right, rather than a mere regent for her future son. The Lefnui was a navigable river, near the historic border between Gondor and Arnor, and also near large tracts of uninhabited forest and countryside. As such, it was a target for pirates, and other lawless men. A twenty year regency while Merilwing grew up was going to be difficult enough; a forty year regency was unthinkable.

To lighten the mood, and because they'd been over the Lefnui situation ad nauseam and would be addressing it again with the privy council later that day, Faramir began, "I'll tell you what Eowyn isn't ready for...." before trailing off, his gray eyes sparkling with a mixture of disbelief and rare mischief.

"What?" Eldarion asked gamely.

"Mithiriel's wedding." Faramir answered, and both brothers laughed.

"You don't look old enough to have a married daughter." Eldarion soothed, once he'd overcome his merriment. Either Mithiriel or Theodwyn would have been Eldarion's choice for the least likely of his nieces to EVER marry, and here it had taken the joint efforts of Arwen and Eowyn to convince Mithiriel to even wait a year after her twentieth birthday.

"Oh, I know that," Faramir answered, heaving his little brother to his feet, "But I'd take it as a personal favor if you'd tell Eowyn."

"Done." Eldarion promised, before offering, "Do you want me to have Alphros lay off of Miriel, too? His teasing is getting a bit out of hand, even for them."

"Nay, Mithiriel can more than handle Alphros, and if he bothers her, she'll get Melyanna to give him the doe-eyes of doom." Faramir replied, gray eyes still smiling, "But I will do you a favor in turn. I'll give you two hours during which I'll keep anyone from looking for you."

Smiling brilliantly, Eldarion nodded his thanks, and went to find his wife, who should be awaking from her nap momentarily. Tomorrow they would again honor the dead, but for now they could celebrate still being alive, and young and in love.

Chapter Text

Eowyn waited until Faramir's cousins Amrothos, Lothiriel and Erchirion had walked far enough ahead of them so as to be nearly out of sight. Imrahil's younger three children, intent on whose fault some childhood peccadillo had been, paid their cousin and his new wife little mind.

Then, Eowyn tripped her husband, and helped him to take a controlled fall down onto the sand.

"Aiee!" Faramir yelped in surprise, "Eowyn, what?"

Eowyn straddled her husband, that action and her other athletic endeavors of the morning made easy by her choice of attire. The White Lady of Ithilien had followed Faramir's cousin Lothiriel's lead. Prince Imrahil's only daughter had dressed today in her younger brother's shrunk-down tunic and leggings. So Eowyn was wearing comfortable old cast-offs of her husband's.

"That." Eowyn told Faramir firmly, as she put her hand on top of his chest, and pushed him back down on the sand with a thump, "Is for not telling me that the fine men and women of Dol Amroth will occasionally bathe naked in the sea!"

Faramir spluttered, "It's just people, in their skin! Does it really matter so much!"

Eowyn rolled her eyes, and gently moved one of her husband's red-gold locks back behind his ear. "It matters," she told him, lightly tapping his cheek, "Because I did not expect it, and so I looked like a country bumpkin or a prude. I did not want that, because I want your cousin Lothiriel to like me, since chances are excellent that we shall soon be sisters, and you and Eomer, kin again by marriage.

Faramir stifled a groan, "I love Lothiriel, and I am very fond of your brother, but marrying two people who so like telling me what they think I should do, to one another...it seems fraught with..."

"A strong marriage for Rohan's King?" Eowyn suggested archly, splashing a bit of sea water from the pail that she had been carrying onto Faramir's face.

Splutttering, Faramir conceded, "Yes, that, and their happiness is the most important thing." Faramir gave his new wife a fond, besotted smile, "A happy marriage can make any burden seem less."

Eowyn relaxed, and gave a real smile from her seat on top of Faramir's still wet body, "Aye, that's true enough." Her expression softening further, Eowyn said, "And I've noted that you've been distracted, my love. Forgetting many things that you would normally remember, worrying about..." Eowyn thought of Faramir, wrestling with the knowledge that their King was his father, as the date approached when Aragorn's and Arwen's heir would be born.

"Aye," Faramir agreed, "Worrying about knotty problems which I have already decided to leave be." Faramir flexed, and in a smooth motion rolled Eowyn onto the sand, and loomed over her.

Pressing a sweet but chaste kiss to his wife's chapped lips, Faramir asked, "But I did wrong you, for forgetting to tell you of how loosely Dol Amroth views proper clothing during the summer. Pray, tell me how I might make it up to you, meleth-nin."

Eowyn smiled sweetly into Faramir's face, reveling in the loving expression on her husband's fair features while he stroked his fingers through her windblown blond curls, and in the fact that she was the only woman whom he looked at, this way. That Dervorin had assured she was, in fact, the only woman whom Faramir had ever gazed at, with this depth of feeling.

Then an impish impulse came over Eowyn, and she lifted her chin, and commanded "You could make it up to me by sacrificing your own dignity, my Lord and husband."

Faramir chuckled, and his eyes held both arousal and a faint hint of worry, as he asked, "In what matter, my-Eowyn?"

Eowyn wiggled easily out of Faramir's unresistant grasp, and pointed impiishly to a slight mound of sand. "Lay yourself over that, Faramir-my-love, and I will teach you a lesson about remembering your role as my guide here amongst your mother's people."

Faramir huffed an embarrassed, scandalized laugh, as he looked around. Upon seeing that the isolated beach was empty, and likely to remain so considering the hour was almost dusk, Faramir laid himself over the hill of sand. He blushed as he realized that doing so had raised his bottom, clad only in clinging wet leggings, to an ideal height for Eowyn to spank him, from her position kneeling on the sand.

Which Eowyn quickly proceeded to do. Right, and then left, her palm smacked down upon Faramir's well-presented buttocks. The sound seemed quite loud, Faramir reflected, as he tried not to wriggle. He loved that his wife was a strong woman, but at this particular moment, as his bottom burned from the heat her small hands were imparting, he wished that Eowyn were a more delicate lass.

Eowyn stopped spanking when Faramir's bottom was all over sore and stinging, and just stroked it gently. After a few moments, she began to stroke his back as well, gently, lovingly.

"Eowyn," Her husband said in a strangled voice, "I will promise to do my best to never forget to tell you something that I think that you might want to know, ever again, if you promise never to do this to me again, so far away from our bed chamber or true privacy."

Eowyn laughed, the sound like silver bells, and then suggested in a husky soprano, "Perhaps we could just step a bit deeper into the concealing trees beside the marsh."

Faramir shook his head regretfully, "Too many mosquitoes. The summer that Boromir spent sick with a disease that they carry convinced me that it is not worth the risk, even as much as I long to have you to myself, as soon as possible." Faramir took the hand that Eowyn offered to pull him to his feet, than the two walked, arm and arm, up to the point where his cousins were watching the stars come out as the dolphins played in the waves.

"Eowyn and I are going up to the house now." Faramir said firmly.

Admiral Erchirion, Faramir's second eldest cousin, made an , "ooh-hoo" noise, and then said, 'Well, now, little Fara, there are things that a man should know, before...."

Faramir's closest-in-age (and only girl) cousin Lothiriel cut her brother off, "Oh, don't be ridiculous, Chiri. Faramir is Boromir's brother, after all. Faramir and Eowyn have been married for over a year. I'm sure that they've got it all figured out by now."

Amrothos just looked amused, though he did lecture Faramir quietly, "You and Eowyn shouldn't have lingered by the marshes. This late in the season the biting flies are fierce."

"Yes, little cousin." Agreed Erchirion, determined to be able to lecture Faramir about one thing, at least, "You've forgotten how it is to live here," Erchirion continued, smacking Faramir's bottom loudly, "I expect you to have more care in the future."

Faramir couldn't conceal a wince and a hiss, much to his cousins' amusement. Eowyn had the grace to blush, but Lothiriel seemed only delighted.

"We stayed on the beach," Faramir pointed out, blushing brightly.

"Well, that, at least, was wise." Erchirion agreed, shaking his head as he looked between his cousin and Faramir's newly wed bride, the Princess of Rohan.

For all three siblings, Amrothos offered, "Congratulations, Lady Eowyn, on transforming our stick-in-the-mud cousin into an acceptable bride groom."

Eowyn just gave Faramir a fond look, and chided Amrothos gently, "He is the best of men. It is I who am lucky."

Faramir, who had been going to chide his cousin back, over something, turned back to Eowyn, and got lost in her blue eyes, and how much he loved her.

"I think it is best if you two go ahead to your room, tonight." Lothiriel encouraged with gentle amusement. And that was what Faramir and Eowyn did.

Chapter Text

Aragorn found his oldest son, the Steward of Gondor, leaning up against the edge of a balcony just outside the noisy long gallery of the King’s House. Faramir was looking up at the stars, while behind them their family and friends celebrated the harvest festival with joyful abandon. The scents of food and the warmth of fires seeped out the balcony doors into the cold, crisp night, seeming to beckon them both inside. A siren call which Faramir seemed intent to ignore, for the moment.

Before the King could ponder what would be best to say, or even consider offering Faramir a pipe for the mere amusement he took from the ritual of Faramir's refusing it with a polite expression that hid a grimace of distaste, Faramir spoke, "I love my Mother Finduilas' kin. I do. But to some of them," most specifically his aunt Ivriniel and her household, " I am always...ten years old. It is frustrating."

Aragorn huffed a laugh, "That never changes, ion-nin. One just has to do one's best to bear it with dignity. A mental balancing act at which you excel, I might add."

Faramir turned to smile at his father, his eyes quicksilver in the starlight, "I have had a good teacher, I think. These last few years."

"I would think that having dealt with a household of folk older than me by several millennia each would have given me a fair amount of perspective," Aragorn agreed dryly, clapping Faramir gently on the shoulder in thanks for the compliment.

"I only wish that I'd been there when you told Lord Elrond that he had to either deal with your decisions as Chieftain of the Dunedain, his foster-son or not, or otherwise you'd stop keeping him informed of such decisions," Faramir remarked in a whimsical tone.

Aragorn threw his head back and laughed, long and loud. "At the time, I thought that my foster-Adar would kill me with his gaze alone," the King of Men confessed to his son, "But Elrohir and Elladan stood beside me, and in the end it was Adar who backed down."

Sobering, Aragorn added, "My dearest son, your Aunt and her folk have little control over you or your actions, and no right to even be informed of many of them. Perhaps that is what makes their frustration greater. Their world is changing, and you are one of the authors of that change. But to her you are still the same young boy whom she helped learn to sail."

"Ivriniel's daughter is barely on speaking terms with her, Ada. I cannot imagine being so at odds with you." Faramir related quietly, "And I can not but think that even as we give great thanks for the pains our elders took to raise us, and the love and care they gave us, we can still hope to amend those habits of our elders' which we find detrimental in our relations with them, in the relationships we have with our own children."

"That is my hope, as well," Aragorn agreed, a quiet supportive presence in the darkness.

For several minutes, the two men stood in companionable silence, glad for their accord, for the understanding between them that made the burdens upon each seem somewhat lighter. At length, Faramir sighed again, before squaring his shoulders.

"Once more into the fray, my dear one," Aragorn encouraged Faramir, a hint of teasing in his tone as he added, "We are only just past the dinner. Dessert is yet to come."

Faramir rolled his eyes at his father, "It's not as bad as all that, Adar. But I do think it is true what Lady Ynithe says about family."

"I'd have a lot of bad things to say about family, too, if my maternal grandmother had been old Ioreth, the redoubtable harpy lady of Lossarnach," Aragorn commented, with an irreverent grin.

"Ioreth was quite something, from your stories and Uncle Imrahil's, not to mention Ynithe's," Faramir agreed, "But having the whole Dol Amroth lot here without a council session or a new birth or a wedding to distract them, much as I love them, still makes me feel strongly that it is true that, 'Family is a happiness coming and going; You're happy to see them come; and you're happy to see them go.’”*

Aragorn chuckled softly at that. Then the two men turned from the quiet, star-strewn cold, and walked back into the welcoming yet also sometimes stifling atmosphere of the party going on at the King's House.

"Faramir, darling,” Princess Ivriniel complained sharply as soon as she laid eyes upon Aragorn and Faramir, “when your father ran the Citadel, there was a proper display of fealty and deference to Numenorean traditions throughout the entire Harvest Festival, and not on just the first and last day!"

"Aunt Rinie!" crowed the delighted voice of Haleth, Faramir's youngest daughter, "Look! I caught the biggest bug over there by the windows! Isn't he fine? He has eight eyes and huge wings and a sharp beak, and I think that he likes you!"

Princess Ivriniel shrieked, as Haleth's latest find attempted to show its apparent fondness for the Princess by taking up lodging in her hair.

Faramir, observing this, remarked very, very quietly to his father, "Children truly are a blessing."

Through a truly impressive act of will, Aragorn did not laugh at the situation. Instead, he attempted to help Ivriniel and her husband to corral the truly unsightly (and unseasonable) bug.

Meanwhile, Faramir consoled Haleth on the probable impending loss of her new friend, and counselled her on the sad fact that not everybody appreciates such creatures as much as Haleth, Theodwyn, and Uncle Elladan.

"Oh!" exclaimed Lord Elladan with cheerful relief, "There he is! Who found my best cockroach! Without him, I'd definitely fall behind schedule on testing bug repellents for crops. I have promised a reward for him."

Elladan gently but deftly scooped the huge, agitated cockroach out of Ivriniel's blond curls.

"And not even a wing damaged! What a dapper fellow you are." Elladan praised his test subject, cupping it gently in his hand.

Aragorn and Faramir exchanged a look, and then did their best not to laugh.

"Moments like this...." Aragorn related softly, “I was glad to have been present for so many holidays with my foster-family and my Arnorian kin, because moments like this . . . you can look back on them forever and smile."

"And they give you common ground with other kin," Faramir agreed, looking first at Alphros, Eldarion, Arwen, Imrahil, Erchirion, and Ynithe, sitting together near the fire, and trying not to laugh. Then his gaze took in Haleth, Theodwyn, and little Gilwen, cooing over the disgusting bug in Elladan's hand, to Elladan's evident pride.

With a soft, barely-there smile, Faramir continued, "Common ground and memories that can help tie you all together later, when fate rends the fabric of your life apart."

Aragorn picked up a glass of wine from the sideboard, and lifted it in toast, "To family."

Nodding, Faramir drank to that. Family could drive you crazy, he thought, but they could also help you stay sane.

Chapter Text

The King of Men looked between his older son and Steward, Faramir of Ithilien, and Faramir's Chief-of-Staff, Master Arciryas, with a bemused expression. Fortunately, Faramir brought up what was on both of their minds.

"Arciryas," The Steward asked gently, "Have you misplaced your glasses again? I know that I have a spare pair of them here in my office, that Merillien found,"

Faramir's young, shy accountant shook her head, clarifying quietly, "My friend Sedilien, on the cleaning staff, she found them, and gave them to me."

Faramir amended with a smile, "That two lovely young girls have worked together to return to you."

Aragorn stifled a proud smile. Faramir was doing a good job of appealing to Arciryas' chivalrous side. The Chief-of-Staff hated that he had to use glasses to help him read the scrolls that were so much a part of the job he'd grown to love.

"Thank you, Merilien, my Prince," Arciryas replied with a proud, excited grin, "But I don't need my glasses anymore. Lord Elladan gave me little, thin, bits of glass to put on my eyes themselves, so that I don't have to wear my glasses, but yet I can still see."

Aragorn blinked slowly, and then asked incredulously, "Chief Arciryas, you let my brother Lord Elladan put thin strips of glass..."

Interrupting, Arciryas clarified, "Actually, they're more like thin, curved circles of glass,"

Aragorn continued, as if he hadn't been interrupted, "On your eyes?" Aragorn was surprised that the man wasn't in excruciating pain, but Arciryas had always been a stoic sort.

Faramir tilted his head, intrigued, "How do they work, Ciri?"

"Quite well, really." The Chief-of-Staff enthused, "I can see everything so much more clearly, and I don't have to worry about losing my glasses. I have to wash my hands a lot, to put the glass bits in and out of my eye at morn and night, and sometimes they fall out, but Lord Elladan gave me plenty of replacements."

"I'm sure he did," Aragorn said with a resigned sigh, before commanding, "Delufer, please go and find my oh-so-clever brother."

When Elladan had joined them, he smiled brilliantly, "Ah, you aren't even squinting, even at Aragorn's tiny, chicken-scratch handwriting. You're my star patient, Arciryas."

Ignoring the jibe at his handwriting, Aragorn protested, "I had thought you promised, muindor. No testing your inventions on humans, without dire need."

Elladan appeared hurt, "Aragorn, I did swear, and I would never break my word to you, or Ada. The eye-bits were tested on goats, first, over the course of several years, before Arciryas and several young men who wish to enter warrior training asked me if they could try them."

Aragorn put his head in his hands, muttering, "goats."

Elladan continued, "And by that time, the eye-bits had worked well enough for the goats, over the course of two years. You should see how happy these goats are now, muindor-laes. Before they were depressed because their eyes were in such poor condition that they couldn't see the mountain to climb it, and they had to graze like cattle in fields when they were born for loftier things. Now, they're leaping from precipice to precipice, bleating for joy."

"Really," Faramir commented quietly, "It's my fault, for putting you in touch with goat-farmers who keep older stock instead of selling it for soup."

Elladan gave Faramir a grateful smile, "I knew that I knew just who to go to when I needed to buy a goat."

Aragorn waved his hand for them all to be quiet. Giving Elladan and Faramir a quelling look, the King told them firmly, "I don't want to know." Turning to Arciryas, the King told his Steward's Chief-of-Staff, "If the...eye-bits, are working well for you, and healers other than Elladan approve, then you may of course continue to use them, with my blessing."

"Of course I had other healers look over my work, Aragorn." Elladan retorted in an injured voice.

"They feel fine, but I'd be honored to have your Majesty take a look," Arciryas offered.

"I'd be honored as well, muindor-laes." Elladan added, and the King of Men smiled, for the gift of a few moments to play healer rather than ruler. And for the mental image of Elladan chasing goats, trying to explain to them that he was going to put bits of glass on their eyes for their own good.

Chapter Text

"Is 'push-over' one word, or two?" The King of Men inquired dryly to the occupants of the bright dining room at Emyn Arnen.

Eowyn stifled a laugh, as Faramir gave his father a faintly reproachful look.

"I am not a push-over, Ada." Faramir objected mildly, protesting in explanation, "Theodwyn made a very persuasive argument."

Aragorn snorted, as his fair-haired granddaughter wrinkled her nose at him, but didn't stop eating her second helping of berries and cream.

"Faramir, ion-nin," Aragorn chided, "Thea said 'More berries.' When you said that you didn't know if she should have more, as she'd already had a large helping and she only had two bites of her eggs, she said, "Thea's Berries. Mine," which you ignored in favor of pouring her a glass of milk. Then she said, "Thea want to eat more berries. Please."

Aragorn shook his head, "If that's persuasion, ion-nin, than all my council need do, is learn to say "please," and my Steward will give them whatever they wish."

Faramir huffed an amused breath, although he looked a bit put-upon to have his breakfast supervision criticized. But Faramir, as he often did, looked to the possible harm and realistic impact of the hypothetical in question, "Well, it will be a cold day in hottest Harad, before most of them ever think to say 'please.'"

"'An' for Thea," Eldarion argued, from his perch on his father's lap, "using a verb, a transitive verb, and please, all in the same almost-right sentence, is persuasive."

"There is that." Eowyn conceded, stopping to bestow a quick kiss on her husband's cheek and her daughter's and baby son's brows, before she left for her day's work with the healers. Sometimes Eowyn felt that Faramir treated their children as if they happened to be adults trapped in small bodies, just sharing the same living quarters as she and her husband. But Eowyn wouldn't criticize her husband in front of his father without good reason.

"I wouldn't fret about giving a child extra fruit and sugar in the morning, when she'll be running around outside and tiring herself out." Thalion Aerandirion, Legolas' foster-brother, pointed out levelly. His own daughter Calenwen sat between the King and Theodwyn, and was taking advantage of the adults' distraction to scoop butter directly into her mouth.

"Ai, iel-nin!" Thalion objected, upon noticing this. Picking up his daughter, he took her off to wash her hands and change her clothes for playing outside, scolding quietly, "One doesn't just spoon up butter in polite company. What would your Daerada think?"

"Hmm," said Aragorn contemplatively, as he kept a possessive hand on Eldarion's shoulder after his small son's exciting adventure yesterday, which Aragorn hadn't even been present for. "When Theodwyn has elected to eat her butter in one spoonful instead of spreading it on her bread, you, ion-nin, have only said, "Well, it's good for her developing mind."

Faramir didn't even look at his father. Instead, he busied himself with putting more sugar in his coffee. Elladan had said that consumption of fat, particularly butter, had correlated over time with children who grew up to be quicker of mind, but Aragorn wasn't really upset over Faramir's indulgent supervision of breakfast. So Faramir didn't debate the point, since it wasn't really the point.

Legolas was aware of the same, and had evidently run out of patience with his old friend Aragorn. The silver-blond elf rolled his eyes, and asked Aragorn a question, "Tell me, gwador, is 'pompous kill-joy' two words, or three?'"

Faramir choked on his coffee as Aragorn turned to give Legolas an annoyed glare. Signing, Aragorn set Eldarion gently on his feet and went to pat Faramir on the back as he coughed. "Drink, or laugh, ion-nin." The King advised his Steward and son, "Do not try to do both at once."

Cellillien Veasseniel, Legolas' bodyguard and friend, tried to hide her smile. She thought it was clever of Legolas to have waited until Arwen left for a nap, Eowyn left for work, and Thalion left to tend Calenwen, to ask the King such an impertinent question.

"Why would you ask, Legolas?" Aragorn asked his old friend, mock threat in his tone.

"Well," Legolas said, with a charmingly insouciant grin, "You are channeling some of your elder relatives in "those" moods, which you and I always agreed made them pompous kill-joys....so I thought you must know..."

Faramir couldn't hide a genuine laugh, and even Aragorn had to smile a bit, even as he decided he'd better talk to Faramir about letting a child who'd almost drowned spend the rest of the morning swimming.

Chapter Text

-Aman, during the Years of the Trees-

"Are you sure that you want to give away ALL of your dolls, Artanis?," Princess Earwen questioned gently, meeting the equally bewildered eyes of Artanis' lady-in-waiting, Niniel.

"I am certain." Artanis confirmed serenely, although her voice betrayed an underlying strain, almost a numbness, as Artanis continued. "I no longer play with them. I don't have time, and...my memories of them are not all pleasant. I would like to see some other elfling have them, an elfling who would play with them as they deserve to be played with."

"That is noble, my lady," Niniel said firmly, "However, some of those dolls were given to you by Queen Indis, and by Princesses Nerdanel and Elenwe. It is not acceptable to just GIVE them away to elflings from the less fortunate sections of the city."

"It is my desire to give them away. They were given to me. Now the greatest pleasure they can give me is to be owned by someone who will appreciate them." Artanis said, a familiar stubborn expression coming over her fair features.

In the interest of sanity, Princess Earwen decided to let the issue drop, and to send Artanis' dolls to the house of a prosperous merchant, whose wife organized donations of various items to families going through difficult circumstances. With Artanis as a daughter, Earwen had learned to pick her battles.

-Near the end of the First Age, on the Island of Balar-

"But WHY do we have to do this?" Elros complained, almost whining. "I want to try out my new bow and arrows, not walk all the way to the harbor market and hand out oranges, toys, and sweets to elflings I've never met." Looking to his twin, Elros continued silently, *Elflings who will inevitably stare at us as if we're carnival animals.*

Elrond shrugged. He rather liked going and seeing people, although it was a chilly day, and the thought of curling up with his new books in a comfortable windowseat of the castle, it was a tempting one. *I just ignore the looks. Eventually they'll get used to us.*

Lord Cirdan of the Falas waited with patient tolerance for his wards to finish their silent conversation, before reprimanding Elros mildly, "We are blessed to have enough food on our table, and to be able to afford some few luxuries as well. We have a responsibility as thinking beings to aid those who are in more difficult straits. The battles of Beleriand and the attacks on Doriath, Gondolin, and Sirion have left many in precarious situations. Their leaders have helped as much as they can, but it is proper for us to render what further aid we can. And we will do so."

The twins nodded obediently. This was Cirdan's strict voice, and neither wanted to complain. And by the end of the day, Elros had made three new friends, while Elrond had gotten the chance to assist the healers with several sick elflings. So, a good day was had by all.

-A Village outside Imladris, Early in the Third Age-

Every year, Celebrian and her children led expeditions to the nearby human villages, bringing medicines and rare foodstuffs for the winter. It was always a treat to see the children's faces light up at the sight of the oranges, and the smell of oranges came to remind Celebrian of one of her favorite winter traditions. Now they were packing up their mostly-empty wagon with several hand-made blankets and other gifts from the village.

Andreth's eyes followed her next oldest brother carefully, "Elladan is sad, to see Headwoman Cailistien."

"I don't know why," one of Celebrian's ladies-in-waiting protested, "They used to be such good friends."

Celebrian stepped forward to grab Arwen's hand, "Laes-nin, help me fold these blankets." Arwen made a face but complied, to Celebrian's relief. Arwen's discretion was still a work in progress. And Elladan did not need all of Imladris to know that he had fallen in love with a human, and lost her to a human suitor. Even if Celebrian, and Elrohir, were secretly glad that nothing had come of the romance.

-Near a Village outside Imladris, Early in the Third Age-

"I can't believe that there is really any kind of a settlement this far away from anything!" Fourteen year old Estel protested. They'd been walking for what felt like days, and his feet felt frozen solid. Still, he didn't want to complain. He was strong and capable, even though he was not an elf.

A look passed between Estel's twin foster-brothers, which made him frown, frustrated. He didn't need them to coddle him. He could keep up.

"We will have you before a warm fire in no time, muindor-laes-nin." Elrohir assured him.

"You can supervise the fair dispensing of oranges to the children." Elladan decided, assuring Estel, "Trust me, it is no easy task. They move and squirm and have the charming acquisitive impulses so common to all children. Even you, once. "

Estel made a face at Elladan, but he felt a bit better, nonetheless.

The twins were true to their word, and the village was so very grateful that the elves of Imladris had ventured out to find their new village in one of the worst winters in human memory.

-Near a Village outside Imladris, Early in the Third Age-

Aragorn shivered violently. He had parted company from the last of the rangers he had been patrolling with over a day ago, and was now bound for Imladris. He had promised Arwen that he would do his best to spend Yule with her, and now he was not only going to be very late, but he might freeze to death. He had thought that he knew these woods inside and out...but they had changed, grown darker, in the decade since he had seen them last. He was just about to decide whether to try to make a cold, substandard shelter and wait out the night, or whether he should keep going, when he heard the voice.

"Ranger!" A middle-aged man called, waving to Aragorn from several hundred feet away. Aragorn turned to greet him, and with a start, remembered handing a much younger version of this man an orange, long ago with Elrohir and Elladan.

"Come to our village tonight, Ranger, and warm yourself. We've always food for a ranger, and a warm bed, as well."

"Eru bless you," Aragorn told the man with a smile of gratitude. He might be late to Imladris, but he would not freeze to death. And Arwen would certainly forgive him being late.

-Near a village in Ithilien, in Gondor, sometime in the 4th Age-

"Are you...sure, that this is a good idea, Prince Faramir?" The Prince's squire inquired in a tremulous squeak.

Faramir smiled sympathetically, "Aye, lad. 'Twill be well enough. I know these paths like I know my wife's face. Before you were born, I navigated them in the worst of conditions."

The Prince's party continued on through the snow-storm, loaded down with medicines, apple cider, and oranges to one of Ithilien's more remote settlements. Because some family traditions are worth upholding, even if it annoyed the guards whom Faramir's father had saddled him with.

The Prince's mission was successful, but Faramir's guards had their revenge. The King was rather put out not to have been invited on the trek, and Queen Arwen thought that Faramir and Eowyn should arrange for all of the villages in their princedom to be visited in the Fall, not the winter, as her mother had always done.

Chapter Text

Still covered in dirt from the road, the King of Gondor and Arnor surveyed his eldest son the Steward of Gondor. And the Steward's office, normally a place overflowing with well-ordered industry. Just now, it was a disaster area, and the dust-covered Steward himself was crawled half under a settee, as if searching for something which might have fall underneath.

"I just got back from a three day patrol, Faramir ion-nin, and yet I think that I might be neater than you who has been doing paperwork in the Citadel. Those are some fearsome dust bunnies clinging to your tunic, muin-nin." Aragorn observed archly from the door.

Faramir groaned, carefully extricating himself from under the settee. "You were right, and I was wrong," He confessed to his father and King, covered in dust. "It was a mistake to let any of the children play with the Great Seal of Gondor as if it were a toy. Now it is most decidedly missing, and I am not even sure which child lost it, or where, save that it is most likely somewhere in my office."

Snorting with amusement and exasperation, Aragorn offered his son a hand up.

Smiling ruefully, Faramir accepted, only to be pulled into a firm embrace.

Loosing Faramir, Aragorn began to dust him off gently, while remarking, "I am most happy to hear those words from your Naneth, but hearing them from you is a blessing unlooked for, as well." As he got to the back of Faramir's equally dust covered tunic, Aragorn's hand was a bit firmer as it brushed off the dust from his son's hind quarters. "Now, ion-nin, how can I help?"

Faramir's gray eyes widened in surprise, "You're just going to help me look?"

"Of course," Aragorn replied, with his own wry grin, "I've got plenty of time to mock you, and to tell you that I had told you so, later."

Chapter Text

Legolas felt as at home in the King's House of the Citadel in Minas Tirith as he did anywhere but in a tree. He had a suite there, in the rooms that had once belonged to Prince Anarion's oldest daughter and her family. He kept things there, clothes and books and weapons. Keepsakes, and letters. It was odd, after having lived almost all of his life at his father's Hall in the North of the Greenwood, but now he had three different homes, or four, if one counted the room where he stayed at Emyn Arnen.

He usually slept well in Aragorn's home, but this night his dreams were odd. Not bad, or frightening, but merely odd, and perhaps a bit sad. He dreamt of a graceful sea bird, trapped in a cage of stone. He dream of a plump, white goose, of the kind that populated the gardens and sheds of Gondor, in the midst of a flock of wood storks; tending to wood-stork young, defending the marsh and swimming companionably with them, but always a wing-beat off rhythem. Of an oak with rippling green leaves, by itself in a field of beautiful wild flowers, which died each winter, to be replaced by their children in the spring. Then he awoke, to the soft noise of book pages turning outside his window.

It was the work of a few moments for Legolas to walk out of the window, and leap to the tree that grew there. It was late, or rather early. Early enough in the morning that the moon was still up. But there were already lights gleaming from the windows of the kitchens. Aragorn would be perhaps be up already, and maybe Eowyn. Possibly also others in the royal household, and sometimes Legolas himself. But he'd just ridden from Ithilien-en-Edhil the day before, after a long week of battling the Enemy's lingering influence in the trees. Legolas was tired, but not too tired to notice that his tree already had a resident. The moonlight made her look like a faery Queen, even though she wore an old, patched gown over an uncle's cast-off leggings and tunic.

"Miri," Legolas asked Faramir's middle daughter levelly, "What are you doing with a book in a tree, at 4:30 in the morning?"

"Why, reading, Uncle Las," Mithiriel replied with a soft, wondering smile, "What else should I be doing?"

Breathing out through his nose in amusement to avoid laughing out loud, Legolas sat down beside her on the widest branch of the tree. They were bathed in the silver moonlight, and it was more than bright enough to read. The script of the book seemed almost to glow, in fact.

"Do your parents know that you are here?" Legolas asked.

Mithiriel took so long to reply that the elven Prince had to wonder if his young cousin thought the question rhetorical, but she answered at last, "Did you know that some books can only be read by the light of the moon?"

"Faramir had mentioned, but I thought that he was just joking. It was quite detailed for a jest, though. An old cache of books marked, 'nonsense from Minas Ithil,' mithril and silver detailing on the bindings, yet not a page with any writing, entirely blank." Legolas shrugged, concluding, "But your father comes up with some really elaborate pranks, sometimes. It can be hard to tell, with him."

In answer, Mithiriel just moved the book so that it was in the shadows, out of the moonlight. Legolas peered down at it; the words had truly disappeared. It now contained only blank pages, in the almost-dark. A human probably couldn't have been able to see that, in this light. But he was an elf, and an elf of particularly keen senses. He didn't need the light of the moon to see, except for the words in this book.

"What is it about? Some ancient secret of the Elendili, or the Numenoreans?" He asked, interested despite his intention to be a mature honorary Uncle and ask Mithiriel more pointedly whether her parents knew that she was out in a tree instead of asleep in her bed.

Snorting delicately, Mithiriel denied, "Nothing so exciting, at least not most of the moon-books, including this one. Ada and the archivists insist that we need to read them all, because one or two have contained relevant historical details, and even information on skills we've lost, in the intervening centuries. But most are just dreck - evidently it was the fashion, in Isildur's court, to write even inane family gossip in moon books."

Legolas had to laugh. "Poor archivists, and Mithiriel and Faramir. Thinking that you had made a great discovery, and it's just some Second Age knight's laundry list."

Mithiriel laughed too. "Sometimes it's their grocery lists. This one," She tapped a finger on the tome in her hand, "Is a recipe book."

"Anything good?" Legolas asked.

Shaking her head, Mithiriel answered, "I'm not sure. Mostly just strange. This one is for grape preserves, roasted goat meat, tomatoes, and spices. I can't imagine how that would be good, but the gentleman who wrote it down ran a successful tavern, and it was his most popular and dearly-guarded secret."

Legolas wrinkled his nose, "I can't imagine how that would taste good, either. But sometimes things are good, that you wouldn't expect. Like alligator cooked in chocolate sauce and spices." Nudging Mithiriel's knee gently, Legolas repeated his earlier question, "Do Eowyn and Faramir know that you're here?"

"I left a note, so it depends on whether they're up yet - so Nana probably yes, and Ada, probably no." Mithiriel answered willingly enough, "Ada trusts me to read through these books, and catch anything important, or so regularly odd as to be possibly a code. He likes to read them with me, but I don't actually need the help, anymore." Mithiriel was just thirteen, but regularly assisted her father and grandfather with their correspondence. "Nana doesn't mind anymore if I get up a few hours early, or stay up a few hours late, to read. Not if I have enough energy to keep up with my schedule for the day, and be pleasant about it." Mithiriel put the book down on the branch, and drew her knees up under her chin. Her pensive gaze scanned the skies and her eyes reflected the stars. She was not alone, but she still seemed lonely to Legolas. Because he knew what that felt like, he did not push. He just waited in the morning quiet, until Mithiriel's mercurial attention wandered back to him.

"That seems like quite a concession," Legolas told Mithiriel, remembering earlier arguments between Eowyn and her scholarly daughter, about Mithiriel's reading quite late into the night. "You must be pleased. What does your Daerada Aragorn think?"

Mithiriel smiled, amused. "He muttered something about my not being a cat, that my parents pretended not to hear."

Legolas had to laugh again, "And thus, family harmony was maintained." Sobering, Legolas considered Faramir's just teenaged daughter. Normally, Legolas and Mithiriel expressed affection by teasing one another. Legolas loved all of Faramir's and Aragorn's children, and his foster-brother's elflings as well. They all had marvelously different personalities, despite the commonalities that they shared. Legolas didn't know why Mithiriel in particular made him want to tease her, except perhaps that Mithiriel had started making clever, victimless quips about the people and events surrounding her when she was just seven years old, jokes that had flown over even her elder siblings' heads, until they grew up a bit. So Legolas had joked back, and a pattern had been set. But with no one else around except the two of them, Legolas could be affectionate without having to tease. So he just asked, "You've won the great battle of the books at night. So why do you still seem lost and sad, little owl?"

Clouds moved across the stars reflected in Mithiriel's eyes, and she asked him, "What would you do, if you had only a little more than a century to live?"

Legolas blinked in surprise. "I don't know," he replied honestly, "I've never had to think of that. Just how to keep going, when I lost friends who only had a brief time to be here." Legolas' mind moved to the oak in his dream, and how it would be alone in the winter-bare field, come the snows.

"It bothers me," Mithiriel answered, "I feel...the press of time, I suppose. The need to see things, while I still can. I don't...resent that I have so little time. I have more than a cat, or a horse, and given my family, more than most men. And besides," Mithiriel waved a hand about, the gesture somehow encompassing the tree, the moon, the book, and the family sleeping around her in the King's stone house, "I have so much. It seems...petty, to complain of my lot. But I still...I feel that I will never have enough time to read all there is to read, to try the things that I am reading in these books - not this one so much, although the recipe is intriguing - but not enough time to build a clock that keeps time with lamp oil, or a ship that doesn't need sails to fly over the water, or to alter seeds so that they grow three times as much food, and no one has to go hungry, even in times of famine..." Mithiriel hadn't run out of things to add, but Legolas was nodding, so she ceased. "It just seems...like not enough time." She added quietly, "And I know that Daernaneth feels it, too. And in three generations, at most five or six, you and yours will be gone forever from our shores. And all the memory that we will have will be bound in books like this," she tapped a finger on the recipe book again, "And only trial and error may reveal if they must be read by the light of the moon."

Legolas really didn't have an answer to that. It had never been his problem, but he could understand why it would bother Mithiriel, and even more, Arwen. "Mithrandir, were he still here," Legolas offered, "would say that the problem you have defined is too big. That the only question that faces you, is what to do with the time given to you. And Miriel, you are in a very good position to make a difference for the better, being who and what you are, and to address the problems that you see."

Mithiriel nodded thoughtfully, and Legolas grinned, counting this a victory. Then he shoved Mithiriel out of the tree, because he was close enough to catch her if she didn't catch a branch, and he liked to make sure that this most scholarly of the royal brood was learning how to fall properly.

Mithiriel seemed to have expected the gesture (which made Legolas worry that maybe he was becoming too predictable), as she was rolling as soon as she was in the air, barely falling four feet before she caught another branch, then swinging herself neatly into a position from which she could drop gracefully to the ground.

Legolas didn't apologize; he just grinned again as he nimbly leapt down to stand beside her. "Let's go the kitchens, and marinate some goat in grape, tomato, and spices. We can dare Gimli and your Daerada to eat it, and call them cowards if they don't rise to the challenge."

That got a laugh from Faramir's middle daughter, and so she accepted the hand that Legolas offered her, and they raced to the kitchens through the grass of the gardens, twinkling with the early morning dew.

Chapter Text

Faramir resisted the urge to squirm. The chair in which he was reading was quite comfortable, and his rear end wasn't still hurting, per se. But he could still feel the impression left by his father's hand. Although when he'd looked in the mirror before changing for dinner, he had seen that his sit spots were no longer even pink.

In his distraction, Faramir evidently did squirm. Or so he gathered, from Legolas' amused chuckle.

"Please, Las, either laugh more quietly, or be not here." Faramir requested, blushing.

The elven prince, entirely unimpressed by Faramir's displeasure, didn't move from the carpet near the fire where he was sitting, idly playing out chess games with himself. At a rather high level of skill, Faramir noted, although he did not say anything. Being "not a scholar at all" seemed strangely important to Legolas. Aragorn didn't dispute it, and so Faramir left it alone, too. It didn't seem like the kind of foolishness that could ever get Legolas killed, in any case.

"Poor Faramir," the elf teased instead, "Learning that just pushing back against Ada has consequences. It's been a day and a half, and you're still feeling the sting."

Faramir sighed, and decided to abandon dignity. "He just used his hand," He confided to Legolas, in a tone partly incredulous and partly offended. "And although it..."

"The spanking," Legolas interrupted, with a devilish grin.

Rolling his eyes, and wondering when Legolas would ever give up delighting in Faramir's losing out on these little battles of authority with Aragorn, Faramir conceded, "Even though the spanking was...quite attention-getting, at the time..."

"And several hours later." Legolas said, suppressing another smile. "Or you would not have begged so prettily for salve before your meeting."

Faramir debated the merits of throwing his book at his annoying elven brother-of-the-heart, before deciding that it might damage the book, and Legolas would dodge anyway. With a light glare, Faramir corrected, "I did not beg. When you asked if I wanted the salve that Adar had left with instructions that I was to accept it, I merely answered, "Yes, Please." I was just being polite."

"Oh, yes, 'twas mere politeness that had you accepting Aragorn's offer of more salve 'ere we left for dinner yester-eve." Legolas observed, getting up from the settee with his eyes gleaming mischievously.

Faramir put the book down, and stretched a little in his chair, preparing to defend himself from whatever odd notion had occurred to Legolas now. The Prince of the Kingdom of the Green Leaves was not a predictable member of the family, even by the somewhat high standards set by the King's immediate circle (which included his twin brothers-by-law).

At the last moment, Legolas pivoted oddly, his ankle jerking the chair out from under Faramir.

Taken by surprise, as he'd been expecting a different kind of attack, Faramir fell carefully - knowing that Legolas would likely catch him before he actually hurt himself. His left hand hit the carpet just before his still-tingling bottom, and Faramir gave Legolas a dark look.

The elf just chuckled again, as he knelt over Faramir. "Maybe you should have told my gwador that you'd learned he might be your father, five years ago when first you learned. Then, maybe, you would have learned not to push him...and push him...and push him, until he took you over his knee and delivered a lesson that you will be feeling for another day yet, I think."

Wriggling to get away from his elven captor, Faramir complained, "When are you going to get over my tricking you into keeping that secret for six measly months, you pain of a kinsman?"

"Why Faramir," Legolas protested with a cheery note of put-on innocence, "I don't know what you're talking about. I just think that you should show your father a bit more respect, is all. In fact," Legolas continued, maneuvering the protesting Faramir over his lap with some difficulty, "I think as your elder kinsman I should demonstrate my disapproval of your behavior in a more concrete way." Legolas rested a palm heavily on Faramir's bottom.

Faramir grimaced, as the pressure from Legolas' hand made the tingling sensation and lingering warmth in his backside start to faintly sting again. Faramir decided that the wisest course of action was to stop struggling, so he did. Instead he looked over his shoulder at Legolas, and appealed sincerely, "Please, no?"

Legolas merely raised an eyebrow at him, although he did lift his hand. But just to bring it down again, in several gentle pats to Faramir's still recovering bottom. "I have gathered," Legolas told Faramir softly, and not without sympathy, "That Aragorn learned from his foster-father Lord Elrond the technique with which one can spank a miscreant not harshly, but for a longer period of time, focusing on the undercurve of the buttocks and the sit-spots, so as to ensure that the unfortunate recipient of that correction will still be feeling the lesson several days later. Not so painful as to be truly unpleasant, or to prevent one from going about one's duties with competence and not over-much discomfort. But enough to be...a reminder."

Faramir nodded unhappily, hoping that a show of honest regret- a sincere one, in fact - would dissuade Legolas from adding to the fading fire which Aragorn's displeasure had left on Faramir's rear. "I can still feel the warmth, and not so much a sting as...almost a sunburn. And that reminds me every time I sit down," Faramir confessed with a blush, "That I upset my father, enough that he felt it necessary to correct me so firmly. And I will endeavor earnestly to adhere more closely to his requests that I sleep more regularly." Faramir paused, then added in a more honest, slightly offended tone of voice, "barring emergencies, of course."

Still sitting on Faramir's legs, with one hand on Faramir's back and another resting on his still-sore bottom, Legolas had listened to Faramir's words peaceably, nodding as he felt his younger friend had learned a lesson from this experience. At Faramir's last words, however, Legolas rolled his eyes, and smacked Faramir's right buttock smartly with his hand, making Faramir yelp, and then try to wriggle away as Legolas smacked the other side of his bottom.

"Who gets to define emergencies, tithen gwador?" Legolas asked, with an older brother's skepticism.

Very conscious of his poor bargaining position, Faramir still felt offended. "Adar and I will discuss what constitutes an emergency. If there's a disagreement," Faramir explained, making a face of displeasure, "He wins, because he's the King."

Legolas laughed, and helped Faramir to his feet. "It's a poor argument to win with. But left an inch of possibility to convince someone otherwise, you somehow have not only the door open, but the horse well on its way out the citadel."

Faramir wiggled a bit as he got to his feet, in order to dispel some of the new sting from his bottom. Unfortunately for Faramir's comfort, Legolas' hand had landed, by design or happenstance, exactly on the parts of Faramir's rear end that made contact with chairs. The same area where Aragorn had concentrated his firm swats, and then relatively mild swats, over a rather long period of time. "I know," Faramir conceded after a moment, "That he only takes such stands with me because he cares about me." The Steward smiled a bit helplessly, as he confessed, "I'm just not...entirely accustomed to that. He won't...just let things be. I don't know what to do."

"Just give it some time," Legolas advised, his green eyes now full of affection and empathy for his dear friend.

Faramir squirmed a bit more, as he confessed at last, "It was not right of me, to ask you to keep my secret from Aragorn, who has long been as dear to you as a brother."

"It was not." Legolas agreed, but without the frustration and anger Faramir had expected. Instead the elf seemed...accepting.

'I'm sorry." Faramir offered softly, "I didn't understand, entirely, what I was asking. I thought that it was all my own matter, when it is, was...not."

"A perhaps understandable mistake," Legolas offered with exasperated affection, "Given your past experiences."

Putting an arm around Faramir to shove him back, none-too-gently, into his chair, Legolas continued, "And in any case, I should not have made that promise. Instead, I should have given you three days to confess. After you failed to do so, I should have put you over my knee, and smacked your bottom until it was rosier than I saw it yesterday morn, or at least until you agreed to stop disrespecting your father by keeping a secret which he has much a right to know as you, from his ears."

Faramir squirmed unhappily as his rear end made contact with the chair, "It wasn't intended to be disrespect." He protested.

Leaning over Aragorn's older son, Legolas smiled, the kind of grin that Faramir had come to associate with trouble.

"Oh, Fara, my dear little nephew...," the elf said with with a tone of half commiseration, half threat, "You never intend to be disrespectful. But I think, from now on, when you are, whether or not you intended to be, you should face the consequences. Because your disrespect, as innocently as you mean it, so often turns dangerous...for you, or others."

Faramir sighed, not happy at that prospect but not frightened by it either. Yes, Faramir could still feel his father's displeasure on his backside, two days after the fact. And it was embarrassing, and a little unsettling. But it wasn't really painful, and Faramir had been left in no doubt that although Aragorn had been displeased with Faramir's neglecting his own health, Faramir had never been in his father's bad graces. Aragorn had all times acted in such a way that Faramir knew he was loved. Which made the stinging, tingling sensation in Faramir's bottom as much a reminder of that parental caring, as a badge of shame for having failed to listen to his father's instructions. Legolas' last words deserved an answer, so Faramir tried to give him one. "I will try not to..." Faramir paused, not sure what to say.

"I am fascinated by how you intend to complete that sentence," Legolas said merrily, his eyes laughing, "But you seem stalled, so please allow me to assist. You will most earnestly endeavor - and we know that you will be earnest, as you are always earnest - not to, in the future, hide from the man who would most like to have a better right to take care of you, that you are in fact his son." Legolas paused to think, "Hmm, a bit late on that one, I think, Faramir. Although perhaps you could promise not to risk your life in his place without consulting him about it."

"I've already promised that." Faramir informed the elf, a bit shame-faced.

Legolas laughed lightly, "Oh, I'm sure that Aragorn made you promise that."

Faramir flushed, as he remembered that Legolas remembered the other circumstances around the making of that promise. Then Faramir frowned, "I do mean to keep my promises, Legolas." He protested.

"Then promise me this, dear friend, my little-brother-of-the-heart." Legolas said, suddenly serious, "Promise me that you will let him be your father, and help you and cherish you, as much as he wishes to."

"I...", Faramir paused. Aragorn had all kinds of strange expectations of him, that Faramir was only barely beginning to fathom. How could he possibly promise that he could let Aragorn be his father, when Faramir didn't really know what that meant. Squirming on his tingling but not quite sore bottom, Faramir offered the best that he could honestly give, "I promise to try."

Legolas sighed, before sitting next to Faramir. Gently cupping his hands on either side of the Steward's face, Legolas gave Faramir a brotherly kiss on the brow, before assuring Faramir softly, "If it is the best that you can give, it will have to be enough."

"We are going to be late for dinner," A familiar, much-loved voice called from the door way.

"Adar!" Faramir called, looking up in surprise. "I'm sorry," the Steward continued, "I'd meant to have this read before we started, so that we could discuss..."

"It is no matter, Faramir." Aragorn assured his son affectionately, "I haven't managed to get through what I'd intended to have prepared for the after-dinner meeting with the treasurers, either. In fact I think that we should never again schedule meetings with them for the evening. Maybe in the mid-afternoon?"

Faramir frowned slightly, "When you are most likely to fall asleep? That seems a poor plan, Adar."

Legolas snorted lightly, "Seems a good one, to me."

Aragorn eyed them both with tolerant amusement, "What were the two of you discussing 'ere I came in, that had you both so serious?"

"Hunting." Legolas replied seriously. "And swimming."

Faramir rolled his eyes. "Relative morality, and causality."

"Ah," Aragorn remarked wisely, an intrigued look in his gray eyes. But he knew that he would get no more information from either Prince, so he just collected them both under an arm, and herded them to dinner. Hoping that they would not gang up on him, when the treasurers demanded again that the royal wardrobe should be updated.

Chapter Text

The door from the King's private study opened again, and Legolas and Gimli both turned away from their game of chess to regard the King of Gondor and Arnor, and his son the Steward.

Faramir seemed a bit flustered, and almost resentful. He was not accustomed to drawing his father's ire twice in one week. Aragorn, although likewise hard to read, appeared noticeably frustrated. At least to those who knew him well, as both elven Prince and dwarven Lord did.

The following dinner was not that uncomfortable, for all of that. Father and son were annoyed with one another, but not too annoyed to join in the friendly banter that was customary when old friends reunited. The foursome cheerfully made plans for the coming weeks, when they would join Aragorn's and Faramir's families in Ithilien. Gimli had plans to reinforce several of the structures at Emyn Arnen and even some of the store-rooms at Ithilien-en-Edhil. Legolas felt that Gimli's plans were excessive and unsuited to the natural woodland ambiance characteristic of the elvish settlement. For the better part of half an hour, Aragorn and Faramir quietly enjoyed what they liked to call "the Legolas and Gimli show," trading amused glances back and forth.

It wasn't until later that evening, poring over maps of Arnor, that Aragorn's frustration with his son's behavior once again spilled over.

Faramir was discussing alternative plans for defusing the antagonism between the realms of Gondor and Arnor, and their traditional enemies to the south and east, when Aragorn slammed his hands down on the table.

"How," Aragorn asked Faramir, his gray eyes sharp with exasperation, "Do you expect to be around to implement these plans of yours, ion-nin, if you persist in inserting yourself between every envoy of Harad who says something foolish, and our idiot citizens who then proceed to threaten him with spears?"

"First off," Faramir replied with exasperated patience, "That specific set of circumstances has only happened once. It was today, and you've already expressed your opinion of it at tedious length. Please do not exaggerate one incident into a pattern -it is sloppy logic more fitting to five year old Eldarion than to you. Secondly," Faramir paused in thought, as Aragorn threw his hands up in frustration at the first part of his son's statement, and Legolas rolled his eyes. Gimli, meanwhile, just puffed on his pipe quietly, his eyes regarding both father and son thoughtfully.

"Secondly," Faramir repeated, pausing again to gather his thoughts. He appeared pensive, and no longer at all incensed with Aragorn.

In response, the King let go of his exasperation as well. "Secondly, my son?" Prompted Aragorn gently, when Faramir seemed at a loss for words.

"I suppose...I suppose that I just never thought to live so long as to be able to implement plans for that far into the future," Faramir remarked. Amazed as if just coming to that realization himself, the Steward of Gondor continued, "I've just never thought that I would live so long, so I've never planned for it."

Aragorn's face went blank for a moment, although he recovered quickly. Dead serious, he snapped at Faramir, "Well, start thinking about it."

"Ah...yes, Sire." Faramir answered quickly, going suddenly somber and obedient as he saw the haunted look in his father's eyes, and the steely expression on Aragorn's face.

"Good." Aragorn answered tightly, before stepping out onto the balcony for some air. Before he left, he rested a hand on Faramir's shoulder, and squeezed gently, as if to say that he was not angry, he just needed a moment.

As soon as Aragorn was out of sight, Legolas swatted Faramir's already sore backside, hard.

"Ow!" Faramir yelped indignantly. "What was that for?" He demanded of Legolas.

Legolas snapped back, "Are you an idiot? What do you mean, 'what was that for?' Can't you see how it hurts him when you SAY things like that?"

Faramir inhaled roughly, and seemed unsure of what to say.

"Legolas," Gimli inserted gruffly, "Back off."

"Back off?" Legolas replied immediately, gesturing incredulously towards Faramir, as if to ask how Gimli could even recommend such an action.

"They need to figure these things out for themselves." Gimli reminded Legolas, his tone gentle, and his eyes sympathetic as he took in the still quiet Faramir. "It's not as if Faramir meant his words to wound. And I seem to remember having had a similar conversation with you, once."

Legolas snorted delicately in response to that, but his demeanor was almost apologetic, towards both Faramir and Gimli, as he jested, "I think that was some other blond, handsome elf."

Gimli chuckled, and even Faramir managed a smile, as Gimli retorted back, "As much as I do enjoy spending time with your cousin Televegil, particularly when he tries to help me design buildings whilst drunk off of his elven rear, I don't think I've ever been inspired to have such a heart-to-heart conversation with him."

Smiling mischievously, Legolas shook his head, "Oh, no, I meant Lord Glorfindel."

"As humorous as it would no doubt be for Legolas to continue that train of thought," Aragorn interrupted with a slight smile as he returned, "I think that we'd best turn our attention back to making plans to counter Harad's latest plots to make our lives frustrating." Aragorn eyed Faramir with fond annoyance as he continued, "So that our Faramir has a reason to think towards the future."

"Ai," Faramir objected under his breath, mumbling the rest of his retort even more quietly while Aragorn pretended not to hear it. The next few hours were spent companionably enough, although it was clear to all present that Aragorn wasn't finished discussing the matter of 'future plans' with his oldest son.

Stretching in a cat-like manner as the maps were put away, Legolas inquired in a conciliatory tone, "Gimli and I are going out to see how drunk we can get his former apprentices before they start singing again. Care to join, Fara?" Aragorn had already expressed his plans to confine himself to his office, in an attempt to finish reading through all of his paperwork so that he wouldn't have to worry about it while they were in Emyn Arnen for the next few weeks.

"Ah..." Faramir commented, his tone both bemused and disbelieving, "I don't think I can, tonight, Las. Apparently, I'm grounded."

Aragorn murmured something under his breath that sounded like, "Oh, so you can listen...," while Legolas snorted in amusement.

"Now, that, I'll believe." Legolas commented, his eyes glinting with humor, before he turned back to his dwarven companion, "Let's go, Gimli. I don't want to miss the ditty about the sailors and the manatee."

Gimli held up a tolerant hand to arrest Legolas' movement, commenting blandly, "You wouldn't be thinking of leaving without Televegil and Cellilien, would you now, my fine lad? You know how sulky they get when you wriggle around your brother's orders that they hang about with you. Them being your bodyguards, and such."

"In the city?" Legolas replied incredulously, "When have we ever been threatened in Minas Tirith?" Glancing towards The King and his Steward, the elven Prince amended, "Well, when assassins weren't after Aragorn or Faramir, I mean?"

Aragorn and Gimli shared an exasperated look, Gimli gesturing that the King should take this one.

"Legolas." Faramir said softly, before either King or dwarf could comment.

The elven Prince's green eyes met the gray gaze of the Prince of Ithilien, and Legolas looked away first.

"Very well," the Crown Prince of Eryn Lasgalen and the ruler of Ithilien-en-Edhil accepted, with a sigh. Brightening, the irrepressible elf gave Gimli another mischievous grin, "Do you think that we can get Tel drunk enough to start on the story about the mule and the stone mason again? I don't think that Celli has heard it yet, and she corresponds regularly with Televegil's parents."

Gimli choked with laughter, before replying with a gleam in his own eyes, "You just like getting your cousin in trouble."

Legolas cheerfully agreed, as the two bade the King and his son their farewells.

"I'll help you with your paperwork," Faramir offered into the suddenly uncomfortable silence.

Aragorn shook his head fondly, "Play your harp for me, instead, if you will, ion-nin. Time enough to talk of other things."

"Yes," Faramir agreed quietly, "Time enough." The two nodded at one another, once again at peace, and as always, pleased to keep one another's company. Then Faramir tuned his harp, and began to play a melody that had been a favorite of Finduilas' as a warm-up, before settling into a rippling scale of notes that was part of a new song he and Melpomaen were composing for Arwen, mostly by correspondence. Aragorn worked quietly, smiling every now and then at the music, and even at Faramir's frequent mistakes and jangled notes. The Prince of Ithilien was still learning the harp; it was one of those skills that he had never thought, before, that he'd have time in his future to learn.

Chapter Text

"He's not being at all reasonable."
.
"Mm...hmm."

"If he would just calm down and analyze the situation, he would see that it is not so untenable as he believes."

"Undoubtedly."

Exasperated, Faramir turned away from the vista of Minas Tirith. "Are you even paying attention?" He complained.

Aragorn huffed a laugh as he put his pipe down. "I am listening, Faramir."

"And?" Faramir practically elongated the question, managing to blend frustration, fondness, and expectation all in that one word. Aragorn couldn't resist an amused smile at that, and another light laugh as Faramir narrowed his eyes in annoyance at the smile.

"And?" Aragorn teased, even though he knew perfectly well what Faramir expected.

"And," Faramir elaborated, giving his father a reproving look, "What is your advice, oh wise Adar and great King? You have never in the past hesitated to tell me exactly what you think I should do with my children."

"Who are also, after all, MY grandchildren." Aragorn interjected absently.

Faramir waved a hand, "In any case, it has always been...'You let them have too many sweets, ion-nin. You let them stay up too late. You should encourage them to spend more time and effort studying the healing arts, since they have inherited your proclivity for finding trouble. You should let me take them to Arnor this winter. You should tell Eowyn not to have them riding before they can walk, what if they fall? You should...'"

"All of that was good advice." Aragorn pointed out, interrupting a litany which he suspected would go on for quite awhile, and perhaps not show him in a particularly good light.

Faramir threw his hands in the air, and Aragorn didn't even try to hide another smile at his most composed child's unusual demonstration of aggravation.

"I don't know why you ask me for advice, Faramir, as you hardly ever take it."

"That's not true."

"No, it's not. Or at least not in the main." Aragorn allowed, reaching out a gentle hand to tug the pacing Faramir onto the seat beside him.

Faramir sighed, but he did relax a bit, releasing some of the tension that has marred his mood for most of the evening. "So she's a commoner. I don't care; why should anyone else?"

"He's a Prince. Or he will be." Aragorn commented quietly.

"Uncle Imrahil's wife was a commoner." Faramir pointed out, calming still further, although he was no less intense.

"Lorias was the daughter of a decorated captain in Adrahil's navy, and she grew up as a companion of the Prince's children. And besides that, Dol Amroth has always been different."

"Blessedly so." Faramir replied, sighing again.

"Where Ithilien goes, others may follow." Aragorn commented, one side of his lips quirking into a rueful half-smile. "Or so you have told me, often enough. When you incorporated a known symbol of bastardy into your coat of arms to make a point; when you demanded that Theodwyn be recognized as your heir should you die without a son despite the fact that you KNEW Eowyn was going to have Elboron rather than a second daughter; when..."

It was Faramir's turn to interrupt, as this particular list could easily show that Aragorn's son could be just as stubbornly determined as his father. "Arwen agreed with that last," Faramir pointed out.

"She did. She has also advised you to leave this matter alone." Aragorn reminded his son archly.

"More like commanded." Faramir confessed, running an agitated hand through his red-gold hair.

"Don't interfere in your children's love lives." Aragorn offered, "There. That's my wise, fatherly advice." To emphasize that wisdom, Aragorn nudged his son's nearer leg with one booted foot.

Faramir ignored the "I wouldn't, except that they're being foolish!" Faramir objected, elaborating, "They're wasting time worrying over what other people will think, when we can handle that. They deserve their happiness. Being prince and steward is burden enough, not having someone worthy to share it with is far worse."

"An interesting analysis, coming from the man who once took it upon himself to determine that, just because telling me that I had fathered him would be politically messy, it wasn't worth the doing."

"Oh, bravo, Adar." Faramir replied, nobly resisting the temptation to roll his eyes, "You've just missed beating your previous record of going six months without throwing that in my face." Faramir did not resist the temptation to kick the King's ankle. Slightly harder than Aragorn had nudged his leg.

Aragorn grinned, swatting Faramir's nearer hip sharply. "In other words, ion-nin, you're not in the best of positions to complain about your son's decision to court his lady for several years before marrying her."

"Perhaps not," Faramir allowed, blushing lightly, "But, still, when I was Elboron's age, I was married and almost twice over a father."

"And yet, when you were that same age, only several months had I known that you were my son. Let Elboron and Cellaras figure this out on their own." Aragorn said firmly, refilling his pipe. "And tell me instead of why you think it is a good idea to let your youngest son travel halfway across the world by himself to visit his least practical sister and her equally impractical husband." Although the King's tone was stern, his eyes laughed.

Faramir did roll his eyes fondly at that, and his voice was more amused than irritated as he began, "First off, Mithiriel isn't that impractical, and neither is my son-by-law. And secondly, 'halfway across the world' is more than a slight exaggeration..."

The sun finished setting and the first stars appeared, as the King and the Steward of Gondor bickered amicably, putting the cares of the day to rest.

Chapter Text

Faramir was easy to like. From the first, he was not just courteous, but courteous in such a careful, thoughtful manner, that it was clear the courtesy emanated from innate kindness and concern for others rather than a desire to gain favor by flattery.

Faramir was easy to work with. Competent, skilled, clever, although most often quiet. Faramir was not easy to get to know well; but once one knew him, he was easy to love. And with his well-hidden sarcastic side, the Steward became a welcome companion to the King in long and often boring and frustrating meetings.

It was good, that Faramir was easy to like, easy to trust, easy to love. For Minas Tirith had welcomed Aragorn, their savior, as a long-lost King. But Aragorn never forgot that it was Faramir who held the city's love. Elesssar, first of the House of Telcontar, might rule the Two Kingdoms. But it was Faramir who was Gondor's favorite son. If the King had ever turned against his Steward, Aragorn would have lost Minas Tirith, and, in time, Gondor as well. For Aragorn was the King, but Faramir was THEIRS.

Aragorn didn't mind. The King himself did not have a favorite son, and did his best not to play favorites. But even if Faramir had not been his by blood, Faramir would have become his, too. Kith if not kin. Which made it easier. But Aragorn never forgot that he had been lucky, in that Faramir was easy to like, easy to love. Because Aragorn held the White City's respect; but Faramir held its love.

Chapter Text

The only sound in the King's study was the quiet scratch of quill upon parchment. At the desk sat King Elessar of the House of Telcontar, better known as 'Aragorn' to his intimates and 'Father,' or the elvish 'Adar,' to his children. The eldest of those children was currently sitting at another desk in the same room. To someone who did not know Prince Faramir, the Steward of Gondor, he might seem merely intent upon his work. But Aragorn could tell that Faramir was quite frustrated, offended, even angry, just by the stiff line of his back and the over-quick harsh, quick speed of his quill across the page.

The King leaned back in his chair, the better to contemplate his beloved older son. The son he hadn't known about for nearly the first forty years of Faramir's life. A life which Faramir had quite evidently spent much of in determining a level and quality of stubbornness which was, under normal circumstances, only associated with certain particularly obdurate sub-species of mules. Aragorn could tell the exact moment when Faramir became aware of his scrutiny, by the ever-so-slight tightening of his lips and the increased speed of his quill. Aragorn had to smile as well as shake his head, because as much as he sometimes rued his oldest son's stubbornness, and ability to deceive even his King and father himself when Faramir deemed it for the best, Aragorn loved his son. And loving Faramir, he had to recognize that even that stubbornness, and that stubborn devotion to duty beyond reason, were so much a part of his son. He could not love Faramir without loving that part of Faramir, at least a little. And maybe it was even true, as Faramir and Arwen alleged that it was, that Aragorn could normally handle those traits in his son with equanimity because Aragorn himself possessed them.

But this time, Faramir had exceeded even his father's tolerance. And the Steward and vassal the King's, as well. This particular punishment was for both son and officer, and Faramir was making it much worse than it needed to be by his poor attitude. There was tea, and wine, and a variety of sweetmeats laid out on the other table. If Faramir would just calm down and accept that he was stuck with this until he was done, then father and son could spend this time congenially even if Faramir was there to be punished. But no, the Steward had to resent this time spent away from his other duties, and the son resent what he perceived as the juvenile nature of the punishment. Well, if Faramir was determined to make this time unpleasant when Aragorn would have preferred to let it be congenial, then Aragorn was more than willing to oblige him by adding fuel to the fire.

"If I can't read what you've written," Aragorn drawled, "then I will make you write every word of it all over again."

Gratifyingly, Faramir's lips tightened still further. He even paused, clenching the quill so tightly in his hand that it broke. Clearly struggling to keep a hold of his temper, the Prince of Ithilien put his broken quill down, and picked up another. He used his belt knife to trim the tip, and then dipped in the ink pot with almost as much force as if he were stabbing someone.
Aragorn had just decided to stop tormenting Faramir and go back to reading the harvest reports from the southern-most fiefdoms when Faramir finally replied.

"If you make me write every word again," Faramir said with carefully forced neutrality that did little to hide his anger and indignation, "then you will never make even a snail's progress with the scrolls littering your desk. You're already well behind, with me so uselessly occupied."

"Go ahead, Faramir. Call my bluff. I usually let you get away with that, because I respect your opinions. When you take a stand on something, I do listen. But this, this time, you were entirely in the wrong. And I promise you that I am in deadly earnest about making you re-write every single word in every single one of those thousand lines."

Gray eyes met gray eyes across desk and table. Neither man wanted to be the first to look away. At the last it was Faramir, but not because he was conceding the point. More because, even less so than Aragorn, Faramir did not care about appearing to win a battle of wills. He just wanted to win the war. But this time he made a tactical error, murmuring something uncomplimentary about Aragorn's sense of humor, priorities, and general intelligence. It was low enough that Aragorn could have pretended not to hear it. Normally, he would have. Or he would have teased Faramir about it, so that Faramir would know that Aragorn could have made something of it, but chose not to. Normally, Aragorn rather liked that Faramir felt safe enough around him, to back-talk him in private. But this had not been a normal year, thanks to Faramir thinking that he could secretly continue to play the spy for a decade, consequently getting drafted into the Haradrim army, kidnapped by slavers, shipwrecked with Amrothos, and returning home after six months when his family had thought him more-likely-than-not dead.

"Well, I will give you that you are done with writing lines for now. Get up, ion-nin. Close and bar the door, and come over to me." Aragorn himself walked to a backless chair on the other side of the table.

Faramir slammed his quill down on the table, showering his scroll, the table, and himself with ink. "You cannot possibly be serious, Adar?"

"I am in complete earnest. The door, Faramir, unless you wish a late-working clerk to witness the Steward of Gondor getting his bare bottom spanked by the King."

"You are serious about this. You are seriously going to spank me for treating these lines as what they are - a ridiculous response to an understandable impulse that just went wrong."

"'An impulse,' Faramir," The King began caustically, "Is when a situation occurs - such as seeing an elleth in a horde of orcs- and you - or rather Legolas- make an on-the-spot, spur-of-the-moment, unconsidered decision that you must rescue her, and you decide that you must rescue him. That is an impulse. A terrible, unreasonable, reckless decision, for an understandably compelling reason with respect to which there was not the time for proper contemplation or planning. The rescue of Grace was an idiotic and dangerous impulse, and you were both punished for following it. This...this concealing from me your activities as a spy since first I became King, this repeated risking of your life far within our enemies' borders...this was a long-standing plan to deceive me, and your country, into thinking that you were safe when you were, in fact, in great danger. I cannot think of a punishment that I would levy upon you which would be a sufficient tariff for the wrong that you have done against me, and against our kingdom, in your idiotic, self-sacrificing, deceitful machinations." Despite the threatening tone in Aragorn's voice, Faramir had walked over to the dreaded chair, and now stood right before Aragorn.

The King paused, and took several deep breaths, calming himself down, before ordering, "Now, my dear, stubborn son, you will undo the ties to your leggings, bare your bottom, and lay down over my knees, so that I can spank this current spate of childish petulance out of your foolish backside."

Faramir's jaw tightened with anger and dread, and his face flushed with embarassment. But he was obedient to his father's will, and he moved to obey without hesitation. Within moments, Aragorn found himself with Faramir's lean, muscular, too-thin body over his lap. Putting an arm around his son's slender waist, Aragorn pulled Faramir's body a bit further towards one side. Faramir could then better reach to lay his hands against the fine carpet, but his bottom was also better presented for Aragorn's attentions, with his sit spots more prominently displayed.

"I loathe you more than just a little bit, right now." Faramir told Aragorn through gritted teeth.

Aragorn fondly patted one of the pale mounds of Faramir's bottom which were laid out in front of him, before lightly promising, "Then perhaps you should not insist of making yourself a martyr while you are writing your lines. Because if you are determined to act as if I've no right to punish thusly, as if I am, in fact, a fool for doing so, then I will not feel guilty about making theses evenings even more unpleasant for you."

"I really loathe you right now. I hope that Elrohir finds out about the extent of your drinking when you were Thorongil in Gondor, and I hope that he spanks you every night for a month for it." Faramir replied intently.

"And yet," Aragorn replied, laying down a first firm smack on Faramir's pale right buttock cheek, "You have not yet snitched on me, not in the many years you must have known about that. And they say that there is no loyalty in families." Aragorn continued the spanking as he spoke, applying firm swats to the fullest part of Faramir's bottom, then to the undercurve, and finally to the already sore sit-spots.

Faramir was gasping, and fighting the urge to squirm with every fiber of his being. But still, he replied, "Maybe because it wouldn't be fair. Not in retaliation for this."

Aragorn, who had been applying vigorous smacks to Faramir's rapidly reddening sit spots, paused at that. Laying a warning hand on Faramir's well-heated bottom, he asked, "Because...you concede that whatever punishment I assign you, you have more than earned."

Faramir nodded stiffly, giving into the urge to wriggle and whimper all at once. "Yes," He replied, lifting up a hand to wipe the tears from his face, "Yes, its fair, anything would be fair, I know, I do know, Ada. I just hate it. Its a waste of your time as well as mine. I was away for half a year- please let me make up for being gone. Please give up on making me write out how wrong I was, because I know how wrong I was, and let me get back to the business of helping you run the Kingdoms, before I fail you more at that, as well."

With one hand, Aragorn gently patted Faramir's back. "You have not failed me, save in the trust you repose in me. Save in your flawed evaluation of acceptable risks. And in taking on yourself a decision- many decisions - which were properly mine to make. Not yours." With that, Aragorn continued the spanking, applying a final circuit of stinging swats to every part of Faramir's bottom, and focusing with especial force on the places where his son was mostly likely to feel the spanking later.

When Aragorn deemed the spanking over, his son lay over his lap, more or less limp, hands braced on the soft carpet below. Aragorn waited a few moments while Faramir's breathing slowed back to normal. The Steward's bottom was a bright but gradually darkening pink, from the top curve down through undercurve. Faramir's sit spots were a particularly dark shade of rose, and Aragorn did not envy his son being seated for the rest of the evening, not on that bottom.

When Faramir's breathing had slowed, Aragorn patted one hot bottom cheek gently, and asked, "Would not it have better for your bottom and my hand both, had you been willing to accept this punishment in good part, and enjoy a light repast and pleasant conversation with me.?"

Faramir sniffed, regretful and trying to regain his composure. He pushed off the carpet, grateful when Aragorn's hands immediately moved to aid him in arising. Standing before his father, bare-legged and pink-bottomed, Faramir smiled ruefully and asked, "If that offer is still on the table, for future nights or this one, I would like very much to take you up on it."

Aragorn pulled his son into a fierce embrace, his voice husky in Faramir's ear as he promised, "That offer will always be open to you. Your place within my heart could never be taken from you. Just try not to be such a pouting child about this punishment, eh? And don't ever, ever do what you did to get you into this, again."

"Yes, Adar." Faramir agreed instantly, pulling his leggings up over his smarting bottom and securing them with a hiss of pain and discomfort. With another wry half-smile, Faramir amended, "At least, I promise to try not to be such a petulant wart about the punishments, and I promise to never keep such a decision from you- such a dangerous part of my life from you- ever again. For that, I am truly and eternally sorry, and not just because I've forgotten what it feels like to sit without squirming on a recently-spanked bottom, or worse, a recently paddled or birched one."

"I know that you are." Aragorn acknowledged softly, wiping the tear tracks on his son's face gently away with a handkerchief, and then pressing a fatherly kiss of forgiveness to Faramir's brow. "Now," Aragorn said, with a firm but not unsympathetic point towards Faramir's chair, "You will continue working on this punishment."

Faramir's eyes turned to his chair, and he swallowed nervously. His hands went to rub his backside of their own volition, and he turned to his father. "Really? I must sit, after you spanked me so soundly? May I not stand to write my lines? Please?"

"No, I'm afraid you must sit tonight, ion-muin-nin." Aragorn answered with sympathy but no willingness to be dissuaded.

Faramir was obedient when it came to direct orders, at least when they did not put someone else or his country in jeopardy. So he sat, and he squirmed, but he managed to write 200 more times:

"I will not, ever again, fail to inform my father, my King, or my fellow officers on the council of Gondor as to when I am engaged in some duty or action on their behalf, or on the behalf of the Two Kingdoms. I will not risk my life foolishly. Instead of relying upon my own judgment as to what constitutes "foolishly," I will rely on my father's. I will not worry my father and my family by disappearing for six months. I will re-earn their trust that I have lost by learning this lesson and keeping these promises."

'It's really a paragraph," Faramir murmured unhappily, "Not a line."

"Was that a complaint, ion-nin?" Aragorn said, in a dangerously amiable tone of voice.

"Ah, no. No, Ada. It was just an observation."

"Well, that is for the best, as we are done for this evening." Aragorn said firmly.

Faramir looked at the sky out of the window, and frowned lightly. "But its not yet sunset. You had intended that we continue until dinner."

Aragorn gently pulled Faramir to his feet, and guided him towards the door with an arm loosely hitched around Faramir's shoulders, explaining, "And now I am deciding that we will walk in the gardens, and possibly even give you a bit of salve before dinner. So that you need not squirm then."

Faramir sighed in relief, and relaxed a bit against his father's shoulder as they walked.

"Faramir," Aragorn said as they walked past a particularly musical fountain, "Just so you know. I have already endured your loss for six months. I was preparing myself for the crushing possibility of having lost you forever. I do value your ability to keep the Kingdom and the city running smoothly with an ease that makes me both envy and bless you. But I value your life much more highly, and if it takes keeping Imrahil and our added staff about to assist with your duties until I am entirely satisfied that you have learned your lesson and will never take such responsibilities and dangers upon yourself again, then I am willing to accept that situation. Indefinitely."

Faramir paused and looked down at the swirling waters of the fountain, built to resemble a true mountain stream as it meandered through the trees of the garden. After a moment, Faramir looked up at his father, grey eyes meeting grey eyes again.

"You truly are serious about this, aren't you?" Faramir asked softly, overwhelmed.

"If you are at last beginning to grasp that," Aragorn said, relief and emotion making his voice hoarse, "Then maybe we are finally making progress."

Faramir brightened a bit, "Does that mean that you will excuse Orohael from his current occupation of stalking my every move?"

Aragorn flat-out laughed. In fact, he doubled over in laughter. Looking up at the unhappy Faramir, he started laughing again, so hard that he had to sit down on the grass.

"How long was it, again, ion-nin? That you were gaily traipsing over the border into Harad and even Umbar, merrily pretending to be a merchant so that you could spy on enemies who wouldn't have hesitated to torture you to death if they'd gotten any inkling as to who you truly were?"

Faramir flushed, but didn't hesitate to rebut, "Approximately twenty years. But for over half of them, I didn't even know you. You can't hold me accountable for those."

"Watch me." Aragorn drawled in response, "Although I might have conceded that point, had you come clean about this whole 'sometimes-I'm-a-spy' mess, when first I became King, and we started restructuring your and Dervorin's southern spy network." Aragorn got up, and leaned toward his son, promising, "Faramir, I would have even helped you, then. I would have sympathized with you. I would not have let you out and about in Harad, but I would have let you meet with contacts in Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth, anywhere we could have guaranteed you appropriate back-up, until you had transitioned other spies into your former roles. But you didn't give me the choice, you took it from me. You knew that was wrong, that I would never have approved. You're going to have to earn back my trust."

Faramir had known all of that already, and he did take it seriously. But his query now was, "So, Orohael stays?"

The King nodded, "And Delufer and the others as well. Men of my King's Guard will guard you, probably for at least the next twenty years. Or at least until you have convinced me that you value your life even half as much as I do, and that you will no longer conceal important information from me out of some half-baked notion that I wouldn't want to know it, or that it's better for me not to know because I'd stop you from risking yourself even if it was the best option. Because it wasn't the best option. Even if I weren't your father, it still would have been negligently stupid."

"I know that you feel that way. I am sorry for defying your will, my King. I am sorry for worrying my father." Faramir replied.

"And yet, you are not entirely certain that I am right." Aragorn noted, marveling again at Faramir's stubbornness and self-sacrificing nature.

"I'm sure that my decisions were objective disasters. I'm just not certain that I was wrong." Faramir confessed.

Aragorn couldn't resist swatting his son's sore backside. It made Faramir lose his balance and fall into the fountain.

Both men started laughing. Aragorn sat down in the fountain beside his son, shooing a fish away from nibbling harmlessly on Faramir's toes.

"Thanks. It tickles when they do that." Faramir said with a soft, amused smile.

"Arwen will shoot me dirty looks all night, if she sees I've been pushing you into fountains again." Aragorn commented, pulling out his pipe and then sighing mournfully at its sodden state.

"We've time to get cleaned up before dinner." Faramir noted, content just to sit in the cool water for a moment.

"Time enough for that, and time enough for sorting all of this out." Aragorn agreed. Pulling Faramir closer to him, the King said fervently, "Thank Eru and all the Valar that we have you back, and time to keep sorting out your cunning fox lair of a mind."

"Like father, like son." Faramir retorted, although his eyes were soft with affection.

"Oh, do be quiet, Faramir." Aragorn said with a laugh, lying down and floating in the water. Admiring the green tree boughs above him, the music of the wind through the branches and the flowing water. Mostly, just reveling in having the son he'd thought lost beside him again, safe and sound and fairly likely to stay that way.

Chapter Text

"It was not unexpected." The mourners murmured. To Emyn Arnen they had come, the powerful and the humble and all sorts of folk in between. For there were few within Gondor or without who had not loved the White Lady, and fewer still who had not come to respect her. The Lady Eowyn had been the niece, sister, and daughter-by-law of Kings; the wife of a Steward and a Prince; the mother of a Queen, an Empress, a Prince and a noble lady; the aunt of princes and princesses and Kings-to-be. And yet still, her greatest fame had been won by her own might and skill.

"It is the end of an era." Some said softly. And indeed it was true that young people were now coming to power who had never known the fear of dark times, who had been born as the lands healed.

"If he had married one of us," some of the aging, embittered noble maids of Gondor whispered, "Then he would have decades left 'ere he mourned."

The Prince of Ithilien moved through the crowds like a man whose spirit had already left his body. Few of the whispers reached his ears, surrounded as he was by children, grandchildren, siblings by blood and marriage, a dozen nieces and nephews, and cousins beyond count. And even if the meaningless and hurtful words had reached his ears, he still might not have truly heard them.

"We may lose him, too, 'ere the leaves next turn." The Empress of Khand said softly to her brother, the heir of Ithilien.

Elboron stayed quiet, as was his wont when he had not yet decided what answer to give. His wife spoke for him, as she sometimes did when it was just family about.

"No," said the Lady Cellaras, "Father Faramir is too active in all of our lives, too enmeshed in the business of the Kingdoms. Surely he would not die and leave his children and little siblings all alone."

Elboron stayed silent. It was Mithiriel, Faramir's middle daughter, who spoke next. "I'm not sure if we can understand, any of us. He knew little of happiness or hope before her. They loved one another as brightly as the stars, from the first day they promised themselves to one another."

"Not a day went by that they did not write to eachother, anytime they were apart." Princess Melyanna pointed out.

Mithiriel nodded, "And I am not sure that Adar knows how to be happy without mother. She became half of his soul."

"We'll hold Ada Faramir, us and Eldarion, until grandfather Aragorn arrives." Queen Theodwyn swore. "He will not let our father die so young, whatever he must do."

Crown Princess Jalila nodded sagely, "Eldarion has a plan."

"We will do as Eldarion says." Theodwyn ordered.

"Really, Thea. We're not your wildlings of Rhun, so you can't order us about just like that." Prince Alphros of Dol Amroth objected, only half serious.

"We shall do as Theodwyn says." Elboron finally spoke, with a teasing grin for his cousin Alphros.

"You always take their side!" Alphros bantered back, a wry, bittersweet smile adorning his fair features. He looked like Boromir of the House of Hurin, if Boromir had lived to be almost sixty. Alphros' cousins shared their first smile since their mother's and sister's death, because Alphros had his lost cousins' skill to give a gift of humor in even the most grievous of circumstances. He was their light in the harbor, on this moonless, storm-tossed night.

And Mithiriel was the spark. "That was my plan, anyway. Eldarion just usurped it. I explained to him yesterday how meeting mother and Daerada Aragorn was the first time that Adar found lasting joy and true contentment. Only then did he think to... "

Everyone laughed even as they groaned. Even Mithiriel smiled, although she was prepared to continue making her point, until her husband interrupted. "Let it go, meleth, muin nin theliel saelcheredis. Not all battles need to be fought, especially not when you and 'bossy uncle Eldarion' are in agreement on all the particulars.

Mithiriel subsided. It was counted among the family a miracle, as well as a potent illustration of the power a perfectly matched couple had, the one over the other.

A stone's throw away stood the Crown Prince Eldarion with his uncles, the twin Lords Elrohir and Elladan.

"There's a limit to how long I can keep him this drugged." Elladan told his nephew softly, "And we're rapidly reaching it."

Eldarion, quite a healer himself, considered that for a few moments. "Keep his grief dulled with potions until the funeral is over, and the hordes have departed. Then ease off. We'll keep one of the littles with him, at all times."

Lord Elrohir snorted, then complimented, "Well conceived, nephew. But do you truly have sufficient small children to accomplish such a changing of the guard?"

"We've nearly sixty, and well over twice that number including the children of more distant family and family friends. It should be enough." Eldarion replied, no doubt in his tone or demeanor.

*This one will make a King,* Lord Elladan silently conveyed to his twin. Aloud, he inquired, "What of the nights, Eldarion? Faramir has oft had issues with the hours of darkness, even before....this."

Eldarion shrugged eloquently, a small glimmer of grim humor entering his eyes as he explained, "You would be surprised how many children in the family suffer from 'nightmares,' or can be coached to do so, and how well sound will carry between their rooms and Faramir's chambers at Emyn Arnen and Minas Tirith."

Both twins bestowed upon their nephew a look of pride.

"That should get us through to the spring fighting season.," Elladan determined.

"Spring is pirates, and Ithilien has the Poros river." Elrohir calculated, "There's been fierce fighting there, on and off the past few seasons. He'll be there, in the spring."

Eldarion's eyes narrowed, flashing grey fire, "Not if I order him not to."

Elladan rolled his eyes, "You may be the Crown Prince, Eldarion. But Faramir is ruler of his own demense, and may act as he sees fit in defending it."

"But," Eldarion began, only to be cut off by Elrohir.

"Nephew, were you sleeping through your father's lecture on never giving orders which you know will be disobeyed?" the older twin reprimanded sharply. "No, Faramir will go to the Poros, in the spring, and he'll be in the thick of the fighting then. I will go with him."

Eldarion looked ready to argue further, but then his uncles made way for the recently arrived duo of his father's old companions of the quest.

"Elrohir is entirely correct, Eldarion-nin." Said Prince Legolas of Ithilien-en-Edhil and Eryn Lasgalen, his tone kind and gentle but nonetheless firm. "Faramir will be wherever he can do some good and be most at risk. Its a stupid way to deal with grief, but it is his stupid way."

"Aye, and best we prepare for it, instead of prepare how to stop him doing what he's determined to do." Lord Gimli of Aglarond put in, "For after all, none of us have had much in the way of success at stopping Faramir from doing what he wills."

Accepting the inevitability of that, Eldarion suggested, "Ask cousin Erchirion who would be best to send with you, on the Poros."

"In addition to Gimli and I, of course." Put in Legolas, with Gimli nodding determinedly beside him.

Elrohir nodded back, agreement and gratitude all in one gesture, before continuing, "And then in the summer, the fiercest fighting will be on the far borders of Taduin. The Ithilien rangers have provided support for Prince Imrazor's and Amorth's soldiers, these past five years. Faramir will be there, and Amroth's men and his own, as well as Legolas and Gimli, will see him as safe as can be."

"And, of course, myself." Elladan interjected. "I will be at our nephew Faramir's side as well, in Taduin and beyond." At Elrohir's glare, Ellladan pointed out unctuously, "I do know that area quite well, if you'll recall, brother-mine."

"I'll quite well recall you, you complete idiot..." Elrohir said threateningly under his breath, but subsiding at Legolas's quiet counsel.

"And then by the fall," Eldarion said with relief, "Adar and Naneth will have returned from the Havens, and THEY can deal with Faramir."

"And they should have plenty to talk about, by then." Elrohir jested, with a wry, bitter smile.

"And I can tell Aragorn 'I told you so,' about it being a bad year to visit Cousin Cirdan in the Havens." Legolas said, a shadow of a smile ghosting over his fair face.

"Flighty elf," Gimli grumbled, "You only tried to delay Aragorn's trip because you know Lord Cirdan will tell tales of Lord Elrond and your father as younglings, and you wanted to hear them firsthand rather than secondhand from our dear friend."

Legolas sniffed haughtily, as if greatly put upon. "I'll have you know that I always act from the most noble of motives. In fact, right now I'm going to go trip Faramir so that he spills that entire goblet of wine he hasn't yet even sipped, all over Lady Ardes." Lady Ardes had been one of the unwed, noble women of Gondor who most disparaged Faramir's choice of bride, and who did still do her best to make social occasions difficult for the witchking-slayer, her husband the King's base-born son, and their children.

"Faramir really won't care about that right now, Uncle Las." Eldarion pointed out.

Legolas grinned brightly back, "No, but I will. Eowyn would have. And Faramir would appreciate it, if he was in his right mind. And I trust, I have faith, I must have faith, that he will someday be himself again. And in that case, he will have to smile every time he remembers that Lady Ardes' gown was ruined this day, while she tried to flirt with him."

Plans in place, the family and friends of Eowyn surrounded her Faramir, holding him to them, to what of her lived on in them. And hoping that doing so would buy them time. Even hoping for the best.

Chapter Text

Faramir walked through the familiar corridors of the House of Healing, haunted by the ghosts of sleepless nights and long days past. He passed the large, sunny room where his mother Finduilas had breathed her last. He passed the open gallery which had been converted into a hall of cots during the ring war, a hall where so many of his surviving rangers had slipped away. He passed the rooms where he had stayed, and Eowyn, during their long-ago convalescence together after that same war. By those rooms, he paused to take a breath. His chest was tight, as if a great weight pressed upon him. Only here did it lift a bit.

"If you really think that you're going to vomit," Faramir's younger brother Eldarion offered helpfully, "then sit down and put your head between your legs."

"I don't know what I'd do without you." Faramir replied with light sarcasm, not sure whether he wanted to smack his younger brother the Crown Prince, or thank Eldarion, because at least the semi-insult, semi-advice was a distraction.

Eldarion could obviously read his older brother the Steward fairly well, as he managed a tired grin for Faramir. "Ada's hiding it pretty well, but he's a mess. He needs to sleep."

Faramir took another deep breath, and stepped into the belly of the beast. Aragorn looked up at him, eyes tired and bloodshot. Still he recognized the gesture of love that was Faramir venturing into this place. "You will never make a healer, my son." The King of Gondor and Arnor whispered quietly, so as not to wake up his patient.

"Nay, nothing more than a semi-competent field medic." Faramir replied. He kissed Arwen on the cheek and took the seat she vacated, beside the form of the sleeping Magordan, Aragorn's long-time friend and former bodyguard-in-chief. Magordan awoke, and Faramir managed to spend a half-hour talking of light, inconsequential things. First, Magordan's memories of his time in Imladris, where Faramir's middle daughter had spent much time. But since Magordan would never return to Imladris, never live long enough to finish raising his own step-children, Faramir quickly changed the subject. The follies of several generations of young rangers, prominently featuring a more youthful Aragorn, Ethiron, and Halbarad, provided sufficient fodder for light-hearted, pleasant reminiscing, until the old, faithful ranger fell asleep again.

Aragorn took a harsh breath in as he changed the herbs in the brazier, including more medicines to ease breathing and dull pain. "For a man who hates being near a sick bed," He told his oldest son softly, "You have more than just a knack for how to comport yourself, and just what to say."

"Practice." Said Faramir, with another deep breath.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, an unspoken request - almost a command - to continue.

"I learned from keeping my mother company," Faramir expanded softly, "That many whose lives are coming to a close would rather dwell on the joys they have experienced, rather than the unknown future."

"I've not thought much of that, of what to say to those who die of old age or long illness rather than battle-field injury." Aragorn replied, running a hand through his own hair, now more white than dark. "I have always been focused on saving them. It is rare that I feel powerless. But now, there is little I can do, even for one of my dearest friends. He was the first among the older rangers to truly believe in me, and one of the first to see me as Aragorn, rather than a young and likely inadequate Chieftain."

"The first," agreed Faramir, who had heard much of this during the years he'd known his father and Magordan, "but not the last."

Aragorn took another deep breath, and nodded. "No. Not the last. The first I've lost to old age, but not the last. Ethiron is already on borrowed time, given his unknown maternal bloodline. Since he shows his ranger father's heritage the most strongly, he can perhaps count on another two decades. More will be a miracle. Soon I will be alone, of all of those who once rallied behind me in the North. And I powerless to help them, to save them, to stop time claiming them." Aragorn put down his vials of medicine, and sat down beside his son.

Faramir reached out to grasp Aragorn's hand. "A very wise man once told me," Faramir began, "that the best thing you can do for those you've outlived is to continue to care for that which they loved."

That won a short, quiet laugh from the strained King. "Wise, eh Faramir?"

"You have your moments." Faramir replied, with a slight, fond smile.

Captain Magordan passed peacefully that following night. His wife, the Chief Cook Mairenwen, was by his side. As was the King himself, honoring and mourning the man who had been his mentor and his friend, and who had guarded Aragorn faithfully since he was a twenty year old stripling. Aragorn's family, including his part-elven kin, honored the old Captain as well. For those reasons, and because it had been Magordan so much as anyone else who had forced Aragorn to recognize the need for men to guard his life when he became King. Without Magordan's influence, vigilance, and hard work in helping Aragorn's foster-family to establish and train the new royal guards, they might well have lost the King within a few months of his coronation. Either to an assassin's arrow or surprise ambush, or even to unlucky happenstance.

Magordan had found love late in life, and had treated his wife Mairenwen's orphaned grandson Gaeranwar and granddaughter Cellaras as his own. At the ceremony honoring his life and mourning his death, Mairenwen, Cellaras, and Gaeranwar stood beside the King and his family. Prince Faramir's older son Lord Elboron had an arm around the shoulders of the sobbing nine year old Cellaras, and ten year old Princess Gilwen clutched the hand of her long-time friend and playmate, eleven year old Gaeranwar.

Chapter Text

Eowyn eyed the bug-eyed...thing...on her husband's plate with dismay and trepidation.

"You should try it." He urged her. Faramir's Dol Amroth cousins and their companions nodded earnestly, at least those who were willing to tear their attention away from their dinner.

Eowyn exchanged a horrified glance with Beregrond, the chief of Faramir's guard.

"No." Eowyn replied firmly. "Faramir, if I were to see that...thing...scuttling towards me, I would not run forward with a cry of joy to collect it and then stick it in a stew pot. No, instead I would draw my blade, knowing in my heart of hearts that I faced an escaped minion of Sauron." Albeit a small one.

The Dol Amroth contingent, even her loving husband, looked at her with pitying disbelief.

"Eowyn." Lothiriel said, as if Eowyn were being silly instead of merely prudent, "It's just a lobster. They're delicious with butter."

"No." Eowyn reiterated firmly, placing one hand discreetly near her dagger, in case any of the armored, clawed...creatures...were to climb off of their plates and attack. Faramir and his kin would be taken entirely unawares, and Eowyn knew that the....'lobster...had all of the hallmarks of a creature that could have fought for the Enemy on the Pelennor if it had chosen to.

"Ah, well." said Faramir's cousin Amrothos with a grin, spearing another boiled fiend, "All the more for the rest of us."

Eowyn remained wary throughout the meal, although nothing worse happened than her maid breaking out in red spots. Apparently, some people were allergic to lobsters. More evidence of their true allegiance, in Eowyn's opinion.

Chapter Text

The soothing sounds of a hearth fire crackled and popped in the grate of the King's Study. Between that, and the spicy scents of Eruhantale still perfuming the air, Aragorn found himself more prone to day-dreaming than to actually making progress wading through the winter preparedness reports littering his desk.

After all, even the King deserved a bit of a break on the second night of the Harvest festival, Aragorn thought to himself. Then he took a moment to admire the softly flickering flames, and the full moon above the windows leading out to the balcony of the King's House. Having a young son made the usual Harvest Festival traditions seem magical and wonderful again. But to enjoy the last day of the autumn thanksgiving with a clear conscience, Aragorn would have to at least get through the scrolls from the last three northern fiefdoms.

The quiet 'snick' of the door opening and closing provided a welcome distraction. Aragorn looked up and gave his Steward a quizzical smile. He had not expected to see Faramir again this eve. Of late, the Steward of Gondor had been careful to give Aragorn, Arwen, and Eldarion the chance to enjoy some time alone in the evenings, so that they could feel like a normal family. Faramir did not seem to understand that the King, Queen and young Crown Prince considered Faramir and his pregnant wife to be a PART of their family.

"By all means, sit." Aragorn offered, bewildered but pleased by the late night visit of his fox-haired friend.

Faramir shrugged, smiling back. "It was too quiet in our rooms, what with Eowyn already abed."

"Well, you are always welcome here." The King said. Faramir sighed gratefully, and reached for a scroll. Aragorn smacked his hand, and offered him a book instead.

"Spooky Stories of Eruhantale in Lost Numenor?" Faramir questioned, reading the title with a baffled grin.

"It is Eldarion's favorite." Aragorn explained wryly, "And I somehow suspect that you've already worked harder than I would have liked today. You are still recovering from having almost blown yourself up along with that battalion of Easterlings, if you will recall."

"I WAS there." Faramir retorted, equally wry. That shy, sneaky half-smile, the one that made Aragorn either want to hug the younger man or smack him, adorning just the left side of his face.

"Sit and read about the wolf-man of the north woods of Forostar, Faramir." The King ordered, dry, fond amusement in his tone.

Faramir laughed, but did as he was told. Which was strange, but pleasant. Aragorn considered his young friend with another baffled smile for a few moments, then turned back to the mind-numbing-but important-scrolls. With Faramir there to answer questions and offer humorous commentary, the work moved faster.

After maybe an hour, their companionable silence was disturbed. First by a quiet, extremely annoyed Legolas, through the balcony. And then by a not-so-quiet but quite menacing Eomer stomping through the door.

Faramir subtly moved his comfortable armchair closer to Aragorn. The King coughed to stifle a chuckle, putting one and two together, and coming up with an answer as to why Eomer and Legolas had been dressed as a fine chestnut horse and a long-bearded dwarf, respectively, during the evening's impromptu garden party.

It WAS part of Harvest Festival tradition for children to dress as their ancestors or in a costume reflecting their heritage or interests; it was NOT customary for adults to do so. Legolas and Eomer had set themselves up for more than their fair share of odd looks and ribbing, for their...unusual... sartorial choices. Although Eldarion, his friend Veantur, and the other children had been quite thrilled, Aragorn was fairly sure that had not been the inspiration for their comical costumes.

But with the two of them glaring daggers at Faramir, it was not hard to guess who, exactly, had misled the elven prince and the King of Rohan as to the Harvest Festival customs of modern Gondor.

"Yes?" Aragorn mildly asked the irritated duo, raising a skeptical eyebrow in imitation of his foster-father.

"Aragorn!" Legolas demanded, almost stomping a foot in pique. "You KNOW what he did!"

Faramir did a poor job of stifling a laugh. Eomer crossed his arms and said something very insulting in Rohirric to his only brother-by-marriage.

"Oh, do be a good sport, both of you." Aragorn chided them. "Did Faramir take against either of you for that foolery two midsummers ago?"

"Yes!" Legolas snapped, "He had the both of us - well, Gimli and I - convinced that trying to jump OVER fireflies into a body of water was a favored summer pastime in Ithlilien!"

Aragorn moved his chiding glance to Faramir. His Steward continued to do a very poor job of looking contrite, barely managing to hide another smug smile by ducking his head.

"Yes, well, you DID start this, Legolas." Aragorn pointed out, "And I'm most certainly not going to sit by and watch the two of you haul Faramir out to do...whatever, to him."

"Coat him with maple syrup and then cover him with feathers." Eomer supplied with a glare, although the corners of his lips had started to twitch into a smile. "He tried to convince me to wear a chicken costume, tonight."

"We'd toss him into a fountain, afterward." Legolas offered hopefully, "And I've given up the idea of spanking him, as much as he does deserve it."

Coughing to hide another chuckle, the King shook his head regretfully. "No, I'm afraid that I don't want my favorite recovering patient to get chilled and wet tonight. Another time, perhaps."

Eomer and Legolas left them with mock-anger, and cheerful-but-all-too-real threats directed at Faramir. The Steward sighed with relief as they left the room.

"You are going to have to face them tomorrow, when I'm not around to save you." Aragorn pointed out fondly.

"Yes." Faramir agreed, that soft half-smile adorning his face again, "But I'll have Eowyn with me, then."

Chapter Text

1. Fourth Age Year 7 or so

The wait had been long. Aragorn had not known whether his older son would return in time for the holiday.

Yet here he was, red-gold hair flecked with snow, cold to the touch in his riding leathers.

"Welcome home, ion-nin." Aragorn said, embracing Faramir tightly, and reveling in the truth of his son, safe in his arms.

Faramir huffed a breath, it might have been a laugh. Ai, Aragorn's poor son was tired.

"What is all of this about?" The Prince of Ithilien inquired, as they walked towards the King's House.

"I am happy to see you. I am glad that you are home. That is all." Aragorn answered.

Faramir grinned, that shy half-smile that made Aragorn brace himself.

"You may not be so happy when we debrief tomorrow." Faramir warned.

"Ah." Aragorn said shortly, before quirking a critical eyebrow at his offspring, "What did you do?" The King knew that it was not an urgent affair of state. Faramir would have sent coded word of that ahead. It was more likely something that his son had done which Faramir knew his father would not disapprove of, rather than something which the Steward and Prince had done which the King would not approve of.

"Nothing, in my opinion." Faramir answered with a long-suffering smile, "Orohael was less than pleased with me, however." Orohael was the chief of Faramir's personal bodyguards, and worked closely with the White Company while keeping an eye on the King's older son.

Aragorn shook his head in exasperation, then reached over to ruffle his son's hair. Faramir squawked indignantly.

"Welcome home, my dear son." Aragorn repeated. "Tonight we celebrate that you are home. Tomorrow we will talk about...other matters."

2. Fourth Age Year 1

Eowyn embraced her husband, holding him as tightly as he held her. The tender words passed between them....good, sweet, safe, missed you, love you.

As they went into the warmth of their Emyn Arnen home, Eowyn wondered at the smell of the South in Faramir's hair, and whether he would always come back to her safely.

But he was here now. She hugged him again, and smiled.

3. Late Third Age, before 3018.

Elrond waited by the waterfalls at the entrance to his home, which had come to be called "The Last Homely House," the last home of the elves on their way to sail. The son he waited for would never sail, but was no less beloved.

At last, he saw the dark hair of one specific ranger, as Aragorn son of Arathorn came home to them for the cold year's end. Elrond stepped forward, a smile on his face and a greeting on his lips.

He barely even saw what happened. A flash of burgundy velvet, and then his daughter was leaping into Aragorn's arms. It took Elrond a moment to walk towards them again, for his daughter might not sail, either. But he still loved them, so he opened his arms, and joined Arwen in welcoming their beloved Aragorn home.

4. Early Fourth Age

"So," The golden-haired King of the Greenwood said sternly, "You finally decided to come home for a visit."

"Yes," Legolas agreed, hiding an impish smile, "I have exhausted Ithilien-en-Edhil's stores of my favorite maple syrup."

"Ha!" Thranduil laughed shortly, pulling his youngest elfling into his arms.

5. Middle Second Age

"It gives my heart joy that you are happy in Lindon, Erestor. But I do miss you, you know." Dark-haired Arandil, the Ambassador of Lindon to Eregion, confessed to his son.

"I miss you too, Atto!" Erestor professed, "But there's Elrond, and then there's Pengolodh, and his projects, and now I am one of Aran Ereinion Gil-galad's advisors, and..."

Arandil had to smile at his earnest, kind-hearted offspring, "I understand, Erestor. Just remember that you are always welcome home."

6. Middle Second Age

The last of the soldiers from the returning platoon went on their way, and King and Prince were alone at last.

Thranduil hesitated, unsure of his welcome.

Joy lightened Oropher's eyes, and he reached out to embrace his precious only child, home from Thranduil's first long patrol away from home.

After a moment of hesitation, Thranduil returned the embrace. "I thought...I thought that you weren't happy to see me, Adar." The Prince confessed.

Oropher pulled back from the embrace to consider his son, affection and pride shining in his eyes, "Serious young soldier that I know you to be, ion-nin, I did not think that you would have wanted your Adar to scoop you up for a hug in front of your commanders and fellows."

Thranduil's blue eyes widened in horror at the very thought.

Oropher laughed kindly. "I thought not. So I waited. I am overjoyed to have you home, and so will your mother be. I've cancelled all of our formal engagements for the evening. Come, and tell us everything."

7. Early Fourth Age

"Can ye no spend one year without encountering bloodthirsty bandits, or invading armies?" Gimli, son of Gloin, complained.

Legolas laughed brightly. "Nay, not with Faramir as my neighbor."

Gimli narrowed his eyes at that, as if disbelieving. Then he dropped his stern mien. "Well, you're here now, and safe. Come again into the warmth and beauty of Aglarond, and be welcome."

"It is my favorite place under the ground." Legolas replied fondly.

Chapter Text

He was aching, and tired. The morning's arms practice had left him with pains in places he hadn't even known he had. The afternoon meetings had worn on his spirit more even than had the unaccustomedly fierce sparring worn on his body.

Scrolls and books lay heavy in his arms. To such an extent that Faramir wasn't even exactly sure how he would get back to his rooms. But if he did, he could lie in his bed, and read, so that he could know what he would have to say tomorrow. It wasn't as if the councilors on the agricultural staples sub-council would be any more prepared than he, may Eru bedevil them all equally for that failure.

Suddenly, his burden was not so heavy anymore, because it was not his. Faramir blinked, too baffled to object at first. "Lord Elladan?" He asked, "I beg your pardon...I must needs review those 'ere the morrow."

"No, Faramir, I really don't think so." The King disagreed, picking up his tired Steward as if Faramir himself were no more burden than might a half-grown child be. Settled carefully over the King's shoulders, Faramir was too stunned to do anything for a good two minutes. And by then, Aragorn was dropping him down gently on a bed he didn't recognize, somewhere in the King's House, and sending Elladan and the time-sensitive scrolls away.

"I have to work...!" Faramir objected, fierce yet tired, so tired, and awfully baffled as well.

"Shhh." Said Aragorn, carefully laying Faramir down onto his stomach. "I need you to hold still."

Faramir did, not sure what else he should do, or what else he could say to better explain what he needed to be doing to his King, who really needed Faramir to do these things because Aragorn's pre-council preparation still left something to be desired...

Then Faramir signed in unexpected and profound relief, as Aragorn's clever hands applied pressure and healing lotion to exactly the parts of Faramir's body which had needed them. Faramir couldn't help it....between the safety of his King's presence and the comfort brought by his tender ministrations, he was going to fall into a deep, restful sleep.

Aragorn must have realized the same. He chuckled fondly, "There, my dear, stubborn Steward. Is it not better to let us take care of you, rather than you defying me until I must needs spank you to enforce my will, and only then after, leave you so calm and comforted as this?"

"Little worse than this." Faramir pointed out, more than half asleep, "Sore bum, after that."

Aragorn chuckled again, "Aye, but your tender backside does nothing to stop you falling asleep, you foolishly dedicated man. Gondor can take care of herself for a night and a day. I rescheduled the granary meetings for next week. You can have books and scrolls sent to you tomorrow mid-morning. You can join the Queen for lunch and chess in the garden, and myself and our company for dinner. Eru help you if you try to do anything else, my Faramir. If you defy me, I promise," Aragorn enforced that word with a firm pat to Faramir's blanket covered bottom, "You will be less comfortable for it. Do you understand?"

Faramir feigned sleep. It wasn't difficult.

Aragorn good-humoredly huffed a sigh, "Fine, dear difficult one, be that way." He bent down and brushed a fatherly kiss onto the brow of the "sleeping" Faramir. "We both know that you understand me. You don't have much experience with letting someone take care of you, but we love you, and I think that you shall learn."

With a last gentle pat to the Steward's 'sleeping' form, the King left the room. Faramir was already asleep by then, safe and warm and, more or less, relieved of immediate worries.

Chapter Text

Faramir carefully measured just the smallest amount of liquid from the crystal vial onto the very tip of a small spoon. Then he sighed, put the bottle down, and brought the spoon up to his mouth.

The next thing the Steward of Gondor knew, his arm had been smacked, hard, sending the teaspoon and the small amount of liquid flying towards the other side of the room. The spoon hit the wall with a faint 'cling.' Eru only knew where the drops of medicine had landed.

Faramir noted all of that absently, from his current unenviable location. Elrohir Elrondion, the elder of his Queen's twin brothers, had Faramir held in a head lock over one of Elrohir's hips.

"Elrohir...really....don't!" The Steward barely had time to protest, before the peredhel's strong hand began to fall on his bottom.

"You know BETTER than that, Faramir!" Elrohir lectured fiercely, his swats increasing in intensity. "That sludge is ADDICTIVE, and you KNOW THAT."

Squirming indignantly as his bottom heated up from the stinging smacks, Faramir protested, "Its only a little addictive, and only if you take too much for too long. And its not at all sludge-like, its more...owww!" He gasped irritably, before ordering, "Stop that! We can discuss this reasonably!"

Elrohir had stopped the spanking at Faramir's command, although the part-elf's face, when Faramir had regained his feet to face Elrohir, seemed more a study in insulted incredulity.

"I...cannot believe that you just said that." The Lord of Imladris remarked, now glaring at Faramir. "My twin was right, you have absolutely no concept of what NOT to say when you being spanked. Well then, come here."

Elrohir seized Faramir securely by his upper arm, and yanked the protesting Steward of Gondor to a settee in his office. Without any apparent trouble despite Faramir's half-hearted struggles, he pulled Faramir's tunic up, pulled the Steward's leggings down, and then pinned Faramir's legs so that the Prince of Ithilien's blushing bottom and white upper thighs were properly presented for a spanking over his lap.

"Now." Elrohir began stolidly, as he placed one hand on Faramir's nearer pink bottom cheek, "You were warned, about ever taking...that stuff...again, without orders or at the least approval to do so from my foster-brother the King. Am I to assume, Faramir muin nin, that you do not have such permission?"

Faramir sighed, and relaxed a bit over Elrohir's lap. "No. I did not ask Aragorn."

"I rather thought not." Elrohir murmured, more than half to himself. Coming back to the present, and to the backside he intended to spank, he said firmly, "We have two choices, here, as I see them. First, I let you go, and I go with you to find Estel so that you may explain to him why you were about to take that stuff. I'm sure that he'll be fascinated by your reasoning, since his position on the matter was perfectly clear last fall. Perfectly clear, I thought."

"Yes, he was clear." Faramir agreed, gritting his teeth in irritation.

Elrohir flat-out grinned. "Fara, my dear little ranger-let, please do try to at least think more quietly about how insufferable I am, hmm?"

Faramir blushed deeply. "All...allright. My apologies."

Patting the pink bottom in front of him, Elrohir smirked, "Apology accepted. Now, to your other option. I deal with you, here and now. And then, if I ever see or here of you deciding to drug yourself to concentrate better and longer again without due reason, you and I are going to have a more serious discussion of our own. The kind of discussion during the aftermath of which you will not be sitting in comfort for quite some time. And THEN I will tell my baby brother, who will not think highly of the Steward he loves as his own dear baby brother doing something so foolish and dangerous."

"Its not that dangerous." Faramir protested grumpily.

Elrohir widened his eyes in disbelief. Then he picked up a heavy book from the end table, and swatted Faramir's bottom with it. The Steward jumped, and Elrohir reminded him again, "You've done something stupid, Faramir. I know that. Even you know that it was not well-advised. Do not argue with me about it. Every time you do, I add to the tariff you're going to pay over my knees, here and now. Unless you'd care to seek out my brother your King, of course?"

Faramir ceased all of his protests. "Just go ahead and do whatever you're determined to do, Elrohir." He conceded with unhappy and slightly annoyed resignation.

"How can I keep my resolve to spank you bright red when you are so polite...." Elrohir wondered sarcastically, before concluding, "Oh, yes, when you're a cheeky little brat I find it much easier to smack your rear end rosy, that's right. Well, let's begin. Hold still if you can, my dear young man, although it is no matter to me if you can't. I've got you."

With that, Elrohir's hard hand began to spank Faramir's vulnerable bottom rapidly and firmly. The only sounds in the Steward's office for the next few minutes were the resounding smacks landing on the Steward's backside, followed sometimes by a quiet 'oof' or gasp from Faramir. The spanks did not taper off or lessen in force, and so quickly the Steward found himself yelping instead of gasping as Elrohir's hand landed again and again on his heated backside. Still, Elrohir did not relent. The pain and heat in Faramir's backside went from a burn to a throb, and he began to kick his feet and grasp at the settee cushions in an attempt to take the spanking with any semblance of dignity. Giving up on that as Elrohir's hands moved their most intense swats to the more tender undercurve of his bottom, Faramir cried out and tried to buck and squirm away.

Elrohir just held him tighter, still applying stinging swat after hard smack to Faramir's sit spots. "Shh, little ranger. You are taking this well. There is no shame in trying to move your backside away from pain, not once you've already held yourself still for so much. I will hold you now, you need not worry."

Faramir wailed despite himself, since 'need not worry' did not at all describe how he felt about the rapid rhythm of spanks Elrohir was landing to the places where Faramir would normally come into contact with a chair, which had apparently been even better presented for Elrohir's attentions by Faramir's squirming. Faramir wailed in protest one more time, wondering how he would ever sit again, before giving up. Elrohir would not finish this until he was satisfied that Faramir would never sit again.

To Faramir's surprise, Elrohir quickly ended the spanking after that. After just a few more half-strength smacks to Faramir's sit spots, the Steward found himself righted. While he blinked in surprise, Elrohir smiled at him with reassuring sympathy, yanking Faramir's leggings back up over his painful bottom, and pulling his tunic back into place. Then Elrohir guided Faramir to perch on his lap, so that Elrohir's arm could curl around Faramir's shoulders comfortingly whilst his bottom hung over Elrohir's thigh, not in direct contact with any surface.

Elrohir produced a handkerchief for Faramir to wipe at his tears, and began a quiet, loving lecture. He concluded it with, "We are guiding you away from doing even these mildly self-destructive things because we care about you. So you just need to stop being so foolish, and there will be no need for me to interrupt both of our days to spank your too-thin bottom."

Faramir thought about protesting that unfair criticism of his physique, but decided against it. As annoyed as he was with Elrohir and as embarrassed as he was to have just had the older of Elrond's twin sons spank him on the bare in Faramir's own office, he didn't feel that resentful. He knew that Elrohir had punished him because he cared, and Faramir had known that he was pressing himself beyond what his family would approve of in trying to prepare various reports for this quarter. Faramir was a bit sorry that he'd gotten caught, and more sorry that he'd gotten spanked. But he was willing to accept it as a fair result for having broken what he knew was a rule of some sort. So he wasn't out of sorts with Elrohir, not really. Annoyed, but not angry.

Still hiccuping a little, Faramir pointed out, "We should find the spoon. I don't think that we'll manage to clean the rest up, there was so little medicine on the spoon when you knocked it out of my hand with such excessive force, but we should at least find the spoon."

Elrohir smirked. "That 'stuff' isn't medicine, not unless you have memory loss, foolish little cousin. And it stains. It landed on or about that carpet which Arwen likes so much, so at some point you're probably going to get to explain this whole incident to her. You'd best hope that she, too, thinks that you were sufficiently deterred. You're in for a difficult time of it, else."

Faramir groaned.

Elrohir grinned. "Yes, it is acceptable for you to hate me just a little bit right now. I don't even mind if you say so aloud, if it will make you feel better." He added kindly.

Chapter Text

"He's doing this just to test us." Aragorn the King grumbled.

"Umm-hmm." Faramir murmured noncommittally, taking one of his father's knights with his archivist.

"He's going to change his mind, if we ever go to war again. He'll want to fight then, mark my words." Aragorn predicted unhappily.

"My younger son is not an idiot, Ada." Faramir countered evenly. "If we go to war again, and Ecthelion does not have the training, then he will be a healer, like the other healers. He will go nowhere nearer the front lines than do the other support staff whose only training in the art of war has been informal."

"I still don't like it, ion-nin." Aragorn complained, using his knight to seize a pawn. "All of my other sons and grandsons and honorary nephews went to the academy, and the twins are planning to go in just a few short years. Keep in mind that little Elion is still your heir after Elboron. What if war comes again to Ithilien?" Aragorn's eyes narrowed, "Its not as if you can recall Haleth from wherever she is, not easily, at least. And Theodwyn gave up her place in the succession to your princedom when she married."

Faramir sighed, capturing Aragorn's Queen with his archivist. "Ithilien's border is more peaceful than it has been in anyone's memory. More secure now than even during the Watchful Peace. Amrothos' young son Prince Imrazor of South Gondor is our ally by blood, Emir Khay'ri is our ally by marriage, and Emir Asad as well. The Haradrim are more likely to march with us than against us. Gondor has never been able to say that before, not even in Elendil's day. We have a tentative holding peace even with the Easterlings, and are working together with them to track down the human wizards who last incited an act of war against us. Ada, if we cannot permit our children other choices now, if we have not won that, by our blood and sweat and tears, than what has it all been for, anyway?"

Aragorn grumbled, and irritably conceded the match, tipping his King over. He'd been too distracted to play against his clever older son tonight, and perhaps should have conceded the match from the start, though the two were evenly enough matched, most days. "And don't think I didn't notice that you made the point to win the game with your archivists, Faramir muin nin. You are not subtle, sometimes." Aragorn remarked with tired affection.

"No." Faramir agreed with a slight smile, sensing that he had won more than just the match. "Sometimes I am not."

Chapter Text

The King of Men stood at the shore of Dol Amroth's most unsheltered beach. There was a storm on its way. The waves rolled in, wild white caps hurrying to spend themselves upon the sand with a percussive crash.

"I worry when he goes so far out into the water." Aragorn spoke, his eyes fixed on a distant red-gold head bobbing in the ocean. "For how am I to be sure that he will come back?"

"He will." Answered Imrahil, the Prince of Dol Amroth and, more importantly for this conversation, Faramir's uncle.

There were layers of meaning in that simple statement. A deep and complex history which Aragorn did not know. Which he had not been present during Faramir's earlier life to learn. Imrahil had, and Aragorn had to trust him, aye, and even be glad for him, in this as in many other matters. But few were so personal, and Aragorn deeply and keenly envied Imrahil this shared history. Faramir was Aragorn's son, after all, and a parent should know his child better than anyone save a wife.

Imrahil smiled fleetingly, "He always comes back."

Layers, again. Aragorn wanted to ask what his honorary younger brother meant by that, but just then Faramir came flowing into shore with an uncommonly big wave. He timed his exit so well, letting the foamy edge carry him just close enough to the shore to take two graceful steps out onto the sand.

Faramir grinned at them unabashedly, covered head-to-toe in droplets of salt water. The storm was coming in, but even Aragorn could see how much more relaxed and happy his son was than before he had gone into the surf. Today's council meeting had been difficult for both of them, Aragorn realized, even though Faramir had done better than he at not letting the strain show.

"You are only part waterfowl, you know." Aragorn told his son, a tacit apology for his dislike of Faramir's pastime mingled with the paternal concern which he was unsure whether his first-born would accept.

Faramir just smiled. Toweling himself vigorously, he said with a teasing light in his eyes. "The storm bells have not yet rung. I think that I might go back out again."

'Over my dead body,' Aragorn thought to himself, but he managed to keep his expression light. A mere raised eyebrow, then an equally teasing swat to the wet leggings covering his son's bottom when Faramir took the joke far enough to solemnly hand him back the towel and turn towards the sea.

Imrahil chuckled, and so did Faramir. Aragorn reflected that though Faramir was his, he was also Finduilas' son. Her child, left in trust to her younger brother the sea-prince. This place and these waves were in his blood, as surely as Aragorn's forests and cool rivers and deadly, honorable legacy.

"The bell will ring soon." Faramir commented, draping an arm around his uncle's shoulders and another around his father's, and guiding them back towards the old sandstone castle in which he'd spent so many happy summers as a child.

Imrahil, as it turned out later, was right. Faramir did come home, even from his most dangerous adventure, though it took him six months and an inordinate amount of luck for to do so.

Chapter Text

Aragorn was never sure what woke him, these nights when one of his children came into his room seeking aid or comfort. Sometimes seeking to give aid or comfort, but always searching for him or Arwen. A strong need, to wake their parents from slumber. Although neither Aragorn nor Arwen ever minded.

This night Arwen stirred slowly, still exhausted from the week which had just passed. Aragorn was already sitting up as the pool of light spilled by a lantern approached their bedchamber door. Not one of his children, then. They all, even Faramir, saw well enough at night that they had no need of lanterns. The same was true, mostly, for Faramir and Eowyn's children, but not for....Eowyn. And it was she.

Clad in a rose-colored overrobe, undoubtedly a gift from some well-meaning child, as the White Lady did not prefer pink, was the Lady herself.

Aragorn was on his feet, pulling on an overrobe and a cloak and looking for his house shoes, even as he said, "Faramir."

"Yes. He left an hour ago. For the Stewards' crypt, I think." Eowyn confessed.

Aragorn nodded. "I will go to him." He left quickly, knowing that Arwen could take care of Eowyn. He did take the time to grab an extra cloak on his way out of the King's apartments.

Rath Dinen was silent. So was the crypt of the Stewards, where Faramir sat on a marble bench contemplating the bier of Lord Denethor, the man whom he had called father - believed to be his father - for the first thirty-four years of his life.

Aragorn sat down beside his son. Faramir looked up to him, and nodded with a shy almost-smile of greeting.

For some minutes they sat together, content in the quiet. Faramir still had something to say, Aragorn could feel that he did. But he did not mind waiting. Faramir was worth the time.

"He did love me, in his way." Faramir said at last.

Nodding sympathetically, Aragorn agreed, "I know. And I think that it would almost be easier for you - easier even for me - if he had not."

Faramir exhaled, then turned to meet his father's eyes. "It helps that you know, that you seem to understand. He was...there were times when we were close. Never so intimate as he was with Boromir, he was never so affectionate with me as he had been with Boromir. But there were times..." The wistful pain in Faramir's voice cut at Aragorn's heart like a knife, "There were times when he and I shared something that he and Boromir did not have. A...a sense of common strategy, I suppose. Boromir was an excellent captain, a tactician with few equals...."

"But," Aragorn interrupted with soft, wistful nostalgia, "Boromir was not a strategician to write home about. And Denethor, and you, my son, are both strategists of the quality one might see only a handful of times in a generation."

Faramir blushed slightly at the praise, "We had that in common. We worked together, sometimes in harmony, more often in discord. But we did work together, to prepare Gondor for the war we all knew was coming. And also to prepare Boromir for how wide a view he must take of the whole matter, and to care for him. Because we both loved Boromir."

"From what I have heard, and what I saw in the wake of the war," Aragorn said carefully, "I believe that Denethor always respected your abilities as a strategist and a logistician, even when he did not respect you or trust you, due to your scholarly qualities and your loyalty to Mithrandir."

Leaning forward, Faramir snorted. "He trusted me to get things done, because he had no one else."

"But did trust you, in some things." Aragorn said, laying a supportive hand on his son's back. "And he was not a man whose trust was easily won, Faramir. Not in anything."

Faramir took a deep breath, fighting tears. "I wish that he had trusted as much in my sight, in my understanding of the ring, and our other affairs. I wish that he....I wish..." Faramir trailed off pensively, then continued, "I suppose I wish that there had been more of the good times, for us. The times when he saw me, and not my mother's death."

Aragorn moved his hand to squeeze Faramir's right shoulder. "I have always thought of Denethor as another casualty of the war. He was a great man, Faramir. Not for his treatment of you, which was unforgivable. But he gave everything he had to Gondor, and if we had seen some of the fears paining him when he was younger - when we were all younger - there might have been more that we could have done to save him...."

Turning to Aragorn, Faramir shook his head, mirroring his father's gesture with a hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "Nay, Adar, my true father. Do not blame yourself. He - Denethor- made his own choices. If time could be changed, perhaps we could have aided him more, any of us."

"You were not yet born, then." Aragorn pointed out dryly. "He was already devolving from the good man I had known in our shared youth before you were even conceived, my dear son." If Denethor had still been himself, unchanged by the palantir and his fear and duty, then Faramir might in truth be Denethor's son, rather than Aragorn's. Aragorn was surprised by how little he liked that idea, although perhaps it would not have mattered. He would always have loved Faramir, as son or or just as honored friend and protege.

"He was a good man." Faramir repeated, his attention back on the man's bier, in this most haunted of houses. Faramir himself would not be laid to rest here, but rather in the King's vault with all of his Telcontar family. Aragorn had made the decision, but Faramir had not contested it, however much he might be torn by his desire to be laid to rest near Boromir's bier.

"He was a great man." Aragorn distinguished, "But not always a good one. And rarely good, towards the end. His paranoia and preparation helped to save Gondor, I would never deny that. But for mistreating my son so terribly, I am not sure that I can ever forgive him, for all that he was my friend. Might still be, if he had somehow lived and earned our forgiveness."

Faramir nodded minutely. "The War ate him up, in the end. It was just his own fire that killed him, rather than the Enemy's."

"I am just glad that it did not kill you." Aragorn returned. Then he pulled Faramir to his feet, and placed a cloak around his son's shoulders.

Faramir couldn't help but chuckle a little. Aragorn met his gaze fondly. "You never dress warmly enough on your night-time wanderings. Not when you are distressed."

His son's face bore the annoyed, over-patient expression of grown children forced to deal with their too-knowing parents. Aragorn patted his son on the cheek, and then gave Faramir's shoulders a little push to set him on the path back to the door.

"You have mourned enough tonight." Aragorn said firmly. "And if you do not sleep, I will come up with an excuse to need your presence tomorrow. And you will rest, then, even if I must order it."

Faramir laughed in exasperation. "Adar, I do not doubt that you are entirely capable of doing that. But Eowyn has us entirely packed up to travel to Emyn Arnen at morning's first light. And I do think that I can sleep, now, besides."

"Good." Aragorn said briefly, marveling a bit to himself at the logistical skills of his daughter-by-law. Who had known that Aragorn would be the best to help Faramir find peace tonight. And who had sent Aragorn to Faramir, even though she would have preferred to go to Faramir herself.

"You have a most excellent wife." Aragorn told his son.

"I do." Faramir agreed, with the happy, sweet smile that was only for Eowyn and his family. "And I have been lucky in you, my father, as well."

"I do try." Aragorn said with a wry, fond smile. Then he embraced Faramir again, kissed him on the forehead, and sent his son back to his wife's welcoming arms.

Aragorn returned to his own wife.

"You see?" Arwen murmured sleepily, "Children do not outgrow you just because they are grown."

"Yes, dear." The King replied, curling his taller, colder body around her warmth. "You are right, as you so often are. And I am glad to be able to help, but I do wish that they would have more problems they needed my assistance with during the daylight hours."

They both laughed softly, before sweet slumber claimed them.

Chapter Text

It was not that Arwen was worried about Faramir. Not truly. But he had until just last week been missing, for the past six months. And now she could not find him, amongst the throngs of people spilling out of Merethrond and into the bright gardens. Just an hour earlier Faramir had been at Eldarion's side, gently prompting his younger brother through his duties as Crown Prince. As a five year old child, Eldarion's role in the Spring Festival giving praise to Eru Iluvatar was fairly minimal. But it was still intimidating, even to a child raised to such obligations. Eldarion had been grateful to have his older half-brother the Steward there, with Faramir's innate grasp of how to give advice without appearing to do or say anything at all. Arwen wondered how they had ever managed to get by without him, and whispered another silent prayer of thanks for Faramir's return even as she searched for him.

Normally, finding Eowyn would be enough to learn where Faramir was, but Eowyn was with Lothiriel and Eomer. Eomer was still irritated with Faramir. Fond irritation, but irritation nonetheless, which could quite possibly turn to true upset if he were to hear that Arwen wasn't exactly sure where her husband's first-born son was, at the moment.

Failing to locate her quarry in the gardens, Arwen entered the cool quiet of the King's House. Most of their family and their staff were present at the Festival, today, leaving the old stone building a friendly and refreshingly peaceful place of refuge. Faramir had just spent an entire winter on an almost-deserted island policing sailors, former slaves, and former slavers, so Arwen thought that the quiet might appeal to her son of the heart.

The King's House was not quite empty. Arwen realized this as she almost collided with Minasdes, a senior maid of the Citadel Staff who was often seconded to the King's House.

"Ma'am." Greeted Minasdes, looking unusually flustered and carrying a large pile of white, fluffy towels. "If you are looking for your son, Ma'am, he is in the linen closet."

Faramir was not, technically speaking, Arwen's son, despite many pleas on Aragorn's part, and her own, to let them formally adopt him, so that left... "Eldarion?" Arwen asked in surprise.

"Yes, Ma'am. With Prince Faramir, Lady Theodwyn, Lord Veantur, and Miss Salabeth."

"I see." Arwen answered, even though she really didn't. Bemused, she guessed, "The larger linen closet, then?"

"The largest, Ma'am." Minasdes agreed resignedly, "The one on the first floor, across the hall from the laundry." She added, in case Arwen didn't know where it was. Arwen did know, as it so happened, but that there were more than two linen closets in the King's House was new information to her. She would have to ask someone more friendly about it later.

It was rather immediately clear that someone was in the linen closet, as the skirts of a mint-green dress spilled out into the hallway. Salabeth's, probably, as Theodwyn had been dressed in blue that morning. As she walked closer, Arwen could hear Faramir's warm, reassuring baritone, although he was speaking so softly that she could not quite make out the words.

"Nana!" Eldarion exclaimed in a near-ecstatic whisper as Arwen opened the door just wide enough to split in, "Balrog had kittens! And she is letting us hold them!"

Based on the narrow look Eldarion's black pet cat Balrog was giving Eldarion and the other children, and her and Faramir as well, Arwen suspected it was a near-run thing. But it was a sweet tableau, Eldarion's hands cupped around a two-day old tabby kitten, and Faramir's hands under Eldarion's, as Theodwyn, their friend Veantur, and Healer Olidhor's daughter Salabeth looked on.

"I see that, ion-muin-nin." Arwen replied in a fond whisper, kneeling down on the stone floor between Eldarion and the wooden box containing Balrog, three other kittens, and some relatively fine linens. No wonder Minasdes had not been best-pleased.

"Balrog must be very pleased with how gentle you are being, my heart." Arwen told her little son, reaching out one gentle finger to stroke the kitten's fuzzy head. The baby feline's closed eyes turned towards her, its pink little mouth opening in an almost-silent mew. Balrog replied, seeming soothed by Arwen's presence and Faramir's but still concerned and on-edge.

"You have done very well, little brother. You all have." Faramir praised, his kind gray eyes flickering to Arwen with amusement. "But I think that it is time to let Balrog and her kittens rest." Eldarion reluctantly but willingly surrendered the kitten, which Faramir placed ever-so-gently back into the box.

"But it's my turn to hold one again." Three year old Theodwyn protested, displeased but keeping her temper.

"First off, we use nicer words to ask, Thea-mine. Secondly, look how tired and worried Balrog is." Faramir pointed out.

Balrog was now washing the returned kitten and purring. Theodwyn frowned, but did not dispute the point.

"There are biscuits and fruit punch by the koi pond." Arwen pointed out, doing her own part to re-direct a Thea tantrum. Faramir shot her another amused look, this time tinged with gratitude.

"But we've already had two each, Lady Arwen." Little Veantur pointed out sadly.

Two was the normal limit Arwen imposed on such sweets, but today was a festival day, and she wanted a word with Faramir alone.

"You may each have two more." She offered them magnanimously. That bribe was duly and cheerfully accepted. Arwen and Faramir walked with the children to the entry way of the King's Hall, where Veantur's mother Lindorie took them under her wing, at the same time pointing out that Arwen's skirt had made the acquaintance of a truly alarming amount of dust and lint in the linen closet.

Arwen refused Faramir's offer to take the children back to the party so that Lindorie could help the Queen to amend her attire. Arwen had spent nearly five centuries as a lady-in-waiting to different queens and princesses of Arnor. Her own clothing was much simpler than theirs had been, and she could more than manage it on her own.

She left Faramir to wait in the bright common room of the suite which she and Aragorn shared with Eldarion and their new daughter Melyanna for the few minutes it took her to change. Returning, she paused to look at him. Faramir leaned lightly against the casing of a window, gazing affectionately out into the garden. The koi pond would be just within view, Arwen realized.

"I am glad to have you home, Faramir-muin-nin."

He turned to her with a soft smile. Aragorn's mother Gilraen's smile.

"And I am glad to be home." He assured her.

She smiled back at him. "Sit, please. We must return to the festivities soon enough, but I would have a few moments with you first, without needing to share you with the family and the Two Kingdoms at large."

Faramir laughed. "It does seem as if all of the world is here today, does it not?"

"We are all of us glad to have you back." Arwen told him, taking a seat on a curved settee, and gesturing for Faramir to sit beside her.

He hesitated momentarily in obeying, and then flinched ever so slightly when he sat. Arwen did her best to hide a frown. She did not want to embarrass Faramir by calling attention to the likely sore state of his hindquarters, but she was rather irritated with her husband. She had asked Aragorn, during the Festival, to let Faramir off of whatever punishment he'd devised for his son-and-Steward, for the crime of having been playing the spy and placing himself in dangerous situations without Aragorn's knowledge or approval.

She had thought that Aragorn had agreed to the temporary reprieve. But for all Arwen knew, it was Faramir who had pushed Aragorn into some kind of response despite the holiday. Faramir did that, at times. She knew that Aragorn would have been gentle and careful, that he would never truly hurt Faramir. But Aragorn was frustrated, as well. Arwen had been more than ready to take a stout hair brush to Faramir's backside herself, for this. But Aragorn had been angry enough for both of them, once he got over being grateful that Faramir was alive. Faramir had needed Arwen to take his part, so Arwen had. He was as much her child as Eldarion and Melyanna, he and Eowyn both.

"You know, Faramir, that Aragorn loves you dearly, do you not?" She began.

Faramir's teeth flashed in a quick grin, which was balm to Arwen's heart. "Aye, I know that he does. Do not fret, dear Arwen. He has protected me, in this, even beyond what I deserve."

She shook her head reprovingly at him. "You deserve more than you think, dear Faramir. And forgiveness is just the beginning of it."

He smiled back at her. Someone who knew him less well might think it agreement. Arwen knew it to be merely fondness and a desire not to argue. She huffed in disapproval and leaned forward to place her hands gently on either side of Faramir's face face, feeling her lower fingers tickled by his red-gold stubble.

"I love you as if you were my own. You know that, as well, do you not?" Arwen told Faramir, not letting him turn away from her eyes.

She was gratified that he did not even have to search her eyes for the truth. He just smiled again, his answer in his own gray orbs, and leaned forward to rest his forehead against her own.

Arwen laughed huskily and pulled Faramir's face down just far enough to press a maternal kiss to his forehead before releasing him. "I am glad that you know, then." She said simply. For as verbose and eloquent as he could be when he needed to be, Faramir was apt to express affection without many words when he was with those closest to him. Arwen understood that, and didn't mind it.

His hand sought out hers, and they sat in contented peace for a few minutes, listening as laughing voices and music floated into the windows from the garden and the city and the Pelennor beyond.

"Do you still wish to adopt me, Arwen?" Faramir asked, into that peace.

Arwen nearly dropped his hand in shock, but caught herself quickly enough to just squeeze it tighter, instead.

"I...of course, my Faramir. Of course I do." It was, in fact, the only thing that Arwen had ever asked Faramir for, that he hadn't given to her gladly. She knew that she was staring at him in pleased shock, but couldn't stop herself.

He smiled back at her, a little uncertainly. "Even after...." Faramir waved a hand to encompass spying in Harad and Umbar, being captured and taking six months to return, and Eru-knew-whatever-else.

"None of that matters." Arwen told him fiercely. "None of it. It has no bearing....I want you to be my son under law as well as Aragorn's by blood because I love you, because of who you are, and not because of anything you may or may not have done. However wise, or unwise."

"Even if I do something like it again?" Faramir asked lightly, genuinely seeking reassurance but also making Arwen want to smack him.

"You had better not." Arwen told him sternly. "For I do not wish to loose my older son, far away from home and alone." If this is what Faramir had been saying to her husband last night, then Arwen could understand why he wasn't sitting comfortably today. But it was like him, to press in this way. To be unsure in the affection of his father, and of his mother.

"Yes, Ma'am." Faramir promised, teasing, but also not.

She lifted one gentle hand to his cheek again. "Your answer is yes, then? You will be my son?"

"Yes, then." Faramir answered, gently teasing again. And then he caught her in his strong arms as she hugged him, and offered her his handkerchief when she cried with joy. Arwen did not ask him why it was, that he had finally said yes. She didn't really need to - 'yes' was enough. And she could guess, that he had missed her as much as she had missed him. And knowing him, could guess that he felt sorry to have withheld from her anything, if he had not been able to return.

Faramir became Arwen's son by law, and Aragorn's son by law as well as blood, on the last night of the Spring Festival of the Year's Prayer in Year 4 of the Fourth Age. This time it was Eldarion, tutored probably by Arwen's brothers and possibly also by Aragorn, who helped Faramir with the Quenya words of the elven adoption ceremony, written in the early years of the Second Age, after so many were left orphans or without heirs by the War of Wrath.

After the ceremony, Arwen stood in the cool of the evening with her husband's warm arms around her, watching the stars come out one by one. And watching Faramir tell the stories of the stars to Eldarion and his own children, while little Melyanna slept in Eowyn's lap.

"Blessed be your Erukyerme, meleth." Aragorn whispered into Arwen's ear. "May Eru grant your prayers for the year."

"He already has, beloved." Arwen whispered back. "He already has."

Chapter Text

It was fortunate, that Aragorn was both wise and good.

Faramir had already turned traitor once, for the greater good. Yes, after the war he had given his personal oath and loyalty, and his heart, to Aragorn. He had delivered the city to Aragorn.

But he'd also once sworn to obey Denethor, when the price of opposing the old Steward who ruled with a King's authority wasn't only being branded as a traitor but also a traitor's death. In truth, only the war saved Faramir; the order for his execution had been on Denthor's desk. Two things only would the old Steward have granted his second son, had the Enemy not come to the gate. First, that the council vote on the execution be unanimous, which it might not have been. And the second, a quick death by the sword.

Faramir did not fear treason and he did not fear death. Or perhaps he feared, but he did not let fear stop him. If Aragorn had not been wise, or good, and Gondor had suffered under him - what might Faramir have done?

Arwen did not have an answer to that question. She loved Faramir, and she trusted him. But she never forgot, that Faramir's loyalty was to Gondor, was to what he believed was Right and True.

Aragorn, on the other hand, never doubted Faramir, because he was both wise, and good. And because he would have preferred death, to enslaving his people.

It was Faramir, who understood that.

Chapter Text

"A few minutes." She pleaded, as she held her sore hands and lost the fight with her tears under the bright sun on the practice court.

Glorfindel's heart ached for her, but he attacked again even so. Mithiriel was Aragorn's most delicate, least warrior-like grandchild, but she must learn, nonetheless. If everyone gave her a few minutes to recover, she'd never be ready for the day when someone wasn't her friend, and used those moments to kill her, or capture her, or truly hurt her.

They'd been at this for an hour. To Mithiriel's credit, she did not try to come up with excuses to avoid her weapons and unarmed combat lessons. She tried doggedly, but she wasn't gifted at it, and she was built small, and she was easily distracted. That was why she was nursing sore hands from losing her staff for the fourteenth time. That was why she was overwhelmed with tears of not just pain, but also frustration and disappointment and self-disgust.

At first Glorfindel thought that she would just stay still and expect him to stop, but then she scrambled backwards and to the side. He would tell her that she'd done well for that, but later. For now, he just followed, determined to knock her down again so that she learned that she could be hurt, and survive.

Mithiriel's pain and fear struck him like a knife; and then something else struck him. Glorfindel came back to consciousness to find his body lying in the dust, his aching head cradled in Mithiriel's lap while her tears fell on his face. He heard her calling for her mother, and then felt Eowyn's cool hands and, a few minutes later, Aragorn's.

Despite his bleary, confused protests, Glorfindel spent a mostly peaceful night as a patient in the House of Healing. He still didn't know what had happened. He'd been attacking Mithiriel, then he was down and out as thoroughly as if he'd been struck hard on the head with an axe butt.

Trying to recall, Glorfindel realized that, in the moment before he fell, the expression in Mithiriel's eyes had turned from panic to panic-fueled resolution. He was belatedly pleased by that - the latter expression meant that she'd been about to at least try to do something to defend herself.

It was Faramir who was by his bed when he awoke, and Faramir whom he asked, "What in the name of all the Valar happened?"

"For public consumption," Faramir said dryly, "You tripped and hit your head."

"Fornicating orcs I did." Glorfindel refuted flatly.

"In truth? You pushed Mithiriel; Mithiriel pushed back."

Glorfindel just stared at him. Aragorn's peaceable, scholarly son. Who was also the son of Finduilas of Dol Amroth. Who had been Olorin's pupil. Who some had called a witch; an accusation that Faramir had never directly refuted.

Faramir sighed. "And how do we manage to keep hiding this, Daerada Glorfindel?" He asked, in the tone of a terrified father, begging a beloved elder to help him protect his darling, fragile, daughter. His darling, delicate daughter, who was a witch. A witch who could knock out a balrog slayer, without even lifting a pale, delicate finger.

"She fell asleep not long after we got you here." Faramir reported quietly, "And has not yet woken. She is not omnipotent. It is not an easy gift, nor one without cost, and she has very little control over it. Almost none."

Glorfindel sat up on his bed, rubbing his head. The pale rays of late morning sunlight shone through the pale, fluttering curtains. This room was situated so that the mountain winds carried words up and away.

"Mithiriel killed that bandit last year, when Jalila and the girls were kidnapped." Glorfindel deduced, "The one that Theli claimed he'd poisoned."

Seeing Faramir's nod, he continued, "Anything else?"

"I did not bleed as much as I should have, when Eldarion cut open my throat to keep me breathing. A child who fell while climbing a high tree in the park caught a thin branch which should have broken under his weight, and held onto it until Legolas could reach him. Mithiriel was present on both occasions, and fainted not long afterwards."

"I thought she was just delicate."

"So did we."

Glorfindel got to his feet, disgusted at first to find that he needed to hold on to the bed rail to do so. Then he suddenly smiled, because by the Valar, Aragorn's grandchild whom he had worried about the most might not find herself dead the first time she came across an enemy stronger than she was.

"Glorfindel?" Queried Faramir, clearly concerned and possibly ready to call for a healer.

"This is a good thing, Faramir." Glorfindel said reassuringly, still smiling. "We can work with this."

"It can't be practiced, Glorfindel." Faramir explained, nearly panicking, "There is a cost."

"Anything can be practiced, Faramir. It is just a matter of figuring out how."

It turned out that Faramir was more right than Glorfindel was, on that topic, but by refining theory in the absence of reliable practice, Mithiriel did gain greater control. Glorfindel made Faramir a promise to protect her, and her secret, and Glorfindel did so, over all the many centuries of their lives. He did so, until the end of the world, when Faramir could be beside Mithiriel again. Until the end of the world, when they all faced their enemies together for the last time, and joined Eru in singing a new world into existence.

Because, after all, nothing ever really ends.

Chapter Text

The great Anduin flowed past Emyn Arnen at a goodly clip. Its blue waters were fast and deep enough to carry a ship swiftly to the sea. A ship such as the graceful schooner which currently lay at anchor near the Prince’s private dock.

An elf, a man, and a dwarf sat on the end of the pier. The feet of the man and the elf dangled into the cold rushing water.

“I don't even know what I'll do with myself in the west,” Complained Legolas Thranduilon, “Retired before I'm even 700. What a farce.”

“You're barely 600, gwador muin nin,” said his friend Faramir dryly, “I am sure that you will find something to do with yourself.”

Legolas did not even respond, except to shrug despondently.

Gimli and Faramir exchanged looks. Faramir rolled his eyes, and patted Legolas' back.

"You know," Faramir said quietly, "I've heard a rumor, about you, Legolas."

"Your father and I never slept together." Legolas managed to joke, though there was a hitch in his voice, "That was just a rumor we started when some of the idiots at our respective father's courts thought it odd that we were such close friends."

"Really?" Faramir asked, intrigued. He'd known that there was no truth to the rumor, of course, but not that Aragorn and Legolas had started it themselves . . . his Adar had passed on and soon Legolas would sail . . . this might be one of Faramir's last chances to learn the truth of it . . .

Gimli reached around Legolas to smack Faramir’s arm. Faramir flushed at the reminder that the purpose of this little talk was to try and cheer Legolas up, and to remind him that sailing was a good idea, and that no one blamed him for it. Key to that mission was not to be distracted by Legolas, who knew Faramir very well, and was just as determined NOT to have this conversation. Or admit to the necessity of sailing.

Faramir shook his head, and gave Legolas an exasperated look, "Don't distract me."

"Don't be so easily distracted." Legolas retorted, a faint light of amusement in his eyes, thoguh the grief and sea-longing mostly drowned it out.

“I heard,” Faramir continued, rededicating himself to his original gambit, “that you used to be quite the scholar yourself, as an elfling. And that you even managed some impressive academic work, in your adolescent and early adult years, in order to get back to your weapons sooner after some mishap or another.”

Legolas gaped at Faramir, and Gimli grinned.

“And,” Faramir continued, “I heard that you enjoyed the work, as an elfling, for all the pains you took to hide it when you were older.”

“How….who told you….” Legolas sputtered, “I could have sworn that even Thalion had only heard that by rumor, and not really believed it…..”

“Naneth Arwen told me, of course.” Faramir answered, in a ‘who else?’ type of tone, “You forgot yourself, when she and the twins visited after . . . you know, the time with the spiders. You managed to do well on several tests she gave you which were intended for a much older elfling.”

Legolas huffed a laugh and looked away, his eyes tracking the flight of a white-winged egret, “ I was new to deception, then.” He answered quietly.

Faramir kicked up a small wave of river water, precisely calculated to hit Legolas at the knee.

The blond elf’s eyes narrowed, but his attention did return to Aragorn’s son.

“So,” Faramir explained, “Nana, Gimli, and I wrote to Daerada Elrond in the West.”

Eyes still narrowed, Legolas said threateningly, “I cannot wait to appropriately thank you all for these wonderful things you have done on my behalf.”

“Thank Gimli,” Said Faramir disloyally, “I'm certainly too old for such aggressive thanks, and you'll have plenty of time with him.”

Legolas opened his mouth to argue the point, and Faramir quickly spoke on, “In any case, we wrote Daerada Elrond, and so whenever you've finished visiting whomever Daerada Elrond and your family think you should visit, you'll have an apprenticeship waiting for you, either in Tirion or with one of Lady Galadriel's tutors.”

“I am not your son, Faramir, for you to thusly arrange such things on my behalf!” Legolas said heatedly, his snapping eyes and flushed cheeks betraying his anger.

“No, you're not my son,” Said Faramir gently, “You've been my father's brother, my brother, my brother's brother, and my son's brother. And if it were your son, wouldn't you want someone to help him, as I've helped you?”

Legolas cursed softly, and looked away to the egret again. “Faramir, you have this way about you, of taking the pain, the insult, out of something, and leaving nothing left but the heart of it.”

“You do, son of Aragorn,” Gimli agreed, “I think that you may have learned it from your mothers.”

Legolas cursed again, “Eru, I’ll miss them. I'll miss them. I'll miss you all. Except Gimli.” His hand moved to grasp Gimli's. Gimli squeezed Legolas' hand firmly, and laid his other hand on top of their clasped hands.

“We'll miss you, too,” Said Faramir softly, “But wherever I am, I'm sure that Aragorn, Boromir and I, and Eowyn and Arwen, we'll all be there, raising a glass to Legolas Thranduilon and Gimli son of Gloin, and their friendship.”

Gimli cleared his throat, his voice somewhat husky as he promised, “And we'll be raising our glasses, to the sons of the Hurins and the heirs of Isildur, and the Riders of Rohan.” He paused, then added a little uncertainly, in the tone of one trying to convince himself of something, “I'm sure that they'll have ale, in the West.”

Legolas, blinking tears away, laughed a bit unsteadily, “I am sure that they will have a fine variety of intoxicating spirits there, don't worry, my friend. And I'd be surprised if Gandalf hasn't found a way to cultivate weeds for your pipe, too."

“Well, if he hasn't, then we will,” Gimli said, sounding relieved to be somewhat surer on this point, “For I've got plantings ready to take with me. Young Frodo Gamgee, and Thalion and Rhovameril, they all made sure of that.”

Rolling his eyes, Legolas teased, “Well as long we're taking plants to grow pipe smoke …..”

“Nay, just seeds, and some plantings.” Gimli replied with equanimity.

“It's best to take care of the important things,” Said Faramir, his gaze moving to the gently bobbing schooner.

“Aye, Adar wrote me that you’re to be a great-grandfather again, Fara-nin.”

Legolas looked to be honestly amazed, rather than using this bit of news as yet another distraction, so Faramir grinned and answered, "I know. Twenty times over a grandfather, and already thirty times over a great-grandfather."

The three paused to contemplate that for a moment, then Gimli grinned with a wicked gleam in his dark eyes.

“I look forward to seeing Legolas introduced to a bunch of pretty ellith.” He teased, reaching out to tug on a blond braid.

"Oh, ugh," groaned Legolas, making a face, “I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated enough being away from all of that, here in Ithilien.” He eyed his laughing friends with scant favor, before a less pleasant thought occurred to him.

“The apprenticeship,” Legolas worried, “I couldn't take it, Fara-nin. I don't want to leave Gimli behind while I'm that busy with something.”

Faramir laughed, and smacked Legolas lightly on the shoulder. "Legolas, you goose. Your apprenticeship will be with Ingloren's old partners and Galadriel's old teachers. Gimli will be so much more than welcome, that they may well invite him to live in their pocket. You may have to struggle to keep up with a dwarven engineer and stonemason of Gimli's status. But I know you'll be equal to that, in your own way, whatever it will be."

“But how do you know that? That Gimli will be welcome, I mean?”

“Aye, Faramir, how do ye know that?" Gimli demanded, "For that much is news even to me. I'd expected to have to find something to occupy my own time, which I would have been perfectly fine with. Lady Galadriel,” Gimli’s tone shifted from faintly accusatory to openly admiring as even said the honored name, while Faramir and Legolas exchanged an amused glance over his head, “Was herself worried how some of that lot would react to the choice she offered me.” With a reproving glance for Legolas, who did look about to protest, Gimli added, “Not that I minded that. I’d trust the Lady Galadriel’s judgment over that of a bunch of elves I’ve never met, aye, and even their betters.”

“But what you should understand,” Faramir explained patiently, “Is that it was their idea in the first place, at least some of them. Not to offer Gimli in specific an immortal life, but that it would be possible to do so for someone. But more to the point - I know because Melyanna, Mithiriel, Elboron's daughter, and Gilwen's younger granddaughter, have all told me so.”

It was quiet for a few moments, and then Legolas asked, “How?”

“Galadriel has sent them dreams,” Said Faramir, with a fond smile, “All will be well, my two dear gwedyr. Your coming is awaited in joy by many elves, and by our old friend Mithrandir.”

Legolas cursed under his breath again. He spent a long minute gazing down river, then took a deep breath, "I've finally run out of excuses then, haven't I?"

“Aye, my lad.” Gimli agreed, getting up to a lay a large hand on Legolas’ slender shoulder.

“It does seem so,” Said Faramir sympathetically, placing his hand on Legolas’ other shoulder.

With a determined tilt of his chin, Legolas decided, “If I do marry one of those ellith Gimli is determined to surround me with in the West, and I am fortunate enough to have a son, I'd like to name him after Aragorn."

“I know he'd be honored.” Said Faramir, his own voice a little husky. His grandchildren and great-nieces and nephews included a Boromir and even a Gimli and a Legolas, but as of yet no Aragorns.

“And if I am fortunate enough to have a daughter,” Legolas continued, “then I am planning to name her Finduilas.”

Faramir blinked in surprise, “Well, that's...an honor, but also a whimsical and baffling choice.” Faramir didn't think that Legolas had ever even met his mother.

Legolas smiled mistily. “Yes. I think that she would have liked it, as I always heard she was a bit whimsical herself. And since a daughter of mine would be my Aragorn's sister, it just wouldn't be right to name her Arwen.”

“I suppose not,” Faramir agreed with a laugh, getting up to wave in greeting as his younger half-brother the King of Men joined them, along with Faramir’s son Elboron, and grandson Barahir. In their wake came Elladan and Elrohir Elrondion, a pack slung over each of their shoulders.

Elladan grinned at Legolas, “Because if there is one thing that Aragorn always said, it would be....

The two surviving members of the felllowship, and Aragorn's sons and grandsons said all at the once, "Arwen is not my sister."

Legolas laughed too, then he surveyed them all, blinking away tears. Turning to stare at the egret again and forcibly refraining from crossing his arms, he muttered, “Well, I guess it's time to get on the stupid ship.”

Elladan frowned, and slapped down a coin purse into his smirking twin’s hand.

Legolas glared at them. “Tell me that the two of you weren’t actually gambling over whether I would really leave this time!”

Eldarion waved his grinning uncles’ antics aside, and told Legolas, “It might be for the best for you to depart now, brother. Erestor's getting testy, since the sailmaster wants to shoot through straights of Tolfalas on the afternoon tide.”

“And Erestor is still nervous on ships,” Faramir explained, “Despite everything that Melpomaen, Alphros, Elendil and I have done to reassure him.”

Legolas nodded and started towards the small boat set to row to the schooner, saying mostly to himself, "And it's not as if Gimli and I can't get off at the Gray Havens, if we want to."

Gimli rolled his eyes, and Elrohir quietly handed him a strong length of hithlum rope.

“Just in case you need to tie Legolas up in Mithlond,” He explained to Gimli, “Or at a port in between here and there.”

“I heard that!” Complained an irritated Legolas.

“You were meant to, Bratling.” Retorted Elrohir, “As a threat it wouldn’t be much good if you didn’t know about it, now would it?”

Embraces and farewells were exchanged. The small boat rowed to the schooner, with Legolas and Gimli aboard. Elrohir, on the shore, collected money from Elladan again, and from the more innocent Barahir. Faramir just sighed and blocked his elven brother’s view of the proceedings.

The Prince of Ithilien took his leave on ship board, his half-brother and his son beside him.

“Legolas,” Faramir said softly, as he and his party left to return to the dock, “You'll probably be taking on some surprise last minute passengers in Mithlond."

“Who?” Legolas asked, intrigued despite himself. “’Tis well and past the usual season for sailing.”

Faramir smiled, his rueful half-grin, Aragorn's smile, the one that Legolas was going to miss like a limb in the West. Then Aragorn's son, who knew Legolas and his curiosity very well, said, "Well, you're just going to have to stay on the boat 'til the end to find out, aren't you, muindor-Las?"

Embracing Faramir one last time, Legolas said huskily, "You made that up. Just to keep me on the cursed ship."

Erestor, a bit panicked, said "It's not cursed. Melpomaen and Elendil have assured me that this ship is not cursed, and is in fact quite seaworthy. Besides,” Erestor added, calming himself and re-assuming his natural scholar’s tone, “Faramir would never lie to you about such an important thing."

Faramir embraced Legolas back, "I'm not lying. And the last-minute passengers are going to need your help. Please help them, for me."

"Of course." Legolas promised.

And Gimli smiled, and whispered his thanks when he embraced Faramir in turn, because he knew that his best friend would never get off the ship before it sailed for true, not after making a promise like that to Aragorn's son. Well, provided that the mysterious last-minute passengers truly materialized, at least.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun sparkled off the waves of the Gulf of Lune. Seabirds whirled overhead. Men and elves bustled about, loading boxes and barrels onto the graceful vessel soon to set sail for the West.

“Don’t forget to water my plants,” said the graceful raven-haired elf standing by the quay, “And make sure that you trim Voron’s claws. And remind Mithiriel to move the . . . ”

“The oldest of the bound climate records from the east side of your office to the south, so that the sun doesn’t further fade the ink, yes, inyonya, I know,” replied the tall blond elf with a lazy smile, his mien very fond as regarded his only grandson.

Erestor grinned and shook his head. “Of course you do. Now, stop keeping an evil eye on that poor man loading the wine onto the ship . . .”

Glorfindel’s eyes narrowed, “He's drunk.”

“Maybe he’s just frightened of you. And besides, he’s not even going to sail on the ship, let alone steer it, so it’s not really your concern. Instead, tell me which color leather the climate records are bound in, as opposed to the commerce regulations?”

“Ah . . .," Stumbled Glorfindel, “Hmm. Blue?”

“Are you telling me, or asking?" queried Erestor, his dark eyes dancing.

“Ah . . .”

“They’re the maroon set,” Erestor supplied, still smiling. He pulled out a letter from the sleeve of his rich red robes, “Here. Just give this to Mithiriel. And, remember to watch out for Arwen, she’s very vulnerable right now. And all of the children. And keep an eye on Melpomaen, the twins, and Grace. I think they’re planning to winter in Rhun again, and I’m concerned about the tenuous grip that Theodwyn's grandson has on the more fractious tribes. And . . .”

“Yes, yes,” Glorfinel reached over and pulled Erestor closer, so that their foreheads touched. “And you, take care of my only grandson. Don’t let Legolas and Gimli tease you too much.” He stepped away, then lifted his arms to grasp Erestor’s shoulders and shake firmly. “And be careful! There are hazards out there, even though sailing is nowhere near as dangerous as you believe . . .”

Erestor shuddered. “I’ve never warmed to ships.”

Glorfindel released him with a last fond shake, laughing, “Inyonya, while I approve of your cautious nature – in stark contrast to your stubborn, impetuous father – I must say that you oughtn’t let one youthful misadventure prejudice you against the sea.”

“One youthful misadventure!” Exclaimed Erestor, “It was a disaster, Anatar! I was inebriated, my companions – including the nominal Captain – were worse than drunk. That sudden storm came up and we all would have died if Elrond hadn’t come looking for me, and brought out the rescue ships with him. If you had been there, I wouldn’t have sat for a week!”

“If I had been there, you wouldn’t have been spending time with that crowd in the first place!” Glorfindel countered.

“Elrond – and his paddle – made that point quite eloquently after the fact.” Erestor drawled, wincing in memory, before brightening, “It will be good to see him again.”

“I am sure that he has missed you, too. As I will miss you. Ah, Erestor.” Glorfindel pulled his grandson into another tight embrace, which Erestor returned with equal ferocity.

“How long?” Asked the younger elf, his voice muffled against his taller grandfather’s shoulder. After not having had his grandfather in his life until he was nearly two thousand years old, the prospect of another separation was daunting.

“I cannot know.” Glorfindel replied. At Erestor’s sharp indrawn breath, he cupped the back of his raven head, and whispered, “Shh, do not grieve, inyonya. You will not be lonely, our Elrond will see to that, and my kin as well. You will bring your grandmother, my Laurea, so much joy. And your fiery bride may already have been reborn, in which case, you will more than have your hands full!”

Erestor couldn’t help but smile at that, though soon his visage grew troubled again. “I could not have left sooner, it is hard enough to say farewell as it is! But, oh, what if by tarrying here, I have missed the rebirth of my son with Taminixe, the baby I lost when I lost her?”

“I cannot promise you that such a thing has not already come to pass.” And Erestor knew his grandfather well enough to realize from his tone that Glorfindel must have spent no small amount of time worrying over it, “But I can tell you, having missed your elflinghood and most of your father’s young adulthood, that he will be no less precious to you, and you, in time, no less precious to him.”

“I should know that,” Said Erestor with a relieved smile, “Given how Melpomaen came to me, and how quickly I came to care for him. Anatar, you will . . .

Glorfindel laughed, “Yes, Erestor, I will take care of your son.” The Balrog-Slayer very kindly refrained from pointing out how many times he had already made this promise.

A yell from the ship drew their attention. A wrestling match was in progress between Legolas and Gimli.

Glorfindel observed the antics with professional appreciation, “They acquit themselves very well for the limited space on ship-board.”

Erestor just sighed. “How long will this trip take, again?”

“It will take as long as it takes.”

Erestor’s unimpressed look prompted a chuckle from his unrepentant grandfather.

“Not all things are knowable, my dear scholarly grandson.”

“But you sailed here, from there!”

“And I’m still not really sure how long it took. I wasn’t writing it down, Erestor. And I think it might have taken longer than it should have. Curumo- Saruman – was in something of a hurry, which I think irritated Lord Ulmo. He may have set the waves against us. I spent most of the voyage playing chess with Olorin – Gandalf – and watching Aiwendil’s – Radagast's - delight as he communed with the sea life. You will arrive when you are all ready, and that is all there is to it. Now, there are two more things, inyonya, that you should know before you sail."

“Oh?”

"When you see your son again, he will probably be married to our Grace.”

"That's...not as shocking as it should be, I suppose,” Erestor replied, reflecting fondly on the fierce, blond elleth, “Grace is good for Melpomaen, and clearly loves him deeply. And of course," Erestor smiled wistfully, "I think my son is wonderful, and shall miss him terribly until I see him again. I will love his wife, whomever she may be."

"That's what I thought you would say. But Grace warned me,” Glorfindel smiled and shook his head, making Erestor wonder how abruptly Grace had informed Glorfindel of her romantic decision, “so I didn't want it to take you by surprise, whenever the twins sail, and Melpomaen and Grace with them." Neither elf said so, but they were relieved Grace would stay with Melpomaen, and planned to wed him. Even if the twins made Luthien's choice for some human in the future, if Melpomaen were with Grace rather than alone, he would choose to sail rather than fading. "The other thing, inyonya, is that our family in Aman is somewhat larger than I think I've ever mentioned to you, in the past."

"What do you mean, Anatar?"

"Well, of course Laureamoriel your anamille, if she has been reborn, and her cousins. And my King Turgon and friends amongst the Gondolindhrim. There is my father's family, who are farmers in Valinor. But there is also my mother's family. As I believe I did tell you, my mother's name is Tanien. Her mother is Findis, who as a student of genealogy I believe you are rather familiar with."

Erestor’s mouth dropped open in shock. Glorfindel clapped him on the shoulder, delivered more surprising news, and then turned Erestor's shoulders in the direction of the water.

“Now, it is time for you to get on the ship.”

The anchor had been lifted and the sails hoisted before Erestor caught his breath again. His insouciant grandfather waved at him from the quay, along with Lord Cirdan and a host of other dignitaries.

Legolas and Gimli exchanged concerned glances, evidently electing Legolas their spokesperson.

"Are you . . . quite well, Erestor?"

Eresor huffed an incredulous laugh, "Yes. But my grandfather is a sneaky elf with a questionable sense of humor."

Gimli nodded wisely, "Aye. I've thought that of Lord Glorfindel since the first time we met."

"His parting words to me were, "Say "hi" for me to our Anamille. Her name is Findis. Tell our great uncle and aunt in Tirion that I've sent them a son and now a grandson in my place, and that I will want to hear no more of my familial obligation to perform various and sundry boring duties as a scion of the House of Finwe, whenever I finally return."'

Legolas, eyes wide, started to explain to Gimli what that meant.

Gimli waved him off, "Aye, my friend. I know who Findis was. The eldest daughter of the Noldorin King Finwe. Making our Erestor the distant grandson of the former King Finwe, and the distant nephew of King Finarfin."

“They probably call him Arafinwe, in the Quenya," remarked Erestor absently.

Legolas, eyes still wide, "You are my cousin Elrond's cousin, then, Erestor. And Aran Ereinion Gil-galad's cousin, as well."

Erestor, shaking his head in silent mirth and consternation, "Aye, and whenever I complained to Elrond that the descendants of Finwe are all stubborn fools, he would get this . . . this cursedly amused look in his eyes, and just agree with me. Then Anatar would kick him, and we would move on. And I never questioned it."

Legolas shook his head, "Comparing you to the twins, I think it is safe to say that Findis must indeed have been one of the most level-headed descendants of Finwe."

Erestor, putting an arm around the younger elf, and extending a hand to Gimli, offered, "Well, we shall find out soon enough, ourselves. A new life awaits us, my friends. With old friends and new on the other side."

That thought was no longer so overwhelming as it had been weeks ago when they set sail from Emyn Arnen, but still their eyes went back to Mithlond.

Erestor was still in shock, and . . . yes, yes, from the deck to the shore, he could see his Anatar, still grinning at him. Then Glorfindel held up an imperious hand, and Cirdan signaled frantically to the elf at the helm. Erestor wondered why they were holding the boat at the last minute . . . surely Glorfindel had no further surprises to hand him? Then he saw a small mounted party, moving swiftly. The colors of the guards' livery were incredibly familiar. Had the twins and Melpomaen come here after all? They had said farewell in Gondor, and Erestor had not expected them.

Then he saw a couple, kissing and hugging the other riders good bye, and then running hand in hand, and leaping onto the ship just as it moved past the end of the quay. Legolas, laughing brightly, reached for the hands of the lady, Gimli offering him a steadying hand. Erestor, with a startled but welcoming smile, helped the elf.

"Lady Difficult!" Legolas exclaimed with delight, "Shall you sail with us?"

Mithiriel smiled, joy and sorrow mingled in her green eyes, but as always with Faramir’s daughter and Erestor’s pupil, a sharp interest in the world around her superseded everything. "Yes, I've always wanted to know how it works, this sailing to the West." She said, embracing Legolas and then Erestor.

"We were both offered a choice." Theli explained quietly, putting an arm around his wife after greeting Legolas, Gimli and Erestor.

"It was hard." Mithiriel explained, one of the simplest sentences Erestor had ever heard her utter, as she tucked her head under Theli's chin, melting into his arms. "So hard...the children, and my siblings. But . . . Nestor and Ceredisgail will likely join us in time, and it would just get harder. And," Mithiriel smiled, "Now seemed right."

"And I'd not want to let my Prince sail without a single Greenwood elf as retainer." Theli agreed, with a grin for Legolas.

"I should have stayed longer," Legolas reproached himself, pulling back a bit as Theli rolled his eyes and Gimli kicked his best friend. "Ow, dwarf!" Legolas objected.

"We also figured, sailing now, we would make the two of you less remarkable." Theli confided with a teasing grin.

Erestor, who'd grown up half Sinda in Lindon and Eregion, and become the best friend of Middle Earth's most famous Peredhel, read eloquently the shadowed fear in Theli's eyes. Fear for his mostly human wife, in the undying lands populated entirely by elves.

"Do not fear, cousin of my gwador." Erestor soothed Theli, "Elrond will welcome you both with great joy, a granddaughter of Estel's and one of his favorite pupils, now known to be a cousin of his, how could he not? And Celebrian my gwathel will be delighted to embrace a first cousin of Elrond's. And I suspect Lady Elwing will be grateful for a great nephew and niece-by-law."

"You'll not be alone, my lass." Gimli patted Miriel's hand gently, "we're all going together."

With that they waved to the shore one last time, then turned to face the West. The wind blew their cloaks and the loose tendrils of Mithiriel’s curls as they sailed into the sunset together.

When Middle Earth was well behind them and the stars had come out, Legolas turned his attention to his old friend, former healer, former elfling-minder, former commander, and former subordinate.

“Did you tell my father, that you would be sailing?”

Theli grinned, “I left him a note.”

Chapter Text

It was one of those warm, golden-green lit evenings of early spring. Mithiriel would, under normal circumstances, have been enjoying the play of the light through the oak trees and the caress of the cool pine-scented breeze in Arnor’s great northern forest. At the moment, having her hands and feet tied together and being yanked through said forest by a mad-man was rather dimming her pleasure in the beautiful twilight scene.

There was the sheer discomfort, of course. Mithiriel had delicate skin, and her wrists and ankles were already chafing, let alone the pain of the holes in her clothes and scrapes on her face and limbs from the thorns and branches as she was pulled, will-she nill-she, in the direction of Valar-knew-what. And then there was what her family would have to say when - if - she survived this. That thought was difficult to bear. Imagining the reactions of just her siblings, Eldarion, and Gilwen had her wincing! And worse, Mithiriel had to admit that they would have a point. It had been one thing to be taken hostage by bandits when she was a child and a teenager, that was the kind of thing that could happen to anyone, really. But as a full-grown woman of 25! The shame!

Eldarion and Theodwyn always said that Mithiriel was too trusting. But Mithiriel’s husband Theli, and her elven and dwarven uncles Legolas and Gimli, had all trusted the sweet but apparently insane young man who had just half an hour ago apologetically held Mithiriel at knife point. He had then proceeded to equally apologetically tie her hand and foot, then drag her through the woods with the air of a child excited to share a wonderful secret with a trusted friend. Perhaps it was time to see if she could talk herself out of this. It was well- agreed that talking was one area in which Mithiriel excelled.

"Calben," Mithiriel ventured delicately, "Why don't you untie me, and then I'll be able to walk faster to see your grand surprise?"

Calben didn't stop tugging her along through the clinging leaves, but he did look back at her. His Numenorean gray eyes eloquent with regret at the prospect of disappointing her, he said, "I mustn't, Miri. Talathion said that you wouldn't understand, that I couldn't tell you. But I just know that you'll understand if only you can see."

Talathion. Well, that explained a little. Even her husband Theli, who was more or less willing to give anyone the benefit of the doubt, had noticed that something about Talathion rang untrue. Mithiriel had given Theli her word that she wouldn't put herself into a situation where she was alone with Talathion during their stay in the village of Eryn Lith. The plan had been that Mithiriel would stay safe in the village under the protection of Calben's father Malthenor, whilst Theli, Legolas, Gimli, Pippin Took, and Fredegar Bolger went with the warriors of the local Arnorian militia to search for whoever –or whatever – was kidnapping men and women of Easterling descent, and potentially also responsible for the mysterious disappearance of several adventuresome young hobbits.

Obviously, something had gone wrong with that plan. Mithiriel hoped that she wasn’t about to find out where the missing Arnorians and hobbits had ended up. Given that Talathion was apparently involved, that was likely a vain hope.

Another yank from the deceptively strong Calben, and they were across a stream and into a large clearing. Sure enough, tied to stakes around a huge pile of wood were some thirty human villagers, and four adolescent hobbits. Mithiriel tried to spit a stray leaf out of her mouth in the most lady-like way possible while at the same time thoroughly surveying her surroundings. A dozen men of Arnor carrying axes and bows patrolled around the edge of the clearing. Mithiriel recognized several of them from the village. Most seemed content to ignore Calben and his hostage/companion, but one or two of the cleverer ones looked uneasy.

Only half of the imprisoned villagers seemed aware of their situation. The others, likely those who had gone missing first, appeared gaunt and near delirious. The hobbits were all bright-eyed and alert, eyeing Mithiriel with hope and interest. With a jolt of fear, she recognized Faramir Took, Pippin’s only son. He nodded to her, and then jerked his head towards his fellows. The two brown-haired hobbit lads were young Merry and young Pippin, sons of Samwise and Rosie, but for the life of her, Mithiriel couldn’t tell the two apart. She didn’t recognize the last hobbit, but thought that he must be Fredegar Bolger’s missing cousin by a process of elimination.

Mithiriel hoped that she’d be able to rescue them, and herself, and the missing villagers. She just didn’t have the faintest idea how, yet. Normally Mithiriel would already be extending her other senses to feel the fabric of this place and time, and thinking about how it might be stretched and modified to be otherwise. In other words, she would be thinking of how best to use her human magic, which in extremity she could use to effect great things, but which most often left her exhausted and useless immediately afterwards.

It was a tricky gift to use under any circumstances, but now she dared not even begin to try until she had no choice left, for Calben was one of only three other humans Mithiriel had ever met who shared that gift. Gwilin, the blind net-weaver of the Falas, saw the magic as Mithiriel did, as brilliant threads in a great tapestry of life. Gwilin’s nets never failed to catch fish, yet never ensnared a dolphin or a man, no matter how poorly they were thrown. Merewyn, a Dale minstrel, saw shining notes in a grand symphony, and sang to change the tune of the song, her singing allowing her to make similar changes to Mithiriel’s manipulation of threads in the tapestry. Calben, a blacksmith, saw the world as shining molten metal, and shaped it as he did the plows, knives, arrowheads, and axles he made in his smithy.

Calben would ‘hear’ if Mithiriel began pulling threads. He clearly didn’t want to hurt her. But he was also clearly unstable, if he thought this a wonderful surprise!

“You see, Mithiriel?” Calben asked excitedly, his pale gray eyes filled with trust and confidence, “Do you see? They don’t belong here. The Valar have cursed us with dry spring upon dry spring because we’ve let ourselves dilute our blood with the Enemy’s. If we burn them, that will be like a great prayer to the Valar, and then the rain will come.”

“Calben,” Mithiriel began gently, before trailing off, unsure how to best make her appeal. It was true that the droughts of the past several years seemed unnatural. She knew that her kin and Theli’s were concerned by them. In fact, the original reason for her presence and Theli’s in Eryn Lith had been to bring additional supplies from Annuminas, and to survey the villages of Arnor to make sure that the villagers’ health wasn’t suffering along with their crops.

“Calben,” Mithiriel tried again, “The Easterlings and the Southrons are just as much children of Eru as we are. I’m sure that the Valar don’t want them to be harmed, let alone burnt to death.”

“Mithiriel, you don’t understand,” Calben said, still patient and earnest and kind. Mithiriel was almost afraid to find out what he would say next, but then one of the even more objectionable men prowling the edge of the clearing interrupted Calben before the smith had the chance to continue.

“Stupid soft Gondorian Lady,” the poorly washed woodsman sneered at Mithiriel, “the Easterlings have raided and plundered our villages since before Annuminas fell the first time! Everyone knows this!”

“But these men and women are your neighbors,” Mithiriel disagreed, careful to keep her tone even and calm, “their parents or grandparents may have been of Rhun, but they chose to live in Arnor and abide by its customs and laws.”

The woodsman was still sneering, and Calben was still shaking his head with gentle regret, but at least one of the bowmen patrolling the clearing was listening. Encouraged, Mithiriel added, “The wars are over, and some of the Easterlings are no longer our enemies. I know a number of Easterlings who are good, decent folk.” Mithiriel didn’t bother to explain that one of them was her brother-by-law. This didn’t seem like the right crowd for that fact to go over well.

She’d pressed her advantage too far. The bowman lost interest, and the woodsman stepped forward to belt her across the face with a closed fist. Calben pulled her back quickly enough that only his knuckles grazed her cheek, but it still hurt. She blinked away tears of shock and pain, listening with only half her attention as Calben scolded the woodsman.

“No true man hits a woman, Rondion! Besides, Mithiriel sees Arda as I do. I’m sure that she will understand that this is for the greater good as soon as we explain it to her!” Calben said firmly.

“Calben,” Mithiriel sallied again, “Some of these people aren’t even Men. Those four are hobbits. Hobbit children.”

Calben turned to stare at the four hobbits. Frodo, young Merry, young Pippin, and the Bolger lad all did their best to look scared and harmless. They succeeded brilliantly, in Mithiriel’s opinion. Even Calben looked thoughtful, at last.

“Maybe they are hobbits,” he mused, “They don’t look like Easterlings, and the molding for the prayer doesn’t need any children.”

Calben considered that a little longer, then nodded his head firmly. “Forodhim,” he ordered the bowman, “Take these four small ones off of the posts, and tie them up over here by me. After the others are burnt and the prayer is made, we can take them back to the village with Mithiriel.”

Mithiriel honestly didn’t think that she’d be going back to the village in any future where Calben’s plan succeeded, but tied up on the ground by the edge of the clearing was better than tied to a post about to be burnt. Young Faramir, Merry, Pippin, and what’s-his-name evidently thought so too. Mithiriel saw out of the corner of her eye that young Merry – or young Pippin? – she really couldn’t tell the two apart – had gotten an arrowhead away from the hapless Forodhim. The hobbit lad couldn’t do anything with it himself because his hands were tied, but he could hand it off to one of the others to use to cut their bonds.

Hopefully at least the young hobbits could get away, and stay away long enough for Theli and the others to save them. Mithiriel had managed to get a message through to her husband, so he would be on his way. Speaking mind-to-mind was elven magic, not human, and it seemed to be undetectable to Calben. Unfortunately, Mithiriel wasn’t much good at it. Either her father Faramir or her brother Elboron could have done a much better job, maintaining the link long enough to convey nearly the whole situation, rather than Mithiriel’s frantic message of, *Calben, to the northeast, help!*

Even if Mithiriel had been as skilled at the mind speech as an ancient elf like Glorfindel or a powerful one like Orophin or Daernana Arwen, it might not have helped that much. Speaking mind-to-mind was painful for Theli, thanks to his grandfather having been a clumsy and unkind fist teacher. And Legolas was also not particularly good at it yet, although Mithiriel had been near shouting when she sent her message, so he might have heard it too. As it was, Mithiriel had only just received Theli’s determined and reassuring message that he was coming when she broke the connection in order to conserve her energy to find a way out of the situation on her own.

So far, all Mithiriel could think to do was play for time. Already Calben had spent twenty minutes making the obedient Forodhrim and the unpleasant Rondion untie two of the villagers and move them to the posts that little Faramir and the young Bolger had been tied to.

“Now, Mithiriel,” Calben said, a gentle, exalted expression on his handsome face, “When the fire purifies and releases their spirits, the power of that will . . . .”

“Calben, you idiot!” yelled the newly-arrived Talathion,”What are you doing with Elessar Telcontar’s granddaughter as a hostage!”

“She’s not a hostage, she’s our guest!” Calben protested. Mithiriel silently cursed her luck. Calben was touched enough that he might well have spent the rest of the evening trying to explain this incipient atrocity to her, or even possibly let her go free afterward. Talathion was an entirely different kind of unstable.

“She’ll betray us, you simpleton!”

“She’s like me, she’ll understand!” Showing doubt for the first time, Calben added, “Or at least she’ll understand, after it’s done. The power will be there for the taking. She’ll understand that it wouldn’t make sense to let it go to waste.”

Mithiriel was fairly sure that she’d never understand any of this. She was even more certain that she’d fight to save these people, or at least get them justice, with every breath in her body. Calben might not realize that, but Talathion at least had a pretty good grip on what Mithiriel was thinking. Staring into his cruel dark eyes, the shade and shape of which marked him as having some Easterling blood of his own, Mithiriel knew that she wouldn’t survive to leave this clearing. Talathion would make sure of that. She said a silent prayer to Eru and any Valar who might be listening for Theli and anyone else who might help to hurry, then pretended to feel faint and dizzy, leaning heavily against Calben’s side. With any luck, he and the sharp-eyed Talathion wouldn’t notice the hobbits inching closer and closer to the trees.

“Mithiriel? Are you well?” Calben inquired kindly.

Talathion rolled his eyes, but he seemed to have some need to keep Calben in good humor with him, for he said nothing.

“I just . . . I feel a little weak, Calben.” Mithirel whispered, “I’m . . . I’m trying so hard to understand, it’s giving me a headache. Maybe if I could have a little water?”

“Of course, Mithiriel!” Calben said, brightening. “Forodhirm, fetch Mithiriel some water.”

Another few minutes were spent with Forodhrim protesting that he had only his flask, which wasn’t good enough for a fine Gondorian lady of royal blood to drink from. Talathion settled the argument by saying that it might be Mithiriel’s last drink, which made Calben scold him again. While they bickered, a prayer Mithiriel hadn’t thought to make was answered. Clouds spread across the darkening sky above, and the first drops of rain began to fall.

Talathion, on the other hand, was not pleased to see the rain.

“Forget that, you fools! Light the fire before the rain makes the wood too damp!”

“Don’t worry,” soothed Calben, his magic gathering around him even as he spoke, “I can make the wood burn, no matter how wet it gets.”

Mithiriel gave up on waiting. Calben was as distracted as he was going to get. She looked sideways and brought the tapestry into focus. Then she screamed, for while Calben saw the tapestry differently than she did, she could still see in her vision of it what he was planning. He was right. Not that burning people could ever be a good thing, but that it would release a tremendous amount of power. Burning away the threads in the tapestry that represented the captured villagers’ lives, hopes, and dreams would horribly mar the tapestry . . . but it would also create power, and potential. Mithiriel couldn’t use that power, not without becoming hopelessly corrupted by it, nor would she use it even if she could. But Calben would dare use it, to bring the rain that he truly believed the Arnorian villagers with Easterling blood had somehow driven away. He might succeed in bringing rain; he might accidentally bring a typhoon; he might only make it rain fire. Mithiriel couldn’t tell for sure, and she doubted Calben’s ability to handle the power that he meant to summon.

And she meant to stop him. She spared a desperate hope that Forodhrim, Rondion, and especially Talathion hadn’t understood what Calben meant when he said that Mithiriel was like him, for cutting her throat, shooting an arrow at her heart, or even knocking her hard over the head with a rock would stop her from being able to stop the fire. At least for the moment, her luck held, and no one threatened her.

Calben coaxed the first wisps of fire from the driest portion of the piled timber and kindling. Mithiriel searched for rain-wet wood elsewhere in the world, and when she found it in Eryn Vorn, she swapped the threads representing that wood with the threads representing the mostly dry wood in this blasted clearing.

It took a few minutes, but Calben soon realized what she was doing. He shouted a protest, then yanked her against his chest, placing a hard, muscular forearm across her throat, cutting off her air. Mithiriel, desperate, pulled on the threads representing the rain storm which had just begun above them, using everything she remembered about the theories for how clouds made rain and everything she could see in the tapestry to make larger and larger drops fall before she lost consciousness. She wept and gasped, something inside her mind tearing as she pushed herself past her limits.

Mithiriel was unaware of anything but her struggle with Calben, but even that distracted, she heard her older brother’s voice.

“Mithiriel!” Elboron shouted, incongruously in front of her even though he should have been hundreds of miles southeast in Annuminas. Thousands of hours spent in one another’s company made it so that when Elboron’s cornflower blue eyes flickered down, Mithiriel threw herself violently towards the ground. The arrow that Elboron had nocked and aimed at Calben’s left eye flew true, and suddenly there was no power trying to coax flame from wood. Gratefully, Mithiriel gave up her struggle to remain conscious, even as Elboron yelled for her to get out of the way.

‘Sorry, brother-mine,’ Mithiriel thought to herself, ‘You’ll just have to manage on your own.’ Despite her exhaustion and hurts, complete oblivion remained elusive. Calben was dead, but Talathion and Rondion and some of the others seemed to be putting up a fierce fight, complicated by Elboron and whoever else was there having to avoid hurting the prisoners. Mithiriel wasn’t truly awake, but she was aware enough to murmur an objection as small but strong arms starting dragging her over the ground. Mithiriel felt that she’d been dragged around quite enough today, thank you very much! Besides, the ground was becoming muddy from the rain, and Mithiriel did not care for mud.

“Shh, Miriel, please!” begged the voice of her father’s namesake, young Faramir Took, at the same time that young Pippin – or was it young Merry? – yelled for Faramir to watch out for Donkey-Face.

“You wretched little rats!” snarled Rondion the woodsman. Mithiriel wanted to tell him not to pick on children, and also not to yell because she had such a headache. She’d just opened her eyes to try and find Rondion in order to scold him when she saw her brother’s guard Borlas cut off Rondion’s head with his great sword. Mithiriel decided that she’d had enough of this day, and let unconsciousness claim her entirely.

She awoke in the common room of the village’s inn, cradled in Gimli’s arms while her husband applied a cold cloth to her aching throat. Mithiriel could taste willowbark and honey, which explained why she was in much less pain than she had been earlier. Of greater interest was her brother’s voice.

“I’m staying until we know that Mithiriel is recovering,” Elboron said in a tone which would brook no disagreement, a tone near identical to that of their father Faramir in one of his polite-but-implacable moods, “Then I have to go back,” Elboron continued, now sounding pained and a little abashed.

Mithiriel struggled to sit up, intending to assure her brother that she was fine and ask him the first of her many questions about his fortuitous appearance.

Her husband smiled at her, moving a strong arm to assist her up, but warning, “You can listen, Flashfire, but don’t talk above a whisper. I know that will be hard for you,” Theli added with a teasing smile, “But Calben bruised your throat, and you need to let it rest.”

Mithiriel nodded to say that she understood, then leaned forward to press her lips against his. The kiss turned from tender to passionate, Mithiriel forgetting for a moment that she meant to talk to her brother.

Gimli’s chuckle and Elboron’s objecting whine of “Miri!” reminded her of her surroundings. ‘Later,’ Mithiriel promised her husband silently, staring into his deep blue eyes and needing no magic whatsoever to know that he understood.

With Theli’s help, Mithiriel rose to her feet and embraced her brother fiercely.

“Thank you.” She whispered near silently against his shoulder.

“Shh, muinthel-dithen,” he soothed, “There is no need for thanks. You did well – if not for you, there would have been injuries aplenty, even if the rain had spared those poor folk their lives.”

“The villagers are being cared for by the army healer,” Theli explained, not needing Mithiriel to actually ask the question, “and our fine hobbit lads are over there by the hearth with Pippin-the-elder.”

That worthy raised his tankard of ale in a one-armed salute to Mithiriel, carefully not disturbing young Faramir, soundly asleep against his father’s side. Mithiriel nodded back to Pippin-the-elder, remembering in that moment quite clearly that he had once saved her father Faramir from burning to death.

“You have a brave son, Sir Peregrine,” she said.

“That I do,” agreed Pippin-the-elder, at the same time that Theli scolded, “Flashfire, if you can’t rest your throat, I do have a blue-root sedative with your name on it.”

Mithiriel made a disgusted face and gave her husband a chastened nod. Mithiriel, like her father and her grandfather, was allergic to the more common poppy-based sedatives and painkillers. Blue-root was less effective, but it would make her sleep and wake up feeling well and rested. She just wasn’t ready to go to sleep yet. She had so many questions!

Elboron’s arm still lay protectively over Mithiriel’s shoulder, keeping her close to him as he asked a man in a Gondorian sergeant’s uniform, “Len, can you coordinate with the village elders and Prince Legolas, Lord Gimli, and my brother-by-law to continue the clean-up here? I really do need to make sure that our commanding officer got out of that closet safely."

Equally as disbelieving as the stunned-speechless Mithiriel, Legolas asked, “You locked your commanding officer in a closet, Elboron?"

Elboron didn’t seem to know what to say. His bodyguard Borlas grinned and cheerfully explained, “His Grace has just ruined a lifetime's work of establishing himself as the predictable, rational one in the royal family."

Not unexpectedly, that set the cat among the pigeons. Mithiriel, unaccustomedly for her, took the time to process that information before saying anything. Clearly Elboron must have had some sort of premonition, and asked for permission to travel for days on a hunch. His Captain, who normally respected Elboron for being a hard-working, respectful young officer who never traded on his family-name, must have denied Elboron’s request. At least once. And Elboron, well . . . clearly Elboron had felt it necessary to heed his premonition, no matter the cost to himself.

“El, there must have been a better way!” Legolas scolded.

“Let him speak, brother!” Gimli objected, “We dinna know the whole story.”

Theli gave Legolas a chiding look, “Maybe Elboron just didn’t have a loyal healer to drug his critical superior officer, Legolas.”

None of this seemed to be making Elboron feel any better. Still beside her brother, Mithiriel brought a gentle hand up to his cheek.

“Ada and Nana will be so proud of you,” she whispered, putting into her eyes everything she couldn’t say just then. How relieved she’d been that he’d appeared to rescue her, how she wasn’t sure she could have saved the villagers without him, and how it would have broken her heart and her mind to fail.

Elboron embraced her again. “I don’t regret it,” he whispered back, before saying more loudly, “Daerada is going to kill me, though.”

"Don't worry, El. I'll remind Aragorn of a half dozen reasons why it would be hypocritical of him to go too hard on you," promised Legolas, having performed an abrupt about-face on his earlier position.

Mithiriel smiled, and reached over to tug on Legolas’ sleeve. When she had his attention, she smiled, purposely showing her dimples. “Story?” she requested in a winsome whisper.

Legolas laughed, and agreed. Once it was decided that Elboron, Borlas, and the three soldiers who had accompanied them would bide in the village at least through the night, Legolas began telling them tales of their grandfather Aragorn as a brave but reckless young man. Mithiriel fell asleep near the beginning of the first story, but she did so with perfect confidence that her brother or her husband would fill her in later.

Mithiriel awoke in the middle of the night, curled up beside her husband in a bedroll under the stars. The fear of the day hit her then, when she no longer had a hero brother to be thankful for or an interested audience to be brave for.

“Calben was so gifted, so kind, so good,” she croaked through her tears, “How could he be crazy? How could he do such a thing?”

“Shh, shh, my heart, my fire,” Theli said, his deep voice vibrating in his chest beside her in a counterpoint to his reassuring tone, “Having a gift doesn’t make someone turn evil. But it also doesn’t save someone from going mad or doing terrible things. It’s a matter of chance, but also choice. I’ve known madmen who held themselves in check, and men with cruel impulses who managed to curb them. And now I’ve known a kind madman who nearly killed half a village in a truly horrific way. The world takes all types, Flashfire.”

They spoke a little more, him lending centuries of experience to help her put the horror of the evening’s events into some kind of perspective.

Having achieved a measure of peace, Mithiriel promised, "Don't worry, Greensword. I'll be well enough."

"You'd by-all better be, Flashfire," he said with a smile that made her gasp. Then she leaned forward to kiss him, putting all thoughts of fires and mad sorcerors aside. In the morning Mithiriel would have a village to reassure and potentially Elboron’s commanding officer to charm, but for now, she had Theli, and he had her, and both knew that they were truly blessed.

Chapter Text

It was a beautiful mid-summer night in Dol Amroth. The stars and the moon shone brightly above. Their pure brilliant light reflected off of the drawn blades of two combatants as they circled around one another on a cliff beside the sea.

Five spectators flanked the swordsmen in a semi-circle. There was a distinguished white-haired knight serving as a judge, and then each combatant was supported by two seconds. And then one of those seconds was accompanied by his bodyguard.

"You know, I think this is how regular work-a-day fellows like myself get fired, your highness," that bodyguard remarked in a good-natured aside.

His highness the Lord Elboron, heir to the princedom of Ithilien and oldest grandson of Elessar Telcontar, King of the Reunited Kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor, murmured back, “Don’t worry, Alagon. I’m only here as a second, and if anyone’s hide gets nailed to the wall for this, I’ll make sure it’s mine.”

Alagon chuckled, and then muttered ruefully, “I know that you’re as good as your word, Sir, but I’m fairly certain that this is exactly the type of thing Lieutenant Borlas said I wasn’t to let you get yourself involved in when he handed you over to me.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t that specific,” Elboron protested. Dueling was, after all, legal in Dol Amroth. The practice had been banned in most of Gondor and Arnor during the years immediately following the Ring War. Part of the reason for that ban was the King’s response to a duel Elboron’s father Faramir had fought with a mind-sick soldier, a man who had blamed Faramir for the death of his brothers at the Battle of the Pelennor. Elboron knew that his father still blamed himself for many of those deaths. Knowing that, and knowing his father, Elboron could believe that Faramir had been unable to deny the grieving man’s demand that he meet him sword-to-sword. But he understood his grandfather’s feelings on the matter as well. Faramir had only been following orders on the Pelennor. The deaths hadn’t been his fault. And Faramir’s death at that point wouldn’t have helped anyone, but Elboron was perhaps somewhat biased in that regard.

The ban on dueling had originally been intended to apply to Dol Amroth as well, but Prince Imrahil had objected on the grounds of it not being worth the trouble to enforce. Dueling had a long historical tradition in Dol Amroth, its founding prince, Prince Imrazor, having fought no less than fifty duels, forty-five of which he’d won. Dueling to the death had always been taboo in Gondor’s only semi-autonomous principality, but duels to the satisfaction of honor, or to first blood, whichever came first, were still permitted, albeit not without certain proprieties being required.

Proprieties which had all been observed, Elboron had made sure of that at least. He’d at first tried to convince his sergeant, Landir, the challenged party, from going through with the whole ordeal to begin with. But when Landir had confessed that his future wife had been accused of lewd behavior with her own brother, and that the accuser, one Sir Raevor, had refused to recant his bitter words unless Landir met him in single combat, well . . . what was a good officer to do but stand as his man’s second? Even if said officer was angling for what he felt was a well-deserved early promotion, it was the thing to do.

Besides, Landir was a good fellow. Orphaned in the wake of the Ring War, he had grown up in one of the orphanages founded by Elboron’s adoptive grandmother, Queen Arwen. Without the advantage of parents or noble blood, Landir had worked and sweated his way into the highest position a non-commanding officer could hold in the Reunited Kingdom’s army. Sir Raevor, on the other hand, was in Elboron’s considered opinion a good swordsman but otherwise an entitled donkey’s ass.

The problem that had led them to the cliff overlooking the sea and the old sandstone castle had begun when Sir Raevor wooed Landir’s betrothed, Tiril Fendoriel. Fendor, Tiril’s father, had been a knight in service to the old Lord of Lossarnach, putting Tiril, at least in Raevor’s opinion, well out of the social reach of Landir, a potter’s orphaned son.

Elboron knew and even loved a number of people who would have agreed with that sentiment, but Tiril and Landir had not, and that was all that mattered to Elboron. Tiril had spurned Raevor, apparently in less than diplomatic terms. Given Raevor’s general disposition and attitude, Elboron found it hard to fault her for that. Raevor had responded to this romantic disappointment by announcing at the party for Landir and Tiril’s betrothal that Tiril was unfit for marriage due to having dallied with her own brother.

Landir and Tiril’s available recourses were to force Raevor to recant by proving before a court that his words were untrue, or to meet him in a duel and prove by winning it that he spoke falsely. Proving Raevor a liar in court would have meant airing his accusations again in public, which while Tiril was willing to do, Landir understandably wished to avoid. As did Tiril’s brother Thoron, who served this night as Landir’s other second. Tiril herself was apparently unaware of the duel, as she didn’t wish to risk her husband’s life over mere words, however incendiary. Elboron had some sympathy for that point of view, but Landir was one of Elboron’s men, and if Landir was determined to go through with this, then Elboron would stand by his side.

Raevor was a more skilled swordsman, but Landir had spent more time in actual combat. If Elboron had been a betting man, he would have put his money on Landir.

Of course, that was only true if Raevor didn’t cheat. Elboron stiffened and put his hand to his sword-hilt as the dark-haired young knight once again reached for his belt knife with his off hand.

“Sir Raevor,” scolded the duel’s judge, a retired navy lieutenant, “If you draw a secondary weapon, Sergeant Landir will win by default.”

“Minas Tirith slum trash!” sneered Raevor, spitting at his opponent. Landir, to Elboron’s pride, kept his tongue and his temper, waiting patiently for Raevor to make a mistake.

“You know,” Elboron’s bodyguard Alagon drawled, “I’ve been reliably informed by our Haradrim allies that Minas Tirith doesn’t even have slums.”

“Southron-loving scum!” Raevor added, turning his head to glare at Alagon just long enough for Landir to land a solid blow to his side. Landir kept good control of the blade, slicing through Raevor’s fine tunic with only enough force to cut him lightly. But blood there was, and blood ended a duel in Dol Amroth.

Elboron sighed in relief, anticipating chilled wine and cinnamon cakes with buttercream frosting, and even better, their arrival to the evening’s festivities at Prince Imrahil’s castle before anyone in the family noticed his delayed arrival to the after-dinner revelry. After all, while duels themselves might be legal in Dol Amroth, Aragorn had long ago decreed that none of his children were permitted to be involved in them, either as duelist or second or witness. It had apparently been the subject of a long argument between Imrahil and Aragorn, which had ended, much to Faramir’s disgust, when both of them agreed that Faramir had been out of line in getting into the duel with the mind-sick soldier. Still, it was a prohibition which stood to this day, and not one that Elboron was in a hurry to find out whether his normally tolerant grandfather still felt it necessary to enforce.

“Sir Raevor, you have been wounded. Sergeant Landir is the victor. Desist and drop your weapon, Sir!” yelled the judge. Raevor, unheeding, drew his dagger and threw it at Landir, at the same time hefting his sword and preparing to go after the unprepared sergeant with that as well.

“Oh, Raevor would be this type of idiot!” Alagon griped, and then was just a hair too slow to catch his lord as Elboron threw himself between Raevor and Landir.

“Valar-curse-it-all, my Lord!” Alagon yelled, tackling one of Raevor’s seconds before he could go to the cheat’s aid, “THIS is how bodyguards get fired!”

Elboron was too busy avoiding Raevor’s blade and keeping himself between the enraged knight and his sergeant to laugh, otherwise he might well have. Faramir, Borlas, Beregrond, and Orohael had hand-picked Alagon to be Elboron’s primary bodyguard, and would probably not fire him over this, even if Daerada Aragorn wanted them to. But Elboron had little time to think on that, as Raevor’s other second had dodged Alagon and the judge and was on his way to help his idiot friend.

“Hold!” bellowed an authoritative and irritatingly familiar voice, “Hold in the name of your Prince!”

Elboron hid a smile as he disarmed the white-faced Raevor, thinking to himself that this might be the first time he’d ever been glad to see his cousin Alphros! The family’s cheerful troublemaker and the future Prince of Dol Amroth was five years older than Elboron, and had often teased the more quiet, earnest, and scholarly Elboron while they were growing up. Of course, now they were both adults. Alphros had settled down and was now married to Elboron’s beloved aunt Melyanna, Aragorn and Arwen’s older daughter. And to be fair to Alphros, this was at least the second time that Elboron had been glad to see him. The first had been that time with the sand burrs.

“Well-met, nephew!” roared Prince Alphros merrily, slinging a bulky arm around Elboron’s more slender shoulders as his soldiers took the protesting Raevor and his compatriots into custody.

“Alphros.” Elboron greeted his cousin levelly, knowing from unfortunate experience that pointing out that he didn’t like being called Alphros’ nephew would just result in more teasing. “Kind of you to appear in such a timely fashion. Sir Raevor is apparently in need of a reminder as to Dol Amroth’s time-honored rules of dueling.”

“Always happy to remind one of my Swan Knights of such important procedures, Bron,” Alphros replied airily, but with a chilling look towards the now cringing Raevor. That particular knight’s evening did not improve as Alphros consigned him to the custody of the angry dueling judge. Elboron couldn’t find it in himself to regret Raevor’s unhappy fate. He was too much concerned with his own immediate future.

Alphros pulled Elboron, Landir, and Alagon aside as they re-entered the castle complex.

“You will never guess how I heard about your activities tonight, Bron!”Alphros remarked jovially.

With an internal groan that matched Alagon’s loud sigh, Elboron asked hopefully, “Tiril came to the guard when she realized that Landir and her brother weren’t out drinking in anticipation of their marriage as they had claimed?”

“No. Well, yes, she did – you have a good woman in her, Sergeant Landir.”

“Don’t I know it,” said that worthy with a self-conscious grin, “I’m sure that she’s none-too-pleased with me at the moment, though.”

“That was my guard captain’s impression, yes.” Alphros said with no small amount of sympathy, “Why don’t you go ahead and see what you can do to make it up to her? I need to have a few words with my cousin and his man here.”

“Yes, your highness,” agreed Landir. After all, what more was there to say? He did give Elboron an apologetic look over his shoulder, which Elboron appreciated. It wasn’t as if Landir had known about Elboron’s grandfather’s rather stringent position on dueling, but it was generally frowned upon to get the heir to a princedom into the middle of a fight, however inadvertently.

“Go ahead, Alphros,” Elboron asked, figuring that he might as well get it over with. “Tell us who sent you out after us tonight.”

“Well,” began Alphros with a sympathetic smile that made the hairs on the back of Elboron’s neck rise in fear, “My grandfather and your grandfather were taking a post-prandial stroll around the northern balcony . . .”

Elboron did groan at that. Alagon smacked his head with his hand, and then he smacked Elboron’s shoulder for good measure.

“When they happened to see a duel on the cliff opposite them. You’ll never guess who recognized you first, Bron,” Alphros continued airily.

“Daerada Aragorn,” guessed Elboron.

Alphros outright laughed, the louse. “No. Did I forget to mention? Our venerable elders were accompanied by three young, impressionable boys.”

Elboron closed his eyes and sighed. “Elion, Elros and Kader all saw me jump between two armed men, didn’t they?”

“I think that’s a fairly safe bet, yes. Elion recognized you first. Observant boy, your baby brother. And he worships you,” Alphros reported with a wholly unnecessary amount of ebullience. Elboron fought an urge to push Alphros into the fountain beside the orange trees. A not-uncommon urge, when it came to Elboron’s interactions with Alphros.

“So, guess who wants to talk to you now?” Alphros concluded, with another irritating grin.

Elboron didn’t bother to guess. Great Uncle Imrahil wouldn’t be pleased, but it would be Daerada Aragorn who wanted to talk to Elboron. And "talk" certainly meant "lecture and scold."

“Oh, and Borlas, who is here keeping an eye on Elion, would like to have a word or six with Alagon.”

“Perhaps I could be fired instead?” Alagon asked hopefully.

Chapter Text

Alagon went off bravely, if mournfully, to meet his fate. That left Elboron alone in the castle’s sea-side garden with his cousin Alphros. Imrahil’s oldest grandson didn’t seem to be in a hurry to drag the one-time bane-of-his-summers to face patriarchal justice. Instead, he shoved Elboron into one of the singing fountains, taking the younger man entirely by surprise.

Alphros could be impetuous, Elboron knew that full well, but he hadn’t expected his cousin to give into Elboron’s own favorite – yet never indulged – impulse!

Elboron emerged from the hip-deep water sputtering and wiping an orange blossom off of his face.

“Alphros, what in Valar’s name?” Elboron demanded, almost too taken aback to be angry.

Alphros reached a hand down, but instead of offering it to help Elboron up, placed it on top of Elboron’s head and pushed him back under the water again.

“Alphros!” Elboron objected, once he had caught his breath. Pushed too far, he splashed some of the chilly, orange-scented water directly into his cousin’s face.

It was Alphros’ turn to sputter indignantly, which he did for only a moment before laughing. With water dripping off of his neat red beard, he grinned and finally offered Elboron a hand out of the fountain.

“Oh, don’t glower at me like that, bratling,” Alphros scolded, “You would have had to change clothes before meeting with Ada Aragorn anyway. Unless, of course, you want him to see that tear on your left sleeve left by that idiot Raevor’s blade?”

Elboron looked at his sleeve, startled. “I didn’t realize that he’d gotten that close.”

Alphros, evidently irritated again by that evidence of inattention during combat, smacked Elboron sharply on the rear.

“Ow!” Elboron objected. He blushed as he realized how young he must sound.

“If you’d parried just a touch sloppier on your left side, then you’d be saying an orc-ton more than ow, Elboron!” Alphros lectured, “In fact, if you weren’t already due a memorable paddling from Ada Aragorn, I’d put you over my knee right here and now!”

Elboron was renowned in his family for being calm, patient, and kind. He was also the cool-headed one who had, when absolutely necessary, snitched on Alphros, Eldarion, and Theodwyn when one of them – usually Alphros – had thought up some particularly daring and stupid childhood adventure. But even the calm one can be pushed too far, especially by hypocrisy!

“Alphros, you …. I …. I don’t even know where to start!” Elboron said forcefully, “You’ve been in how many duels, yourself! And yet here you are, lecturing me!”

Alphros tilted his head, as if considering that. Then he laughed. Slapping his thigh in merriment, he confessed, “Seventeen duels, but in only one of those was I the challenger. And for that, I spent time over not only my Ada’s knee, but Daerada Imrahil’s as well. And if I’d been even first courting Melyanna then, your Daerada would have had me scrubbing floors at the Healing Hall until I wore holes in my knees.”

Sobering slightly, Alphros gave Elboron a sympathetic half-smile. “And tonight, you, my little nephew, you have managed to offend my poor-father-by-law greatly. He particularly abhors dueling. You almost never get into trouble, but when you do, well . . . you don’t play around, do you Bron?”

Elboron brushed back a lock of red hair that had escaped from the leather thong at the base of his neck. “I suppose you’re right.”

“That’s one of the things I’ve always liked about you,” Alphros confessed, reaching out to pull a confused Elboron into a one-armed embrace.

Elboron laughed uncertainly. “That when I do find trouble, I drown in it?”

“That you’re willing to risk anything for the people you care for.” Alphros corrected, ruffling Elboron’s hair into even more of a mess.

“Thank you, Alphros. I suppose.”

“You’re welcome, you straitlaced brat. Now, I want you to promise me that you’re not going to let tonight’s bout of idiocy stop you from asking Ada Aragorn for what you want.”

Elboron tilted his head, lost again. “I beg your pardon?”

“Not granted. Not until you promise. You never ask for anything you want.”

“Alphros, I have no idea on Arda what you’re going on about.”

Alphros raised one skeptical red eyebrow. “Captain-General Galdoron submitted your name to be considered for promotion to junior captain. Surely you knew?”

“Of course I knew. The question is, how did you?”

“I’ve been serving as Daerada’s delegate to the Army’s promotions board,” Alphros patiently explained, “Everyone who has worked with you is in your corner, but your age is counting against you. And there are those who … well, no one who knows you, but there are those who say that you’re only up to be the youngest captain in a decade because you’re the King’s grandson.”

That wasn’t anything other than Elboron had expected. And really, what was the harm if his promotion wasn’t approved? Provided that he didn’t get himself killed, or worse, do something to disgrace himself, he’d surely have the chance to try again, when he was older and more experienced. But he wanted to be able to make a difference now. To have the authority to give soldiers like Landir the chance to prove themselves as commanders despite their birth and lack of training, and the influence to guide knights like Raevor toward careers more suited to them, such as sanitation.

“Promise me.” Alphros repeated himself, laying a hand on Elboron’s wet shoulder and squeezing firmly, “that you’ll at least let Ada Aragorn know that you want the promotion. The board is split, and the decision may be left to him. He should at least know that you think you’re ready.”

“I promise.”

Alphros grinned, “Good man. Now, come on. Let’s get you changed into dry clothes before I take you to meet your fate.”

Elboron sighed. “We’d best hurry. I wish we had time for dessert though.”

Alphros laughed. “You missed dinner, Ada Aragorn wants to see you to ask you about nearly getting yourself killed tonight, and you’re thinking about dessert?”

“It’s cinnamon cake tonight,” Elboron explained. He’d loved cinnamon cake since he was a small child.

“Eh. Cinnamon cake is fine enough I suppose,” Alphros allowed,”but it’s too dry without the buttercream sauce, and there’s never enough to go around.”

“Really? I’m always served two bowls with mine.”

“What? No wonder you never ask for anything – it’s just given to you!”

“Maybe it’s not me,” Elboron theorized, doing his best to hide a smile, “Maybe it’s you. Maybe the cooks remember the time you let a flock of chickens and a sheep loose in the kitchens as well as I do.”

“But that was when I was thirteen, and it was in Minas Tirith!”

“You do know that at least three of the cooks who work in Dol Amroth’s kitchens trained in Minas Tirith, don’t you?,” Elboron asked, “Including Cellaras, for that matter.” Elboron was very fond of the tall, dark haired young woman who had been his sister Haleth’s and his aunt Gilwen’s childhood companion. Cellaras’ step-grandfather, Magordan, had been Elboron’s grandfather’s bodyguard, and her grandmother Mairenwen still ruled as the chief cook of the citadel in Minas Tirith.

“Well, I knew about Cellaras, of course,” said Alphros, “But she’s not just a cook. She’s a friend.” Alphros paused in thought.

“She’s Gilwen’s best friend,” Elboron noted, thinking of another reason why Alphros might not get enough buttercream sauce, “And isn’t Gilwen still upset with you for trying to talk Uncle Imrahil out of offering her a commission in the navy?”

“Well, yes, but it was for her own good. She’s a good warrior for her size, but the navy isn’t like the army. The navy sees combat with pirates nearly twice as often as you soft army lads.”

“I think you’re wrong,” said Elboron, noting another attitude that he wanted to counteract whenever he was promoted to captain and consulted on recruiting, “but I know that your heart is in the right place. None of us want to see Gilwen hurt.” Although really, Elboron would be a little bit more worried for the pirates, if he cared at all about pirates. What his younger aunt lacked in size, she more than made up in fierceness.

All too soon they were in front of the door to the King’s suite.

“It's not too late to run away and become a fisherman,” Alphros jested.

“Don’t tempt me.” But Elboron knocked on the door anyway. He loved his grandfather. He wanted to be back in Aragorn’s good graces sooner rather than later.

It wasn’t Aragorn who opened the door, but rather Aragorn’s seven-months pregnant daughter Melyanna.

“Elboron!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him.

Elboron hugged her back, but carefully. He still felt uneasy around pregnant women, at least when he’d grown up with them and still had trouble seeing them as mothers instead of playmates!

Pulling back, Melyanna scrutinized him carefully. Amused but a little irritated by the drama, he returned the favor. Melyanna was a great beauty, and pregnancy hadn’t changed that. She looked like a softer, curvier version of her famous mother Arwen. Luminous gray eyes gazed out from full sooty black eyelashes, complimented by rosy cheeks and a perfectly proportioned nose. Melyanna’s dark wavy curls were half-pulled up by strings of white pearls and shining beads of blue cat’s eye jade. Her adornments complimented her gown. She wore a white underdress embroidered with tiny ships picked out in pearls and iridescent glass beads, prominently displayed by her advanced pregnancy. Her bell-sleeved overdress was the darkest shade of Dol Amroth blue, drawing out the slight hint of heather blue in her gray eyes.

“You scared us, ‘Bron. Please don’t do that again unless it is absolutely necessary,” Melyanna scolded gently.

“I’ll try, ‘Anna,” Elboron promised his aunt, who had inherited her mother’s knack for inspiring sincerity without offending pride. Looking beyond Melyanna, Elboron had to smile as he saw three boys in fine clothing hastily abandoning their strategy game to greet him.

“My favorite imp and goblins!” he smiled, and braced himself so that he could embrace all three of them at once without falling over. With one ear he heard Melyanna greeting Alphros, but the boys claimed almost the entirety of his attention. His baby brother Ecthelion, called Elion, and the twin princes had the propensity to do that. Or at least, if one’s focus wasn’t entirely on them, one often regretted it later!

“What happened?” asked Elion quietly, in between Elros’ and Kader’s more dramatic comments about the duel and how much trouble Elboron was likely in because of it.

Elboron bent his knees slightly so that he could look his baby brother in the eyes. Elion, like Elboron, had their mother’s cornflower blue eyes. Instead of Elboron’s short red-gold ponytail, Elion’s shoulder-length hair was a wavy golden-brown, like the hair of their uncle Eomer-King of Rohan.

“A friend in my unit needed my help.” Elboron explained. With a wince, he added, “I should perhaps have spent more time thinking of alternative ways to assist him.”

“You don’t say,” interjected Elboron’s grandfather wryly. Aragorn stood in the just-opened doorway of the guest suite’s office, his arms crossed and his head tilted in a way that Elboron knew betokened amusement as well as frustration.

“Ah . . . hello, Daerada,” Elboron managed.

“Hello, dearion-nin. You and I are due a talk,” said Aragorn, both fondness and exasperation plain in the tone of his voice, at least to the grandson who had grown up mostly in the same household as his regal grandfather.

“Yes, Sir,” replied Elboron, already resigned to that outcome.

Elion, on the other hand, clenched his fists, took a deep breath, and turned to face off against the King of Men.

“Elboron was just trying to help a friend!” Elboron’s unasked –for diminutive supporter said fiercely, “He shouldn’t get into trouble for helping a friend!”

All of the adults in the room, and Elros and Kader, stared at the nine year old Lord. Alphros started chuckling, but stopped abruptly. Elboron was fairly sure that Melyanna had elbowed him into silence.

“Shut it, Elion!” hissed seven year old Elros through clenched teeth.

“You don’t want Daerada to get mad at you, too!” Kader added.

Aragorn startled the twins and Elion by laughing.

“I’m not angered by Elboron’s support of his comrade, but rather by how he chose to go about doing so,” said Aragorn affectionately, “And I’m hardly going to punish Elion for standing up for his brother.” The King pulled his nine year old grandson into his arms and kissed Elion’s golden-brown curls.

“Now, why don’t you and the twins change out of your formal clothes so that you can go with Great Uncle Imrahil down to the beach to see the phosphorescent tide?”

Quick glances were exchanged between the three boys.

“But, I thought that Great-Uncle Imrahil said that he would only take us if we behaved well . . .”

“And Kader . . .”

“Or someone who might have been Kader but wasn’t necessarily Kader,” corrected Prince Elros, “put pepper in . . .”

“No, it was me,” Kader admitted shame-facedly, “I put pepper in Lady Eithril’s buttercream sauce.”

“But it was only because she called Melyanna a . . .”

“She said something mean about Melyanna,” Elion interrupted, sparing his listeners from hearing whatever unkind thing Lady Eithril had actually said about Melyanna.

“Oh, Kader,” Melyanna scolded sweetly, “Lady Eithril behaves so foolishly so much of the time. I don’t care what she says about me.”

“Yes, well, that aside,” Aragorn interrupted, now clearly amused, “your great Uncle Imrahil and I have recently been reminded that there are much worse mistakes than putting pepper in someone’s food . . .”

“Yes, like dueling,” quipped Kader with a cheeky grin.

“Don’t push your luck, Kader,” said Prince Imrahil, who had followed Aragorn out of the study along with his second oldest son Prince Erchirion, “You and your co-conspirators will be washing dishes tomorrow morning for an hour after breakfast, to help you learn not to take liberties with others’ food. You will also be apologizing to Lady Eithril. But because the three of you were otherwise well-behaved, I will still take you out to the beach tonight to see the glowing tide. That is, of course,” the veteran father and grandfather added thoughtfully, “if you still want to go?”

Three adamant affirmations followed that question. Melyanna charitably offered that she and Alphros would go with Imrahil and the boys. Her intent was probably to help Imrahil with the boys, although Melyanna was too tactful to say so. Alphros gamely agreed that they’d be happy to go along. Alphros almost always enjoyed spending time with the three high-spirited boys, he often said that they reminded him of himself, Eldarion, Veantur, and Theodwyn. That statement was slightly insulting to Elboron, since it left him out and he’d usually been there too when they were children, but he was sure that Alphros didn’t mean it that way.

"No, daerion-nin," Imrahil declined fondly, "You and Melyanna should run along to the dancing and enjoy yourselves. You'll both have less time soon enough, once your little one arrives." The affectionate expression on the Sea Prince's face betrayed his pleasure at that upcoming event. The Prince of Dol Amroth had nine grandchildren, but Melyanna and Alphros' baby would be his first great-grandchild. Aragorn already had two, courtesy of Theodwyn.

“Besides, Erchirion, Aerandir, Ynithe and Immeril have already agreed to accompany us,” explained Imrahil, “And Borlas has volunteered Alagon’s assistance as well.”

Elboron felt badly for his bodyguard. Keeping up with the royal twins and his little brother at the beach at night was no easy task. Still, if that was all that had happened to Alagon, he’d gotten off easily. Which was perhaps only fair, as the only reason Alagon was in trouble at all was because of Elboron’s decisions.

The decisions which Elboron was now obligated to explain to his grandfather. Although that might actually be preferable to the beach excursion, if his cousin-by-law Ynithe kept trying to throw her daughter Immeril at him!

Sure enough, Ynithe targeted Elboron with a particularly warm smile, "Perhaps you could join us in a little while, Elboron dear. Immeril would so love to hear more about your travels in Arnor, wouldn't you, darling?"

Elboron felt a pang of sympathy for the wincing Immeril. His second cousin, Erchirion and Ynithe's daughter, was just twenty years old, beautiful and sweet-tempered. In the unsolicited opinion of Ynithe and a number of the other lords and ladies of Gondor, she would make a near perfect wife for Elboron. The young royal lord himself felt nothing beyond cousinly fondness for the painfully embarrassed Immeril.

Fortunately, Daerada Aragorn saved them both further discomfort. "Some other time, perhaps, Ynithe," he said, laying a hand on Elboron's shoulder, not heavy enough to hurt, but with enough weight to be reassuring, "I am not sure how long I will require Elboron's company this evening."

"Yes, Aragorn." Ynithe agreed, but the match-making light in her eyes told Elboron that she would try again. He couldn't quite find it in himself to be grateful for the conversation he was about to have with his grandfather, but at least it would put off another encounter with the 'find-Elboron-a-wife-will-he-nill-he' brigade. With Eldarion married and a father, the next most eligible bachelor in all of the two realms was Elboron himself. Being posted in rural Arnor the past several years had been a welcome reprieve from such intense interest in his marital status, but now that he was back in Gondor, it had all begun again.

It's not that Elboron didn't want to get married some day! It was just that he wanted to fall in love first. And, being who he was, Elboron didn't just have to fall in love, he had to fall in love with a woman who could handle the thought of becoming the wife of the future Prince of Ithilien, and all of the duties and public attention that came along with such a position. So far, those two conditions had yet to coincide. The only woman Elboron had felt he might be able to fall in love with with hadn't been willing to leave her village in Arnor, let alone deal with everything that came along with marrying the son of the Prince of Ithilien and the grandson of Elessar Telcontar.

At least his father and grandfather were sympathetic to Elboron's point of view. In fact, his whole family was, even if they did keep encouraging him to go to balls, parties, picnics, and fairs. 'Thank the Valar that Alagon is single,' Elboron though to himself, 'not only is he good company, he's also charming enough to make most of the ladies forget about me!'

In the hub bub of getting most of the party equipped with water shoes, towels, and light cloaks to guard against the breeze, Elboron and his impending fate were largely forgotten. By everyone except for his brother Elion, who fixed his grandfather Aragorn with a warning look on his way out the door. It was an impressive glare for a nine year old! Elboron had to choke back a laugh, not just because of the inherent ridiculousness of the situation, but because he was fairly sure that it was a glare that Elion had learned from their grandfather Aragorn!

Chapter Text

The royal apartment was suddenly quiet in the wake of the boys’ departure with their many chaperones.

Aragorn had watched them go, the expression on his face warm yet bemused. When they were alone, he turned to Elboron and asked, “Am I really so frightening that Elion feels the need to protect me from you?”

Elboron surprised himself with a chuckle. “You’re not scary, Daerada. Elion is just protective, despite being the baby of the family.”

Aragorn gave him a mild look, “And why should being the baby of the family disqualify someone from being protective of their siblings?”

Thinking of his uncles Elrohir and Elladan, and how protective his grandfather Aragorn was of them, Elboron grinned and conceded, “No reason it should, I suppose. Although I think that spending time with Elros and Kader has honed Elion’s big-brotherly instincts.”

Aragorn smiled, “Next thing I know, I’ll have another Mithiriel on my hands. Did you know that she stopped talking to me for two weeks when she was eleven just because I decided that you and Eldarion had earned a second spanking for going to Osgiliath without permission?”

“As I recall, Daerada, you had to bribe her with chocolates, shopping trips, and taking all of us to Emyn Arnen in order to get her to forgive you?”

“Mmm. Yes,” said Aragorn, shaking his head in fond resignation, “Although she and Melyanna didn’t want me to buy them anything when I took them to the markets. They just wanted me to spend more time with them. Mithiriel claimed that I spent more time with you, Eldarion, and Theodwyn. At first I was horrified that she would even think such a thing. Then I was even more horrified, because I realized that she was right.”

Elboron smiled sadly. He knew how important equality was to Mithiriel, and she could be almost as perceptive as she was determined. Being around her when she was intent on a cause could be exhausting, but he missed her greatly nonetheless.

“I only wish,” Aragorn continued, giving Elboron another chiding look, “That Mithiriel had come to me to explain why she was upset with me BEFORE she decided that I wasn’t worth talking to,” his expression growing sterner, Elboron’s grandfather added, “Or, more recently, that you had come to talk to me – or Imrahil – or even Alphros, before deciding that getting involved in a duel was the best way to handle your sergeant’s difficulties!”

Elboron flushed, frantically running through what he might have done differently. “Daerada, I’m sorry,” he began, “but I had to stand up for Sergeant Lindir.”

Aragorn took a deep breath and pulled Elboron into his arms. He cupped the back of Elboron’s head with one broad calloused palm and held Elboron tightly against him with the other.

“I am so proud of the man you’ve grown into, grandson-mine, but I could have lost you tonight.” Aragorn loosened his hold, his hands moving to Elboron’s shoulders so that he could push him just far away to look him in the eye.

“I saw how close Sir Raevor’s blade came to slicing through your brachial artery on the cliff. Were you hurt?,” Aragorn asked, his gray eyes intent.

“No, Sir, I’m fine,” Elboron assured, hoping that his grandfather would never know how close Raevor's sword had actually gotten.

Aragorn’s keen eyes narrowed. “In our family, the adjective ‘fine’ has been used in respect of a multitude of conditions. Please trust me when I tell you that you would be in much more trouble for concealing an injury than you are now for volunteering to second in a duel. Now, Elboron, are you hurt?”

“No, Sir.” Elboron said. He hesitated, and then confessed, “He got close enough to cut my sleeve, but Alphros threw me in a fountain, so I’ve already changed.”

Aragorn’s gaze turned from intent to amused. “Well, that does explain why your hair is wet.” The King gently stroked an escaping red-gold tendril and smoothed it back into the neat black velvet ribbon securing Elboron's short pony tail at the nape of his neck.

Elboron held still for the ministration, pleased at the show of affection in this moment although normally he would have tolerated it with rolled eyes and a patient expression. Still . . . “Alphros is such a hypocrite,” Elboron couldn’t help but complain, “He’s been in seventeen duels. As a duelist! I serve as second in one duel because the bride-to-be of a friend was falsely accused, and . . .”

“Seventeen?” interrupted Aragorn with a frown, “I thought it was fifteen.”

“Ah . . .” paused Elboron, who hadn’t realized that he would be getting his cousin into trouble.

Aragorn rolled his eyes, “It seems that I also need to have a talk with my son-by-law in the near future.”

“Don’t tell him I told you?”

“I’ll do my best," Aragorn agreed with a wry smile, "but our Alphros is a sharp lad, he’ll likely figure it out from the timing. You can always tell him it was payback for him tossing you in the fountain, but the truth – that you didn’t know that I didn’t know - will probably be the better defense.”

Elboron sighed. Alphros had only recently started treating him as one of the adults, rather than a tagalong little kid to be shaken off if possible. To his surprise, as much of a pain as he’d often found Alphros, Elboron was reluctant to lose his new-found confidence.

“Don’t worry, Bron,” Aragorn said, laying a hand on his grandson’s shoulder to reassure him, “Alphros is much more mature than he was when you were all children, and it’s clear how much he respects you. He’s hardly going to hold something like this against you.”

There was a clear hint of ‘and Alphros shouldn’t have been trying to hide something like this from me, anyway,’ to Aragorn’s words, but Elboron ignored that for the time being. He promised himself that he’d give Alphros a warning if he had the chance.

“Now,” began Aragorn in a steely tone, gesturing towards the study, “Why don’t we have a seat, and you can explain why agreeing to be Sergeant Landir’s second instead of reporting the situation to your captain struck you as a good idea, my very intelligent grandson.”

Elboron took a seat. It didn’t seem like a good time to say that he’d rather stand. He knew what that tone of voice from his grandfather meant, even though he'd only heard it directed towards him but a handful of times in his entire life. Elboron resolved to keep his report to just to the facts, and to do his best not to disagree with his grandfather's points. It was a mistake he'd heard his cousin Alphros, his uncle Eldarion, and even his father Faramir make during similarly unpleasant interviews with Daerada Aragorn, and it was a mistake that Elboron meant to avoid if at all possible.

"Sir Raevor challenged Sergeant Landir to a duel, after alleging the most foul calumnies . . . "

"I heard what he alleged," Aragorn interrupted, his voice still hard although his eyes were softer, "Sir Raevor is the sort who gives knights a bad name. Move on to why you didn't just go to your Captain and have him rearrange Sergeant Landir's duty schedule until you had a chance to speak to someone else about having Raevor shipped out to some unpleasant post."

"Ah . . . I did think of that, of asking Captain Fangion for aid, but, he's well, somewhat traditional."

"Meaning?"

"I was concerned that he might have more sympathy for Raevor's position than for Landir's plight."

Aragorn stilled. "Really?"

"He's not a bad sort, but he's . . . well, I am worried that he would have advised Landir to let Tiril go, because she's above his station."

"Talk to him and find out what he would have said, had you asked for his aid," Aragorn commanded, "And if it's what you think, then I want you to ask General Galdoron to have a word with him."

"Me? But, I'm just a lieutenant!," Elboron objected.

"No, you're not." Aragorn leaned back in his chair, his gray-eyed gaze steady on Elboron, as if waiting for his grandson to figure this out on his own.

Abruptly Elboron remembered the course of his last similar discussion with Aragorn, over a year ago in Annuminas. The catalyst for that discussion had been Elboron's prophetic dream of his sister Mithiriel in trouble, which Elboron's then-captain had been unwilling to credit. Instead of commanding that poor soul to do his bidding and commandeering his squad, Elboron had gone absent without leave on his own to rescue Mithiriel with just his bodyguard Borlas for company. Elboron winced as he realized the parallel between that situation and this, for he knew how very much his grandfather hated repeating himself.

"No, I'm not." Elboron agreed unhappily, "I'm also the heir to Ithilien, and your grandson. I have a responsibility to act as a high-ranking leader of the Two Kingdoms, even when I am only a lieutenant, if I judge that the circumstances require it."

"Which means . . ." Aragorn drawled helpfully, still stern but clearly at least a little relieved that Elboron had caught the gist of his lecture without Aragorn having to spell everything out.

"Sometimes I have to go over my captain's head and act the Prince."

"Which would have meant in this instance . . ."

"I should have asked Alphros for help."

"Or a more senior Captain, but yes, Alphros would probably have been fine," Aragorn agreed, "Although Elphir, or Imrahil, or Erchirion, or anyone with sufficient authority to get Raevor immediately reassigned would have been acceptable."

"And now I have to find out whether Captain Fangion really would have made a bad call, had I asked for his aid. And if he would have, then I need to find someone with sufficient rank to explain to him that the Two Kingdoms no longer work that way," Elboron paused, "But wouldn't the ranking senior captain in Dol Amroth be sufficient? Would I really need to go to all the way up to General Galdoron?"

Aragorn favored him with a wry smile. "At least now you're thinking along the right lines. A pity it took you almost getting skewered on a prejudiced idiot's blade to get us here."

"Sorry, Sir," Elboron offered, shame-faced.

"Next time, just ask for the appropriate help, Elboron, even if you must pull rank as your father's son and my grandson." Aragorn ordered kindly. "I don't want to have to have this conversation a third time. Particularly not when your lack of judgement and unwillingness to ask for favors puts your life at risk."

"Yes, sir," Elboron agreed, watching with well-concealed dread as Aragorn opened a drawer of his desk and pulled out a famous - or rather, infamous - paddle. The business end of the thin maple paddle was medium sized, and looked much like several others Elboron had seen over the years. But the curved wooden handle was different, and Elboron knew from family legend, related by Alphros and Eldarion, that the unusual shape of the handle allowed for a sharper angle and a quicker swat, greatly magnifying the sting of a swat without leaving a bruise. Yet, according to Alphros and Eldarion, the uncomfortable warmth imparted by a vigorous session with what was known within the family as "Adrahil's paddle" lasted for at least a day and a half. According to family legend, Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth, Imrahil's father and Elboron's great-grandfather, had so flagrantly defied his father's rules that Prince Angelimir had challenged the carpenters of Dol Amroth to do their best, or rather their worst, and come up with an instrument of correction that would cause the most instant regret without leaving any lasting marks. This, the fruit of their labor, now graced Aragorn's desk. And unless Elboron was incredibly lucky, it would soon grace his backside.

His grandfather offered Elboron another wry smile, only this time his eyes danced with sympathy and a touch of ruefulness as well.

"Oh, you'll survive," Aragorn teasingly reassured his grandson, "I did, after all, and it was Adrahil himself who applied this paddle's ancestor to my rear end. And he did so with great gusto! It was after I returned from my first command in his navy having had the poor leadership skills to not only let one of my captains burn down a quarter of Umbar, but also to fail to stop his just-barely-twenty-year-old heir from getting married to a commoner Adrahil had specifically taken great pains to see him separated from. Not because she was a commoner, of course, but because he was afraid that she was Imrahil's half-aunt . . . well, you know that story."

Elboron nodded dazedly, but to his grandfather's credit, he was less afraid than he had been but a moment ago.

Seeing that, Aragorn nodded in approval, then explained, "I will be paddling you, Elboron, and yes, with THIS paddle. This is the second time in as many years that you have endangered your life, and the lives of others, by failing to ask for help when help would have been given to you. You have a fine mind and you normally have excellent judgement. I want you to use it, and make better decisions in the future. Is that understood, grandson-mine?"

"Yes, Sir," Elboron promised.

"Very well. In addition to talking to Captain Fangion and making the appropriate arrangements if you haven't misjudged the man, you will be spending your free mornings sparring with myself and Alphros, and volunteering at the House of Healing during half of your next three off-days. Perhaps stitching up wounds and making poultices will help you to remember the consequences of your actions."

"Yes, sir." Elboron paused as he reflected on what had actually been said, "Wait, did you say half?"

"Just half." Aragorn favored him with a fond, exasperated expression, one that Elboron had often seen aimed at his father Faramir. "Left to your own devices you work entirely too hard, Bron-nin. And mind that I only want you working on your off days, and not on your free seventh days."

"Yes, sir," Elboron agreed, with a grateful smile.

"Come, then," Aragorn ordered, arising from his seat behind the desk. "Let's get this unpleasantness over with." He gestured towards a long, backless rose-colored settee by the sea-facing windows. The windows which Elboron noticed, with a twinge of embarrassment, were still half-open.

"Do take your boots off, Elboron. Your Daernaneth is fond of this upholstery."

Elboron obeyed, first sitting beside his grandfather to get the boots off, then standing to undo the ties to his leggings and push them and his small clothes down to his knees. With what he was sure was a fantastic blush, Elboron accepted his grandfather's hand to help lay himself down over Aragorn's lap.

Once he had taken up the dreaded, demoralizing position, Aragorn shifted him slightly forward, tipping Elboron's bottom a little bit further over Aragorn's knees. Then he lifted the back of Elboron's tunic and undershirt out of the way, exposing his bare backside to the cool sea breeze. And, of course, making Elboron acutely aware that he was a grown man about to receive a bare-bottom spanking followed by a memorable paddling, which anyone on a surrounding floor with a similarly open window might overhear. Of course, they wouldn't know whose rear end was being attended to, but at the moment that was not a particularly comforting thought. The utter humiliation of his situation was difficult to bear, and the true punishment hadn't even yet begun.

His grandfather Aragorn prefaced this spanking as he had every other that Elboron could remember receiving from him, with a gentle tap to Elboron's right buttock and the ridiculous query of "Ready?"

The honest answer was that of course he bloody wasn't ready, but Elboron was not the type of youth to be completely honest in such a situation. Instead he took the pat as evidence of fondness, which was welcome in some ways but not in others as it also betokened that the spanking was about to begin in earnest. He nodded, which Aragorn must have taken as sufficient answer, for the first full-force swat was not long in coming.

And it was in earnest! It had been a happy two years since Elboron had last found himself over Aragorn's knee, and he'd managed to forget that his grandfather, unlike his father, did not believe in 'warm-up' swats! No, the King of Men settled quite briskly into meting out a spanking! Elboron couldn't stop himself from yelping at the first breath-taking spanks.

Smack . . . smack . . . smack . . fell Aragorn's broad, calloused palm. In between the loud spanks, his grandfather renewed his lecture on the benefits of asking for assistance rather than endangering one's life, and how he expected better common-sense and care from his grandchildren. Elboron managed to gasp "yes!" and "sorry!" in between the sound smacks, but even as he did so he ruefully regretted not having falling afoul of his father, or even Lord Glorfindel, who might be an even more formidable spanker than his former pupil the King, but at least had the grace not to lecture all the while!

After what felt like a life-time the spanking itself came to an end, leaving Elboron gasping on his grandfather's lap with a burning bottom and a glowing face.

"And what will you do when you are faced with a similar quandary in the future, daerion-nin?" Aragorn asked softly, gently rubbing Elboron's lower back while his backside cooled off a little in the breeze.

"A...ask for he...help, Daerada!" Elboron gasped sincerely.

"See that you do." Aragorn commanded. After a few moments of silence, Elboron felt the cool wood of the paddle rest gently on his hot rear. He groaned.

Aragorn chuckled lightly. "I know, I know. We are almost done. A dozen, this time. Make the same mistake a third time, and it will be a score. If there's a fourth time, you and this paddle will have multiple assignations over the course of what will be a very unpleasant and memorable week for you."

"I'll ask! I'll ask!" Elboron promised fervently. He'd heard of Alphros receiving such drawn-out punishments, and he'd heard rumors of his father having at least once received even worse, but the very thought of being on the receiving end himself! It was most certainly to be avoided at almost all costs!

"I do hope so, my heart." Aragorn said lovingly and with genuine regret, before the slight rush of air warned Elboron that the first swat from the paddle was imminent. And he was grateful for the warning, though the searing sting was such that he cried out anyway. He yelped from the first swat through the twelfth, and then lay over his grandfather's lap, gasping for breath with his eyes leaking tears, when the whole ordeal was finished.

Elboron was aware of his grandfather continuing to gently rub his back, and barely aware of Aragorn tossing the detested paddle casually back in the direction of his desk. When he'd regained some of his composure, Aragorn helped him to stand, then embraced him fiercely.

"I hated that almost as much as you did, you know." His grandfather murmured, pushing an escaped lock of red-gold hair back behind Elboron's ear.

"I highly doubt that, Sir." Elboron said, with a light, self-conscious laugh.

"You won't understand until you're a parent," Aragorn told him, pulling Elboron back down onto the settee beside him, this time leaning against his grandfather's shoulder with his blazing backside blessedly out of contact with anything hard.

"And that won't be anytime soon, despite cousin Ynithe's machinations," said Elboron firmly.

Aragorn chuckled. "Oh yes, and those of the other council matrons. My poor grandson, it's no wonder that you've taken to hiding behind Melyanna's skirts."

"I'm not hiding, exactly." Elboron extemporized, "I've just missed her." And he'd be grateful when Mithiriel and Theli arrived before Melyanna gave birth, in part because hiding behind Mithiriel's skirts was even more effective than hiding behind Melyanna's! Ynithe was occasionally even afraid of Mithiriel.

"Hmm, yes," Aragorn commented, amused by the antics of his offspring, "And your next youngest sister has not been shy about telling me that she, too, is far from having children, although she also has not been shy about telling your Uncle Imrahil that it is none of his business whether she does or doesn't."

Elboron looked up at that, and saw a shadow of worry pass over his grandfather's face, a shadow which he suspected was echoed on his own. More than just prophecy and magic ran in the Dol Amroth line. There was a fragility as well, and Mithiriel's premature birth after their heavily pregnant mother had been poisoned by a Southron spy had left Elboron's next-in-age sister physically frail from birth. Elboron knew that Aragorn and his elven uncles Elladan and Elrohir were all glad that Mithiriel had married a healer of Theli's caliber, and some of why that was. But Imrahil's worries, that the physical strain of pregnancy would make Mithiriel's sometimes mercurial moods and physical health so much worse . . . that Elboron did not understand.

"Daerada?" He asked softly, "Would you mind if instead of the House of Healing, I volunteered with the mind healers?" It had been the mind healers that Great-Uncle Imrahil had asked Mithiriel to speak to, when she told him that she and Theli would have children if they wished, no matter what he was afraid of, or what had happened to her grandmother Finduilas, whom Mithiriel so resembled.

"I think that is a rather good idea, Elboron. I have no objection," Aragorn answered thoughtfully, "I do have a request. Share with me what you learn, would you?"

"I will," Elboron promised.

"Good lad," Aragorn praised. Patting Elboron's shoulder and nudging him up, the King of Men went to his desk and retrieved an untidy file from one of the a larger drawers. Aragorn paged through it quickly, then handed it to Elboron, retaking his seat beside his grandson.

Elladan only had to look at the slanted, messy handwriting to make a guess at who had compiled this particular file.

"Uncle Elladan's research?"

"Hmm, yes. His and several others'. On mind diseases. Review it, if you have time, and use it to inform your time with the mind healers."

"I will," Elboron promised again, placing the file on a nearby table to take with him when he left.

For a time the two sat in companionable silence, listening to the crashing of the waves, the rush of the wind, and the very distant sound of music from the revels on the other side of the old sandstone castle. Elboron found that his hindquarters, while still tender, felt better enough for him to move into a more comfortable position against his grandfather's shoulder. With a sigh, he stretched out his long legs and lifted his stocking-clad feet up to rest on the other end of the settee, wriggling his toes.

"New boots?" Aragorn asked, amused.

"New boots." Elboron confirmed. "They're harder to find away from the large cities, and the cobblers here in Dol Amroth are good. Plus, it's nice to have my own salary to buy things with. Not that Ada and Nana have ever begrudged me anything useful like boots." Eowyn had raised the occasional objection to the amount of money Elboron and Mithiriel spent on books and scrolls, which the more scholarly siblings felt was unfair, since she'd never objected to Theodwyn's and Haleth's weapons. Elboron had recently observed that Eowyn seemed more than happy to buy Elion any healing scroll or tome that took his fancy, but he had declined to make an issue of it.

"Mmm. Your father's money management skills have improved over the years, at least," Aragorn commented, a hint of laughter in his voice. It was a family joke that Faramir could manage to juggle the finances of all of Gondor, but was hopeless at keeping track of his own personal accounts.

"I think he mostly lets Naneth deal with their household finances." Elboron said tactfully.

Aragorn laughed aloud at that. "He's a wise man, your father. He managed to marry someone who is strong where he is weak."

Elboorn wondered for a moment if that was a subtle dig at Elboron's own current lack of marriage prospects, but decided it was subtle enough to politely ignore, even if it was. Despite his recent punishment, he was in a charitable mood. It helped that the pain from his paddling really was fading quickly, enough so that he actually wanted to join his aunt and his cousins and friends at the ball. His grandfather had said nothing of Elboron being barred from the festivities, and Elboron did love to dance. But it was nice to have the entirety of his grandfather's attention for a little while, now that the paddling itself was over. Aragorn had always done his best to make time for his children and grandchildren, but, well, he was a busy man.

Hopefully too busy to catch up with Alphros over those two duels he apparently hadn't known anything about, at least any time soon. Aragorn loved Alphros dearly, but Alphros out of all of Elboron's generation drove Aragorn to distraction. Elboron had overheard Aragorn complain to Faramir and Imrahil that they relaxed their standards for proper behavior for Alphros, because he reminded them so much of Boromir. To the child Elboron, his half-uncle Boromir had been almost a real person, someone he'd only heard about, but whom he'd heard so much about that he expected him to come wandering in the door someday, great and golden, loud and cheerful and boisterous and wind-blown. Of course, that had never happened, but for being a dead man, Boromir's shadow loomed large over Elboron's generation. Elboron believed that Alphros being like Boromir still brought a fond gleam to many eyes.

However, given how much trouble Alphros had gotten in over the years with every elder of Elboron's acquaintance, Elboron didn't think that reminding them of Boromir had made them go any easier on him. But then Eldarion thought that Aragorn went easier on Elboron because Elboron reminded Aragorn of Faramir, and Elboron had never noticed that, either. But in truth, as formidable as the paddling had been, he had gotten off relatively easily compared to his cousin, after Amrothos' tenth duel. Of course, it had been the tenth! But Elboron had also gotten off fairly lightly compared to what he'd heard had happened to his father, after what had been Faramir's first and only duel that Aragorn knew about. And after which Faramir had needed to ride the better part of a day, and then had gotten paddled again at the end of the ride. Elboron winced on his father's behalf at the very thought.

"Whatever is wrong, daerion-nin?" His grandfather's worried voice queried, a deep reassuring bass rumble through the chest Elboron was leaned up against. It was a sound and a vibration which meant safety in every way.

"Are you still in much pain?" Aragorn asked worriedly, "If so, I can prepare a draught for you. It should not still be a sharp pain, unless you haven't been eating well, or have been overtiring yourself . . ."

"No, Daerada." Elboron hastened to reassure him, "It is just that . . . I had expected you to be angrier. About the duel itself, I mean. I know that you had forbidden any of us to get involved in one, and . . . I had just expected you to be more upset, I suppose."

"A duel is a stupid way to die," Aragorn said sternly, "And it certainly is not something I want for any of you. But why do you say that?"

"Well, everyone says that you were so angry with Ada when he participated in that duel on the way home from Theoden-King's funeral just after the end of the Ring War, and . . . "

"Who is this everyone?" Aragorn interrupted, mildly amused.

"Ah," Elboron paused uncomfortably, remembering that Daerada did not particularly like it when one told tales out of school.

"Go ahead," Aragorn said, "I promise that I won't go looking anyone up for a lack of discretion. This time."

Elboron gave him a relieved smile, then answered, "Ada told me about it, once. Not about how upset you were, but just that it had happened. Dervorin and Legolas and cousin Amrothos have all said that you were truly angry with Ada that day."

Aragorn snorted, "Oh, Amrothos wasn't even there. But 'truly angry' is fair enough. You are old enough to know that story, and I know that your father would tell you his side of it were you to ask him. So I will tell you my side, and why I was so truly angry with him for dueling."

As he spoke, Aragorn sat up, keeping Elboron in the circle of his left arm but rearranging their positions enough so that he could look his grandson in the eyes.

"Faramir fighting in that duel was the first time I felt truly scared after the end of the Ring War," Aragorn explained quietly, "it was the first time I realized that I could be so frightened with Sauron gone. Faramir had disappeared during one of our frequent stops on the ride back to Minas Tirith. That in and of itself was not unusual. All of us had many demands on our time. What was unusual is that he returned with a furious Legolas in tow. And thank the Valar that Eowyn convinced him to take Legolas with him, for if it had not been for Legolas reporting what had happened, none of us might have ever known that the duel was even to take place until after it was over."

His grandfather paused, his attention fixed somewhere in the long-ago past.

"Ada said that a mind-sick soldier had challenged him to the duel?," Elboron prompted, remembering that much from when his father had told him about the duel as a teenager.

"Yes," Aragorn confirmed, "Faramir was challenged to a duel to the death by an army veteran. The man's spirit had been broken by the war, and then all three of his brothers died on the Pelennor during the Ithilien Rangers' last great sally-forth."

"The one that Lord Steward Denethor had ordered, that Ada disagreed with but led anyway when the old Lord Steward insisted?" Elboron asked.

"Yes, that one." Aragorn paused again, but something told Elboron that he was more likely to keep going if he wasn't interrupted.

At length, Aragorn continued, "You must understand, Elboron. Something in your father broke that day, when his rangers died almost to a man on that field. Despite all I've done and everything that your mother and our family have done to heal that wound to his spirit, it is still one of the deepest scars he carries, and it is one that will likely never mend. And that so after decades . . . at the time of that duel, the wound was still very fresh indeed. And he was different then, less careful but also less confident. Given his guilt and how much he thought he owed the mind-sick man who had challenged him, I didn't know which Faramir was going to show up to the duel at dawn that morning. Would it be the competent warrior and canny survivor, or the fumbling swordsman I saw from time to time on the practice courts on his off days? I was afraid that I was going to have to watch your father die in front of me."

"But you didn't," Elboron reminded his grandfather, "Ada came out of that duel without even a scratch."

Aragorn glowered, "Aye, he did. After blatantly ignoring two openings that would have ended the duel but likely wounded the idiot to death, in order to try a much chancier disarm that could have seen him dead if he'd mistimed it by an instant!"

"But he didn't," Elboron reassured, "He got it exactly right."

"Yes, and I was proud of him," said Aragorn, exasperated even though it had been over thirty years, "but I still wanted to wring his neck. On a good day, yes, Faramir was a better swordsman than that mind-sick, bitter fool, and he was improving all the time. But on one of your father's bad days, well, let us just say that one of my first priorities after I got to know him better was making him spend time with the best swordsmen I knew."

Aragorn narrowed his eyes, still lost in the past. "And your father was utterly unapologetic about the whole affair. In fact, he told me that because it was legal and his own personal matter as the former captain of that idiot's brothers, it was none of my affair!"

"That was very . . . " Elboron hesitated at calling his father foolish, "ah, very short-sighted of him."

"Mmm," Aragorn agreed, "One might even call it foolish, or petulant. At the time I just reminded him that he had already learned several times over that his personal safety was very much my affair, and that he should have planned accordingly if he did not care for the consequences."

"That seems fair." Elboron agreed cautiously, not wanting to take his father's part, even if he did have a great deal of sympathy for Faramir's hindquarters.

"I thought so too, but Faramir was of another mind at first. When he finally figured out that I had been worried about him, he changed his tune, although that was more Arwen's doing than mine. At the time," Aragorn confessed wryly, "He told me that I was his King and his friend, but not his father. We had to go the round-about of my being his friend, his commanding officer, and his heart-brother before he'd even consent that he'd earned the first spanking, and that was before he knew about the second!"

Elboron mentally goggled at the audacity of his father when Faramir had been about his age. That, and, "He actually told you that you were not his father?"

Aragorn arched an eyebrow than laughed ruefully. "He told me that on a number of occasions, during our first year together."

"But he didn't know either, did he? Not then?"

"Fortunately for him, he did not know at the time of that duel." Aragorn's expression darkened, "As you may not know, Gondor's laws regarding duels at that time permitted a senior male family member to take the place of the challenged, or the challenger."

"You would have taken Ada's place in the duel with the mind-sick soldier? But you were - and are - the King!"

"I would have insisted that Faramir let me take his place." Aragorn said firmly, "And I would have had Ethiron and Elrohir keep a hold on him during the duel to make sure he didn't try anything." Wistfully, Aragorn added, "And had Boromir still lived, the whole mess would probably have been stopped before it got even half started. Boromir might have been able to actually talk some sense into your father over the whole affair."

Elboron couldn't argue with that. Alphros, who reminded everyone who had known Boromir so much of that lost hero, certainly had a way for talking Eldarion, Theodwyn, and even Elboron into doing things they otherwise never would have thought of.

Thinking of that made Elboron remember the promise he'd made to Alphros earlier this evening, to tell his grandfather that he felt he was ready for a promotion to captain. And Aragorn did seem to be in a listening mood, and not that angry with Elboron about the duel.

"Daerada," Elboron began, "Did you know that I'm up for promotion to captain?"

Chapter Text

Aragorn grinned, and straightened up in his seat with pride. "I did. And that you're the youngest lieutenant since the war ended to even be nominated. You should be proud, Bron. Your father and I are very proud of you, and so is Eldarion."

"Thank you," Elboron accepted, unable to hide a blush. The pride of two such great heroes as his grandfather and his father meant the world to him, and it warmed his heart to know that his half-uncle Eldarion, who was like an elder brother to him, was proud as well. He often felt overshadowed in his family. His whole generation struggled with that to some extent, being the children and grandchildren of the Ring War heroes. But Elboron didn't have Eldarion's boldness, Alphros' panache, Theodwyn's orcs-may-care courage, Mithiriel's quickness, Melyanna's golden sweetness, Haleth's cleverness, or Gilwen's fire. At times he felt himself the quietest, least remarkable of member of his family. To be recognized for achieving something on his own, for doing it better than anyone else had in decades, well . . . that was quite something. Elboron was tempted to leave it at that. But he'd made a promise, and he'd see it through.

"Daerada, I want you to know, that I want the promotion. That I think I'm ready.," Eldarion ventured, explaining further, "I already do half of the shift assignments for Captain Fangion, and I prepared most of the patrol routes for my last captain. They've asked my opinion about not just those matters but also promotions, rationing, supply, discipline, and education. And I have so many ideas!"

"You really are your father's son," Aragorn marveled with a father's proud gaze, "All quiet fire and innovation. You remind me so much of our Faramir, but writ whole."

Elboron blushed again, honored beyond words. Aragorn chuckled and patted his cheek.

"And like Faramir again," he chided, " part of what you want is not to have to obey orders when you think you know better than your superiors how things should be done."

"That's not it!" Elboron quickly denied. At his grandfather's skeptical eyebrow, he amended, "Well, that's only PART of it."

Aragorn smiled indulgently, only a little smug at having been correct. "I know, daerion-nin. And I want to hear your ideas, whether you are promoted on this go-round or not. But I'm not going to step into the promotions board's affairs, and I know that you wouldn't want me to." Aragorn frowned, "Actually, that's part of your reoccurring trouble that got you into bother again tonight. You're too unwilling to use your influence." With a crooked grin, Aragorn theorized, "Perhaps giving you a promotion would at least give you fewer heads to pull rank on."

Elboron choked on a laugh that he turned into a cough. "That's not a good reason to promote me."

"No, and you really aren't ready. Don't be hurt or offended, daerion-nin," Aragorn quickly added, "No one ever is. And don't think badly of yourself if you aren't promoted this year. You really are very young for it, and . . ." Aragorn paused, and then went to shut the windows.

Elboron stared, and then sat straight up to attention. The windows in the Dol Amroth castle were almost never closed. That Aragorn was closing them now meant that he wanted to discuss sensitive official secrets with Elboron. Which did happen, from time to time, but hardly ever with Elboron on his own. It had happened sometimes between Aragorn, Eldarion, Faramir, and Elboron, or between just Faramir and Elboron, but never before between just Aragorn and Elboron.

Aragorn retook his seat, and with a serious expression began, "In the next year, your father and I, and the Captains-General of Gondor and Arnor, are planning a ten percent recruitment increase across the board - army, navy and silent service. As you can imagine, we'll need more than a few extra captains to accommodate that. If you're on the short list now, and you don't make it, well then, next year will almost certainly be your year. Provided, of course," Aragorn said in his wry, fond way, "that you keep your nose clean between now and then."

"But . . . that will be astronomically expensive," Elboron murmured, his mind working over that shocking new intelligence, "and the logistical and political implications are . . ."

Aragorn sat back and smiled, proud and fond.

Suddenly worried, Elboron had to ask, "What will the Rhunnim and the Haradrim think? The peace has held since the last war in Harad and since Theodwyn's marriage to Tarkhan, but if we start building our army up, what will they think?"

"Smart lad," Aragorn praised, "I'm sending your father on a diplomatic tour this coming spring. First to Taduin to speak to Amrothos, and then to the capitals of Near and Far Harad. He is going to urge Taduin and both Kingdoms of Harad to increase their military expenditures to the same extent."

"And who are you sending to Rhun?," Elboron asked.

"You tell me, clever boots."

Elboron considered it for a moment, then decided, "Naneth. You're sending my mother, because she can make an unofficial but official visit as the grandmother of their future Chieftain-of-Chieftains."

"That," Aragorn said, with an approving nod, "and also because the Rhunnim have nearly as much respect for Eowyn as they do for our Theodwyn. One of the primary deities the Rhunnim worship is a horse goddess, and your mother and sister are esteemed as highly there as we esteem high priestesses of Yavanna here."

"That's well enough for Rhun. They always have surplus riders interested in joining their army," Eldarion murmured contemplatively, "But Harad . . . they lost too many soldiers in the wars. They'll have to conscript, and that means slaves getting dragged into the army in their masters' places."

"Your father is going to offer on behalf of Gondor to pay one sixth-value for every slave conscripted, if the Emirs and the Beys of Harad agree to free them after their twenty year conscription is over, or when the army no longer requires their services."

"How are we going to pay for that . . . Wait, Uncle Elladan?"

"Yes. He's willing to sell five breweries, a gold mine, three rather prosperous quarries, and a number of smaller interests. And the Haradrim may well be willing to accept that deal. Emir Kader and Jalila's brother both find slavery personally abhorrent, and have imposed laws preventing the enslavement of captives and outlawing piracy. And yet the number of slaves available on the markets in Harad and Khand has increased during the same time period, as have reports of piracy. Why do you think that is?"

"If it's not Harad, or at least the Emirs don't know about it . . ." Elboron thought about it, "then it's either Khand, or renegade elements within one of the those two kingdoms." With a wince at being disloyal to his beloved elder sister, Elboron added, "Or renegade elements within Rhun. Rhun is huge. It's impossible to keep track of it all."

Aragorn gave him another approving nod. "So is Khand. But our sources there report that their Emperor is telling us the truth. He hasn't been sending out more ships to hunt for slaves, or imposing new taxes to drive their poor into slavery."

"It's everyone and no one all at once . . . " Elboron murmured, his mind moving very quickly, "And you and Ada never did think you found all of Oligarch Efisio's contacts, the ones who manipulated Harad into declaring war with us when I was a child."

"Yes." Aragorn said simply, and then waited.

Elboron blinked in surprise as he realized that his grandfather, the King of Men, was asking for his opinion. "Ah . . . I think it is a good idea, the military build-up. To be prepared, I mean. Given the reports, and well . . ." Elboron struggled for a way to put his gut instinct into words that wouldn't sound ridiculous, and then just decided not to bother, "well, it just FEELS like a good idea to me."

Aragorn groaned and got up to fill his pipe. "And here I was, really hoping that you wouldn't say that," he mourned.

"Sorry," said Elboron, even though he really wasn't. He knew it wasn't his fault that he had inherited his father's occasional hints of premonition, and he knew that Aragorn wasn't really upset with him.

As expected, Aragorn waved off the apology. Then he asked, half in jest, "Any more thoughts from you on the matter, clever boots?"

Elboron gave the matter some serious consideration. "We should ask Mithiriel and Theli what they've seen, on their travels."

"Not a bad thought," Aragorn conceded, offering a pipe to Elboron, "Although I'm not sure if they would have noticed anything. Neither of them has quite your or Faramir's level of sensitivity to possible futures - or Haleth's or Amrothos' skills of observation."

Elboron lifted a hand to decline the offer of a pipe of his own. Like his father, he liked the smell of pipeweed well enough but did not particularly care for the taste. "What about Haleth?" he asked his grandfather, "She's usually the first to notice anything out of order. Is she involved with your reports from Harad?"

That caused Aragorn to choke on the pipeweed he had just inhaled. Elboron got up to helpfully pound him on the back.

"Now, that," Aragorn said fiercely, once he'd caught his breath, "With that, you do have to tell me who has been telling tales out of school. No one is supposed to know about silent service postings. Not even brothers. Not even Kings."

"Eldarion," Elboron gave up without hesitation, because he knew that Eldarion would understand, "But only because I guessed who 'our man in Umbar' must be, when Eldarion made that face he always makes whenever Haleth's occupation as a spy comes up. Yes, that face," Elboron supplied helpfully, "the one you're making right now, Daerada."

"Bah," said Aragorn, glowering, before he gave in and admitted, "Yes, Haley's observations are amongst those we considered, in determining that it might be time to increase the number of men we could have moving on a moment's notice." Aragorn smoked his pipe quietly for a few minutes, but made no move to open the windows. Elboron took a seat opposite his grandfather, and waited to see if Daerada had anything further he wanted to impart.

At length, Aragorn did speak again, "Faramir also thinks that it is time to bring you, Eldarion, Alphros, Melyanna, and Mithiriel into these deliberations. On the highest level."

"That . . . feels like a good idea, too, Daerada," Elboron confessed, before asking, "But not Theodwyn, or Gilwen?"

Aragorn exhaled again, then explained, "Eowyn will speak to Theodwyn when she goes to Rhun. It's not fair to Theodwyn to ask her to choose her country of birth over her her husband's people, and we'd have to if we tried to discuss it with her any sooner. The same argument could in theory be applied to Mithiriel, who also married outside Gondor. But Greenwood is a long-standing ally, and Theli is a lord with no demense or interests of his own to protect, dynastic or otherwise."

"And he might not even notice that Mithiriel is hiding anything from him, not if it doesn't have to do with healing." Elboron added. His elven brother-by-law could be absent-minded like that.

"That, and Mithiriel has been one of your father's secretaries on and off since she was a teenager. Theli has thoroughly demonstrated his willingness to let his wife have her own secrets if she likes. And Greenwood, North and South, as well as the dwarven kingdoms, will all have to be advised if we determine to go ahead with the recruitment drive, in any case."

"But why not Gilwen?" Elboron asked, feeling that he must stick up for his fiery younger aunt.

"Gilly is still very young," Aragorn said affectionately of his youngest child, and then with some resignation he expanded, "And she is at risk where she is, sailing with the anti-piracy patrols. I don't want her to have to have secrets to keep should she be captured, at least not any more than she naturally has just from being who she is."

That made sense. It didn't stop Elboron from feeling slightly guilty at the thought of leaving Gilwen - and Theodwyn - out of the loop. But he did understand. Before he could say so, his stomach rumbled. It was a very loud sound in the quiet room.

Aragorn shook his head tolerantly, "You missed dinner for your foolish duel, didn't you?"

That wasn't technically correct. Elboron had missed dinner for LANDIR'S foolish duel. But it didn't seem worth correcting his grandfather over. Elboron nodded sheepishly.

"Well, we can't have that," Aragorn teased, "I need to be sure that you are fed, otherwise your grandmother will be displeased with me. We should detour to the kitchens before the dancing."

Elboron perked up, "Do you suppose that they still have cinnamon cake?"

"Maybe," Aragorn answered absently, "But there's never enough cream sauce for it, even when it's served at table."

Elboron paused to ponder the oddity of his grandfather also never getting enough cream sauce. With Alphros, it hadn't been that surprising. But the kitchen staff in Dol Amroth doted upon Aragorn nearly as much as the kitchen staff in Minas Tirith did. If Aragorn hadn't been getting enough butter-cream sauce, and it had only been Elboron who got a double share . . . what did that mean?

Aragorn, who was not privy to Elboron's bewilderment, said, "Or perhaps we can arrange for something to be sent up, so that you can help me with these blasted scrolls," Aragorn frowned in the direction of his desk, then muttered darkly,"I swear that they're multiplying when I'm not looking."

"Mmm," Elboron commented neutrally. Taking a closer look at his grandfather's large desk and the baskets beside it, he hazarded a tease, "Well, it certainly looks like the scrolls in the basket marked for Ada's attention are multiplying."

Aragorn had the grace to look slightly abashed at that. "Faramir will have Mithiriel to help him. They're like lightening once they get started."

"They are fast," Elboron agreed. He felt somewhat sorry for his father. But he was confident that if it really were so much work as to weigh upon Faramir's spirit, Arwen or Eowyn would put a stop to it.

"Come, get your boots and your tunic back on," Aragorn directed, "Then we'll head down to the kitchens. No use making them traipse all the way up here with laden trays when we're not staying long before going to the party."

Elboron obeyed, hiding a slight smile at how eager his grandfather was to avoid dealing with what Aragorn referred to scathingly as "the eternal parchment yoke of Kingship."

After Elboron had repaired his appearance but before they were entirely ready to leave, a knock sounded at the door. Aragorn nodded to Elboron to answer it as the King searched for his own boots.

With a cheerful smile, Elboron opened the door to find Cellaras holding a large tray containing a fair selection of his favorite foods, including cinnamon cakes and buttercream sauce at what looked like just the right temperature.

"Cella!" Elboron greeted, pleased to a surprising degree to see her, even his gratitude for the dinner aside. All of his favorite foods were assembled on her one tray, without him having to ask for them. They had been carefully prepared by his little sister Haleth's and little Aunt Gilwen's childhood companion, now an assistant cook in the Dol Amroth kitchens. He'd always liked Cellaras, in the vaguely affectionate way that he'd been fond of most of his little sister's friends. But suddenly . . . a number of small things suddenly became clear to Elboron. It was as if his whole world had come apart and then been put back together in such a way that it would never look the same again.

Cellaras knew his favorite foods, and prepared them just for him. He always had enough butter-cream sauce and cinnamon cake at just the right temperature because she made sure of it. It had been Cellaras who first gave Elboron the nickname "Bron." Before that he'd always been El or El-nin or Tithen-El, but Cellaras had given him a name that was his own, that sounded tough, and that recalled the famous Boromir's nickname of "Brom." And then when Elboron's little brother Elion was born and Elion became "Eli-nin" and "Tithen Eli," everyone had switched to using "Bron." Cellaras was a quiet girl, but come to think of it, she was only shy around Elboron. And then once she got past the shy, she was brave enough to ask him insightful questions, to draw out more of his experiences than almost anyone else. And she was almost always sensitive enough to change the subject when he was uncomfortable.

"Bron," she replied, with a shy, friendly smile, "I know that you missed dinner. Melyanna wants me to come to the party now that my shift is over, but I thought I'd drop off a little something for you first."

"If this is your idea of 'a little something,'" Elboron teased, his mind and mouth automatically putting forth pleasantries even as he was reeling from the typhoon in his heart, "then it is no wonder that you are in great-uncle Imrahil's good-books for keeping Melyanna and her future baby well-fed!"

Cellaras' smile faltered for a moment. "I try," she said modestly, after a pause.

Still reeling in emotional shock, Elboron automatically took the heavy tray from Cellaras.

"Please, join us," Elboron invited, "I hate eating alone. And if I recall, you often become too busy cooking to eat yourself."

"Oh, I couldn't possibly impose, Bron," Cellaras refused wistfully.

Elboron searched for some excuse to convince her to stay. She looked lovely. She had the classic Numenorean-in-exile coloring, blue-gray eyes and glossy black hair. Elboron knew that her mother Ulaerien, who had once been a friend to a young Faramir when Elboron's father had desperately needed his friends, had been half-Numenorean on her mother Mairenwen's side. Cellaras' father had been a Dol Amroth sailor. Elboron knew next to nothing about him.

Tonight Cellaras wore a dark gray apron embroidered with blue morning glories over her gown. Her shift was a soft, pale shade of daisy yellow, over which she wore a short-sleeved over-skirt of blue-violet. Elboron recognized it as once having been Theodwyn's, although the sweet yellow and white flowers embroidered on the bodice and hem now made it seem less royal than when it had belonged to the King's granddaughter. Cellaras' ears were adorned with pearl earrings, from each of which dropped a single small sparking citrine.

"Please stay," Elboron said at last, imbuing his entreaty with his fervent desire for her company. "And then come to the dance with me."

Cellaras gasped slightly, and then bestowed upon Elboron the most soul-searching gaze he had ever been subject to. And that was saying quite a lot, for he was his father's son and Aragorn's grand-son!

"If you like," Cellaras answered with a shy, serious smile.

"It would make me very happy," Elboron affirmed, feeling himself begin to grin.

"On that note," Aragorn interrupted, "I think that I'm surplus to requirements. You two have a nice dinner, and then run along to the dancing. But do leave the door open while you eat. It wouldn't do to invite unnecessary gossip."

Elboron frowned at his grandfather as the King of Men added under his breath on his way out the door, "At least not yet!"

Cellaras looked after the King, bemused. "Well, if his Grace commands, and my Lord wishes . . . "

"Don't worry about him," Elboron said with a fond, dismissive wave in his impish grandfather's direction, "I want you to do as you will for your own pleasure, Cellaras. Whether it is dancing with me, or not."

"It is," she said, shy but sure.

"Well, then," Elboron answered, and then embarked on one of the greatest adventures of his life. Far more important, in the long run, then whether or not he made Captain that year.

Chapter Text

The goat chewed a mouthful of grass. Then it stared despondently for a long moment at Mount Mindolluin, where the other mountain goats were climbing to eat the sweet flowers that grew in the cracks and crevices. The goat bleated mournfully, then turned its head back to the grass - and elves - in front of it. Eyeing the elves warily, the goat took another resigned bite of grass.

"Mehhh." Said the goat.

"Elladan," said the slighter, paler elf in a tone of disbelief, "It's a goat."

"The goat's name is Whiskers," the dark-haired elf said reprovingly, "and it would be much happier if it would just let me get it properly fitted with little bits of glass in its eyes, so that it could see well enough to climb the mountain to the better grazing with the other goats."

"It's an old goat, Elladan. It doesn't need glasses...or not-glasses, or whatever those little bits of glass are that you want me to STICK INTO ITS EYES. It doesn't want them and it doesn't need them."

Still, Legolas thought, it was sad that the goat was too old to climb the mountain. But that didn't make Elladan's idea anything but impossible. Not to mention insane.

Two hours later, Whiskers was exultantly bounding up the the cliffs and boulders to eat the sweet climbing ivy and flowers. Legolas and Elladan were nursing bites and bruises. Legolas still felt that Elladan was insane. Even though he was happy for Whiskers, the Prince of the Wood of the Green Leaves promised himself that he would only wager his coin in the future with the sons of Elrond, and never again an afternoon of his time. It just wasn't worth the pain and aggravation. Or watching Gimli laugh at the both of them!

Chapter Text

"You would not have risked so much to save me, any of you, were I not the son of Thranduil," lamented Legolas, aware of how bitter he sounded, but unwilling to admit, even to himself, that under his rancor, he was really afraid. He didn't want to think yet of what he'd endured during his time as a captive, nor of how it had affected him. Being angry and resentful was much easier.

Gimli laughed, "Brother-mine, I don't even LIKE your Da."

Legolas blinked, because he could tell when Gimli was lying, and so he knew that his dwarven brother was telling him the sober truth just now.

"But, I thought . . ." the injured prince protested.

"Ha! Teaches you to think."

"Gimli!"

"Your father and I are friendly to one another for your sake, Legolas. We even respect one another. But I did this for you and you alone, have no doubt. As did Theli, Elladan, Elion, Cellindir, young Elrond, Shona and Min-Qiang."

"It was too great a risk to take, to send a rescue party through enemy lines, deep into the Blood Mages' camp, just to save one elf!" Legolas protested angrily.

"It wasn't, brother-mine," Gimli assured him sternly, "Every single one of us - except for me - was a descendant of Luthien and Melian. They didn't want to be seen, and we weren't seen. Mithiriel and our sorcerers and priests put a blessing on all of us, to further hide us."

"Theli, Elladan, young Elrond and I carried poison to take if we were caught," Gimli continued firmly, "and the others were handpicked for their loyalty, but also their ignorance. We minimized the risks as much as we could, but we could not leave you to the Blood Mages, especially not with Sarangerel getting through a message to us that you were still alive. And you would have done the same for any of us, had we been the unfortunate commander of our army's sacrificial company in that purposeful disaster of a battle, and then been taken captive for our trouble. Of that I don't have even a single doubt."

"Of course I would have, that's not even in question."

"Well, hush your nonsense then. And share your grapes."

Chapter Text

“What kind of fool attempts to invade Imladris in the winter?” Asked Lord-the-Captain Elboron, the red-gold haired son of Prince Faramir and Lady Eowyn, as he doffed his armored helm before the gathered commanders in the tent of his future king.

“The kind of fools who can use magic fire to melt the snows choking the passes, or at least so say our spies and informants,” replied Crown Prince Eldarion, who was Elboron’s uncle and childhood playmate. King Elessar’s son by Arwen his Queen was only three years older than Aragorn’s oldest grandson, and the two had grown up together.

Elboron would become Eldarion’s Steward of Gondor upon Faramir’s retirement, and he and Aragorn were both in Gondor. And so it was the future rulers of Ithilien and the Reunited Kingdoms, Elboron and Eldarion, rather than their more famous fathers, who were gathering the forces of northern Arnor to respond to this act of war by the exiled mages of Rhun.

Elboron snorted skeptically and then countered, “If the Blue Wizard Alatar’s rogue pupils could summon enough fire to melt the passes, then why have they not marched on Minas Tirith or Annuminas directly? Nay, my prince and heart-brother, they must instead have a source of information within Imladris or one of the surrounding towns. Someone who told them how bare Theli and Mithiriel stripped the complement of guards at Imladris in order to send support to Prince Dirhael when Eryn Vorn was flooded this past autumn.”

“And this is why you wish to go ahead with the scouts, and see for yourself in what state are our passes?” Eldarion asked his nephew with fond skepticism.

Elboron was too earnest in his aims to blush or take offense at that. Instead he asserted calmly, “I think that I am the best suited, if your Highness can spare me here.”

That fair and respectful, if overly formal, answer made Eldarion almost regret his gentle teasing. It was, as his father had oft-times told him, hard to tease a man who was so very earnest that he answered each charge honestly. Elboron was much like his father, and every bit as stalwart and capable as Faramir. Eldarion thanked Eru for him, and reluctantly gave him leave.

“Go, then, my brother. Between myself and our good Lord Harnestel, we can handle the muster here.”

Little though Eldarion liked sending Elboron into danger without him, Eldarion held the overall command and ought not go himself. And even though Elboron was not Lord Elrond’s grandson, he was a scout whose magically-gifted sister now ruled in Imladris.

“But go carefully,” Eldarion warned, “And take Lieutenant Drystan with you.”

Drystan had served as Glorfindel’s second in Imladris for the last half of the Third Age, He knew every secret of the paths that Elboron and his scouting party must search. Eldarion hoped that Drystan had taken to heart Eldarion’s assurances that he should not blame himself for the current state of affairs. Lord-the-Captain Glorfindel was in Imladris, and Glorfindel had been the one to agree that the garrison at Imladris could be drawn down to bare bones in the hour of Eryn Vorn’s need. No one had seen reason to predict that the former pupils of the Blue Wizard would seize upon this opportunity to invade Imladris in force, with Khandian mercenaries at their back.

Not long after Elboron and Drystan had left for their scouting endeavor, Eldarion and his captains were disturbed in their planning by a messenger announcing the approach of a friendly company.

“They are carrying the colors of the Dale-King, and of the elven King Thranduil, of the Wood of the Green Leaves,” Eldarion’s senior squire reported.

“Are they, now?” Eldarion replied, baffled although not displeased. The greatest part of their force had been gathered from the re-built Annuminas, with a decently sized contingent from his sister Gilwen’s husband Dirhael’s princedom of Eryn Vorn.

Eldarion had experienced mixed feelings upon discovering that Gilwen herself was still fighting pirates in the south. His youngest sister was a fierce and canny warrior, and he would like to fight beside her again. At the same time, he never liked to see his family and friends in danger, and he did worry for his sister. Eldarion was just as glad that his two sons, the twins Elros and Kader, were in Gondor serving as squires to Captain-General Galdoron and Prince Erchirion, respectively.

Still, Eldarion would not have been surprised to have seen any of Gilwen, Elros, Kader, Galdoron, Erchirion, or his father Aragorn or half-brother Faramir. Imladris besieged was a desperately worrying situation, for there dwelled not only the wisdom of ages and his mother Arwen’s childhood memories, but also Eldarion’s middle niece Mithiriel and her husband Ecthelion (called Theli), all of their four children, and numerous other kinfolk and friends.

However, Eldarion was surprised to see a contingent from Dale and the Green Kingdom. It was of course true that both lands were long-time allies of Gondor, with their alliance to the Greenwood recently enforced both by Thranduil’s heir’s long-standing friendship with Aragorn and his heirs, and by Mithiriel’s marriage to Ecthelion, who was himself a cousin of Thranduil’s and a royal lord of the great Green Wood. But the Dale-men and the elves of the Greenwood were very far from home, and Eldarion was not sure what might have brought them.

“Give them billet and kind welcome with my thanks, and invite their leaders to join us,” Eldarion bid his squire.

To Eldarion’s further surprise, those who came to meet them included not only a captain of Dale’s long-bow men and one of Thranduil’s officers, but also Eldarion’s own young nephew, and Elboron’s only brother, the royal Lord Ecthelion of Ithilien.

“Ecthelion the youngest,” as he was sometimes called, or “Elion,” within the family, was nearly twenty years younger than Elboron. He was only a few years older than Eldarion’s sons Elros and Kader, he and was their dearest friend. The three had shared nurses, lessons, adventures, and nearly everything else until Elion made the decision to dedicate himself fully to the study of the healing arts, and not to partake of the warrior’s training which was his due and duty as a prince’s son.

Now that nephew knelt before him, his auburn hair flecked with snow.

“His Highness the Lord Ecthelion was determined to pay his sister of Imladris a visit, despite the season and weather,” explained Thranduil’s officer, Captain Baeraeriel, who was a cousin of Legolas and fully conversant with Ecthelion’s proper Gondorian titles. “My King did not wish him to travel unaccompanied, and the Dale-King lent him escort as well.”

Eldarion embraced his nephew Elion, then exchanged a warrior’s arm-clasp with Captain Baeraeriel, whom he’d known as one of the officers of Legolas’ household at Ithilien-en-Edhil when he had been a child. He exchanged greetings with the Dale-King’s captain, who was also one of that worthy’s many nephews.

The allied officers stayed to join Eldarion’s council of war. As did Elion, but only after Eldarion insisted that he do so. Elion would have preferred to have been off meeting the healers in Eldarion’s camp and inspecting their equipment and plans. But Eldarion was right to insist that Elion stay, as the lad did remember several additional rarely used entrances to Imladris, from Elion’s own studies there and from his many and frequent visits to the sister who had always made time for him.

Eldarion bade his nephew stay again, when he dismissed the rest of the officers.

“Well now, Scape-grace, had a dream, did we?” Eldarion inquired sympathetically of his half-brother’s youngest child, who had as often as not been a resident of his household rather than Faramir’s.

“Aye, Uncle ‘Dari,” Elion responded familiarly, accepting another embrace and the Crown Prince-his-uncle’s assistance at removing his wet boots.

The young lord further elaborated in a troubled tone, “I dreamt of blue blood-stained hawks creeping through the rocks towards the Last Homely House, and my young niece crying in fright.”

“Illinare does not cry easily,” murmured Eldarion, much troubled himself.

“No. She is like Aunt Theodwyn and Aunt Gilwen, in that. Stubborn-strong, only Illinare is harder with it.”

“Indeed. It is odd that she is Mithiriel’s daughter, and not Thea's or Gilly’s.”

“Not so odd.” Elion disagreed fearlessly, which made Eldarion almost smile, “Mithiriel can be straight hard herself when she is forced to it.”

Elion continued worriedly, “As the Rhunnic exile Blood Mages shall learn to their sorrow, if they force her to it.”

“I know, Elion,” Eldarion soothed, stroking a comforting hand down the youth’s brown hair, pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck.

Eldarion was concerned as well. Mithiriel was, under normal circumstances, the most peaceable of Faramir’s children, and of Aragorn’s grandchildren. She was the only one who had less military training than even young Elion.

But Mithiriel was also her grandmother the Princess Finduilas’ granddaughter in a way in which none of the others were. If Mithiriel truly wanted to stop an armed man in his tracks, all she had to do was wish that he might trip, and trip he would. If she needed him dead, and wanted him dead, then a man’s heart might stop.

It was a great and terrible gift for a gentle, scholarly woman, and it bore a great and terrible cost. All magic had a price. The blue wizard Alatar, twisted by desperation, had taught his pupils at the end of the War of the Last Alliance how the power to protect their families might be bought, with the deaths of animals and the willing sacrifice of pain. His students had betrayed him, and then spilled Alatar’s own blood and drank deeply of it to obtain their immortality.

Most of those who followed Alatar’s original students were much younger mages, and only three or four of Alatar’s original dozen students survived. But it was enough. And Mithiriel’s magic cost her more dear than theirs. They raised copious amounts of power from unwilling blood sacrifices, while Mithiriel spilled no blood, other than perhaps her own. A great working or even a small one might exhaust her, possibly some day unto death, which is what those who loved her feared.

Eldarion could count on two hands the number of times which Mithiriel had knowingly used the full extent of her power outside of the Reunited Kingdom’s brief war with the Blood Mages. He could not imagine what it would cost, if Mithiriel had to use those powers again now, and in earnest.

“All will be well, Elion,” Eldarion comforted his nephew. “We outnumber the mages, and have fought them before. Imladris’ defenders may be few, but they are quite doughty and innovative.

Elion managed a small, wry half-smile, which made him for a moment greatly resemble his father Faramir.

“It is folly indeed to attack Imaldris in the winter,” Elion said with that same smile, “but even more so, to attack a settlement of scholars!”

Eldarion laughed, “Aye, you healers and scholars can make terrifyingly unpredictable opponents.”

Growing serious again, the future King commented, “I do wish that you had arrived but a half hour earlier, Elion-nin. I’m not sure if there were any details in your dreams which might have helped your brother and our scouts, but I would have liked for Elboron to have had a chance to talk to you before they departed.”

“I could catch them up, Uncle, if you will?” Elion offered.

“Absolutely not, Nurseling.” Eldarion immediately denied him, remembering too well the chubby toddler who had played with his own children, and Elion’s lack of anything properly resembling battle training. “In fact, I want your word here and now, Ecthelion Faramirchil, scion of the house of Telcontar, that you will do naught else but serve me as healer.”

Elion’s face settled into the stubborn lines that had characterized the otherwise sunny youth since his babyhood, “But I’ve as much training as your pike-men, Uncle!” the twenty-three year old royal lord protested.

“Nay, you have not,” Eldarion disagreed, “You have the basic arms-training given to all of Aragorn’s heirs, but that is hardly more than enough to keep you alive until your bodyguards can reach you. You are not a warrior. You are a healer, and you managed to achieve that level of learning and experience at the tender age of twenty-two because you have not divided your attentions by also training as a warrior. You made a choice, one that I respect, but it precludes you from serving me in this campaign as anything other than healer.”

“As you say, Sir,” agreed the disgruntled Elion.

Eldairon, foreseeing that this was going to be a source of worry for him, made a mental note to speak to Elion’s unfortunate bodyguard, and warned his nephew that he was going to do so. Eldarion also ordered Elion to sleep in Eldarion’s own tent, for Eldarion’s own peace of mind.

Elion managed to abide by his promise to stay out of the fighting only until the first major skirmish, which was about what Eldarion had expected, really. That did not much improve his temperament, nor did being too busy with the aftermath of the battle to properly take Elion to task for it himself.

Taking a firm grasp on his nephew’s upper arm, Eldarion handed him off to Elion’s bodyguard, Borlas son of Beregrond, with the stern injunction, “please spank his highness your young lord quite thoroughly for me.”

“With pleasure, Sir,” promised Borlas, pulling away the unhappy Elion. Although Eldarion did note that Borlas softened enough to put an arm around his young lord’s shoulder. Then he whispered something into Elion’s ear that made him stand up more proudly.

Eldarion didn’t have the opportunity to actually talk to Elion for another day and a half, by which time Elboron and his company had rejoined them. Eldarion’s lecture was quite impressive, and with Elion’s own older brother frowning solemnly at his side, he had hoped that the youth would take it to heart.

A hope which proved to be in vain. Two days later, Elion allowed himself to be captured by their enemies so that he could continue ministering to a wounded soldier. Eldarion, Elboron, and their officers spent a sleepless night waiting for a ransom demand which never came. No, only Elion, with his father's luck and faith in humanity, managed to find the enemy mages' informant, and turn her back to Gondor's side.

Said informant was actually Theodwyn's only daughter, Eldarion's oldest niece, Sarangerel. Theodwyn and her husband Tarkhan had never known what to do with their first child. She was a daughter, and Theodwyn had badly needed a son to still the rumors that the great Cheiftain's heir had erred in marrying a woman of Gondor.

Even after Sarangerel's brother was born a year later, Theodwyn and Tarkhan had been so busy putting out fires after Rhun's civil war that they had spent little time with their small daughter. Instead, she had been raised by her nurse and the Chieftain's staff and servants, many of whom had been allies of the secret Blood Mages of Rhun. When Tarkhan and Theodwyn had banished not only the Blood Mages but also those who supported them without knowing what they really were after the Mage War, including amongst those dispossessed exiles Sarangerel’s beloved nurse, Sarangerel had angrily left her parents to follow her nurse.

The leader of the Bood Mages of Rhun, Chief Altan, had whispered in Sarangerel's ear of how the entire conflict was just a misunderstanding, and that if the Mages could only talk to the neutral leaders in Imladris, the whole thing could be resolved. Sarangerel, just seventeen years old and furiously hurt by the breach between her parents and her nurse, had believed him.

But the Mages' own actions and Elion's calm words persuaded Sarangerel that she had been in the wrong. She risked her life getting Elion to safety within Imladris, and she also brought the brave defenders within Imladris all the information they needed to sneak through the Blood Magee army’s lines and hamstring their offensive.

By the time that Eldarion and Elboron's armies finally reached Imladris, they found themselves with little to do but mop up demoralized lesser mages, warriors, and mercenaries. Unfortunately, Chief Altan himself and a number of his followers had escaped, still apparently unaware that Sarangerel had betrayed them.

Sarangerel herself remained in Imladris, ostensibly Mithiriel and Theli's hostage but also their honored guest, their betrayer and savior both.

It was an interesting lesson for Eldarion and Elboron, that it was not only a besieged city which could fall from within, but the besiegers as well.

None of that, the two cheerfully decided, was going to save Elion's skin when Aragorn and Faramir arrived. It was vaguely possible that Elion, the baby of the family, would be able convince his calm father Faramir to go easy on him. But there was no way that even Elion would be able to talk Daerada Aragorn around.

Elion had sustained a long cut to his chest while trying to persuade the Mages to let him see to the wounds of Eldarion's injured soldier. It was a narrow wound, meant to intimidate rather than to cause lasting harm, but it was still going to infuriate Daerada.

Elion's brilliant plan was to charm his uncle Eldarion and older brother Elboron into downplaying his role in the whole affair. And to simply not take his shirt off after the King arrived and before he departed.

"No deal, Imp," denied Elboron fondly, "and besides, what are you going to say when Daerada Aragorn invites us all to go swimming with him?

"That I have something else to do?" theorized Elion hopefully.

Elboron and Eldarion exchanged a glance of mingled amusement and incredulity.

"Because that won't arouse Ada's suspicions at all," jested Eldarion.

"Particularly not if it happens more than once," agreed Elboron, "Just face it, Imp. You're in deep trouble with Daerada Aragorn."

Elion groaned and hid his face in his hands.

"Maybe hide behind Mithiriel's skirts, if your pride can take it," Eldarion suggested heartlessly, "But even that is unlikely to spare you the paddling of your young life."

"You two are no help at all," Elion accused them.

Uncle and older-brother exchanged another glance.

"Next time, listen to us," Elboron advised calmly, and that was the last help either he or Eldarion gave Elion in the wake of what came to be called the Third Siege of Imladris.

Chapter Text

When Faramir arrived, he did, as Eldarion and Elboron had expected, embrace his youngest child fiercely, before imposing stiff consequences for Elion’s foolishness. But Faramir also shared his unique perspective on the recent siege, one which Eldarion had not before considered.

“At least this was the third time that someone has tried to invade Imladris,” Faramir said with philosophic optimism, “The third time that someone tries to invade a place and their invasion fails, that tells the rest of Middle Earth that invading that particular city is a doomed – and even cursed - endeavor.”

The weary Mithiriel leaned towards her father, and asked bemusedly, “So, invading our city is jinxed?”

“Indeed,” agreed Faramir with a fond smile for his middle daughter, “An invasion such as this might as well have happened at some point, and this time we were all lucky enough that Elion and Sarangerel were here to help sort matters out. And this third invasion may well spare Imladris trouble later down the road.”

“That’s an interesting perspective, Faramir-my-heart,” Glorfindel had commented mildly, “Perhaps you would like to elaborate further, while we practice broad sword drills with your right arm tied behind your back.”

Eldarion had hidden a laugh at that, because his half-brother Faramir’s left side was his weaker side when it came to anything physical, as all present well knew.

“Not until you’re fully well, Glorfindel,” said Theli, Mithiriel’s husband and the Lord Consort of Imladris, quite firmly to the great Glorfindel.

At the same time the rather sore young Elion protested, “Not until you’re fully back on your feet and cleared by your healers, Uncle Glorfindel.”

And, just a beat behind their father Theli and their uncle Elion, Theli and Mithiriel’s twelve year old twin sons, Nestor and Elrond, protested, “You can’t, Uncle Glor!”

“At least not until your ankle has healed!”

“Otherwise you’ll hurt yourself again, and it will take you longer to heal, and you’ll drive everyone crazy in the meantime because you are an absolutely horrible patient!”

Glorfindel considered all four of them with displeasure for a moment, then broke into his merry golden laugh as he complained, “I have spent the last two Ages being told what to do by annoyingly diligent and fierce healers, most of them named Elrond, Ecthelion, or some variation of Nestor!”

The young twins frowned, but Elion and Theli seemed to take that as nothing less than a complement.

As for Eldarion himself, he was grateful for Faramir’s hopeful theories, and the light familial bantering. It was exactly what the future king of Gondor and Arnor had needed to clear his mind and soothe his heart in the wake of his first command of all of a Kingdom’s armies in a crisis situation. As he so often did, Faramir knew what to say to help Eldarion. And Eldarion still wasn’t even sure if his older half-brother did it on purpose!

Chapter Text

"I've never kissed anyone before," confessed Mithiriel, smiling shyly.

"Me, either," said Theli, still dazed.

"But, you're over three thousand years old!"

"There was only one ever, and she . . . I was still an elfling, and she loved someone else," explained Theli as he tenderly pushed a red-gold curl away from Mithiriel's face, "Then . . . there was never anyone again, not until you."

"I waited for you," she whispered, reaching out to stroke the small scar on her beloved peredhel's cheekbone with one gentle finger.

"I suppose . . . that I must have been waiting for you, too," Theli replied. And then he smiled, the merry gesture transforming his face from cute into luminously handsome, the face that Mithiriel hoped to wake up to, every morning, for the rest of her life.

Chapter Text

"Ooh . . . oh yes . . . oh, please, there, harder! Oh dear Sun, you have magic hands."

"And I could put them to better use if you didn't always come to me tied up in knots, Lotus-Flower," chided Imperial Prince He-Jin as he massaged away the tension in his lover's back and upper arms.

"It's from doing the washing," she explained, turning around on the bed to catch his hand and pull him down beside her.

Willingly he followed, for she had him bewitched. He was the newly acknowledged son of the Sun, now the greatest imperial prince of mighty Khand, and yet he was putty in the hands of this slip of a girl. And he didn't even know her name.

She had an exotically shaped face, rounded curves where most men and women of Khand were all angles. She did her best to hide it with paints and shadows, and she did hide it well indeed.

He-Jin had encountered her as a maid, an errand-boy, and a scribe before he figured out that she was all the same person, and all female. Her eyes were dark, because she meant to look of Khand. One of He-Jin's dearest desires was to know the real shade of her eyes. He'd imagined them a slightly foreign amber, or a northern blue, or even that strange color known as hazel that was neither brown, nor green, nor amber, but some of each.

But more even than that, he wanted to know . . . "What is your true name, Lotus-Flower?"

She wrinkled her forehead in irritation, likely hoping to put him off asking by doing so, but in truth looking only more adorable to his own dark eyes.

"I like it when you call me Lotus-Flower, He-Jin," she protested, gently pushing him away and getting to her feet.

"I still will call you so, for so you are. But I want to know your real name."

"Want, you want," She complained, wrapping a dark blue silk robe - his silk robe - around her slender body, "You don't need to know it, He-Jin."

He reached out a hand, neither pleading nor forcing. Her stubborn expression softened, and she took it.

He-Jin turned over her palm, calloused today but possibly smooth tomorrow, and kissed the top of her hand. The same way that he would kiss her hand if she were a district princess, and a competitor for his hand in marriage.

"You helped me wrest the northwest provinces away from the foul Blood Mage Kang-Bai, and his blood-mad followers," He-Jin said softly, in the same tone of voice he had once used to coax the greater imperial princes into paying better attention to their lessons so that he would not be punished for their failings.

"I wasn't even there, He-Jin!"

"Not for the battles by the sea of Rhun, but you were there two years ago, when Kang-Bai first killed his prince and took over the province. If not for your assistance, I would have failed, and he would have taken half the north. During the war, you stopped both of his attempts at a palace coup. My grandfather doesn't know your real name either, but he and our Empress both owe their lives to you."

"I didn't do it alone, He-Jin," she whispered, kneeling before him and kissing his hand in turn. "There are so many here in the capital who like the idea of a scholar prince for the next Emperor of Khand. Most of them knew that I was your agent, and they gave me their loyalty. In some cases, they even gave me their lives."

They both bowed their heads in silence for a moment, thinking of those lives lost. He-Jin had seen to the care of their families, using his new wealth and power to do so, but he knew that nothing could replace a lost parent or child. Not He-Jin’s money, his patronage, or his sorrow. He-Jin would continue to do his duty by those who supported him, but he had his own life to live, as well. A life of great privilege and power but also one of great burdens. Burdens that he could best bear if she stood beside him.

"Give up your birth people, Lotus-Flower, and be of Khand," He begged her, "Whoever you serve, I will pay them to release you. Fear not that you would be welcomed here. The northwest knows what it owes you. They would claim you as a lesser princess, and then you could be my bride."

"Don't worry, He-Jin," She promised, leaning forward to cup his cheek in her hand, "If that is what you want, it can be. Just be patient for a month."

"A month," he repeated, accustomed but not pleased to find himself once more outmaneuvered and befuddled by this clever, maddening woman.

"I love you, too," She said, winking as she took off his robe and pulled out the laundress's uniform she had arrived in.

He sighed, summoning his patience, then asked, "Lotus-Flower, what will happen in a month?"

But it was no use. She was already gone, disappeared from his chambers as smoothly as if she were a ghost. He had no idea when he would see her again, and unless it was an emergency he dared not ask their go-betweens to take her a message.

As often was the case with her, the warning made sense in only a few hours. He was dining with his grandfather the Emperor and the Emperor's wife. The topic of discussion turned to the state visit of Prince Faramir and the Lady Eowyn, emissaries from the powerful King Elessar of the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor.

"The northerner King’s natural son and his Rohirric wife should arrive next month, and they are bringing their youngest daughter, the Princess Haleth," clucked Empress Ya-Lin.

Emperor Wu-Qiang raised an interested eyebrow, "Oh? And what do we know of her?"

Ever since He-Jin's selection as the Emperor's heir, the Empress had been dedicating herself to the calling of finding him a wife. At thirty, he was considered not just old but ancient for an imperial heir without a son to follow him. He-Jin had loved his own mother dearly. He hadn't wanted to marry for aught but love. Now, unless his Lotus-Flower could fix things so that they could wed, or let him make the arrangements, he would have to.

But this visit of foreign royalty, in a month, that had possibilities. She had told him to wait a month. And he had often thought the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor in the north to be a possible home for her. But even the Two Kingdoms did not use women as spies, let alone King's granddaughters.

"Princess Haleth is twenty-seven," the Empress duly reported, "But the Northerners live long lives. Amongst their kind, she is considered young for marriage."

"But could she bear children?" the Emperor asked bluntly.

"Her mother bore five, two of them sons. And the Prince Faramir has already been blessed with two grand-sons from his oldest girl, who married at twenty-five."

Empress Ya-Lin smiled kindly at He-Jin and added, "The northerner King’s granddaughter Haleth could bear you sons for many years, grandson. Her mother Eowyn bore a healthy boy at fifty-four years of age."

"There could be many advantages to a marriage with a foreign bride, He-Jin," the Emperor mused, "Gondor and Arnor have many technologies and skills we could use. Particularly if Kang-Bai continues to be a pestilence."

"I agree, great Sun," said He-Jin, hope in his heart. To improve his grandfather's disposition to such a match, He-Jin added, "Prince Faramir impressed me as a noble and wise man, and as a great commander of warriors, when we fought the mages beside him and the other Northerners at the Sea of Rhun."

In a month, He-Jin had his answers. The true name of his Lotus-Flower was Haleth Faramiriel. She had hazel eyes and hair the color of ripened wheat. She left her people and married him, but He-Jin understood that she would always be of Gondor and Arnor as well as of Khand. And he thought that a good thing. There was much that he had come to admire, of the Two Kingdoms, even if he felt that he himself had been gifted their greatest jewel.

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"It's not fair," Eldarion had once exclaimed, "Faramir gets away with everything!"

This had prompted the explanation that Faramir did get to get away with almost any type of misbehavior which was not actively dangerous, because of the legacy of Denethor's absolutely terrible parenting, which had culminated with the grand finale of Denethor's having almost burnt Faramir alive.

Aragorn found it very difficult to parent Faramir, given how terrible Faramir's experiences with having a father had been heretofore.

Fortunately, Boromir had been an excellent, if bossy, elder brother. Therefore, Faramir was conditioned to accepting guidance from Aragorn couched in elder brotherly terms, rather than fatherly ones, with a mixture of apologetic obedience and gracious indulgence which generally left dignity satisfied on both sides.

Aragorn and Arwen had also learned to channel parental guidance through Arwen rather than Aragorn. Finduilas, despite the limitations of her chronic ill health, had been an excellent (albeit unconventional) mother. Faramir responded much better to gentle motherly injunctions than to even mild paternal criticism.

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Story Summary of "Nothing New Under the Sun:"

Aragorn, having finished with bandaging Faramir’s ‘light’ stab wound, stood and laid his hand on Faramir’s bare chest. Meeting Faramir’s gray-blue eyes with his own, he reminded him, “Just remember, when you venture into danger . . .”

“That I carry other hearts with me, as well as my own.” Faramir finished, laying his own hand on top of Aragorn’s. “I will do my best to remember, my brother and friend.”

Or, a collection of short ficlets during which this lesson is shared across the Ages.

This story is available here: https://archiveofourown.to/works/58233295