A/N: Inspired by Gwynnyd, Aragorn-writer extrordinaire and mod of the Garden of Ithilien. She, apropos of JRR's comment that early Gondor architecture was Egyptian in style and scale, said she could imagine Aragorn and Faramir in Egyptian kilts and cuffs. Now how could I resist that perfect fluffy plot-bunny? And of course there are Wynja2007's wonderful Silvan battle kilts, referenced here with her permission. If you haven't done so: check them out in Where it Doesn't Show. It and they are fabulous.
The remaining silliness is my own.
Aragorn was starting to wonder if letting Faramir and Eowyn elope might not have been the better move.
When his Steward had first mused longingly about two horses, a cloak and a night out on the plains the King had shaken his head, mumbled soothingly that they belong to the people now and had been most relieved when Faramir let the matter drop.
Now, head pounding dully from the festivities the night before, Aragorn wondered fleetingly if he had perhaps miscalculated a tiny bit.
The problem was not that the discussions were too very fraught or formal. Indeed, they were more than cordial. Eomer sat at ease with Elfhelm beside, Faramir and Imrahil across, their table set in the sun on the greensward outside Meduseld. The new-crowned king looked only a little worse for wear: eyes bloodshot, the barest of dark smudges below his grey-blue gaze. Eomer had demonstrated quite kingly prowess once again upon the field of drink and even now held another horn. 'Hair of the dog' he remarked with a grin when Imrahil's raised eyebrows fell upon the ornate, silver-tipped bone flagon. The young king saluted round. Elfhelm, nearly the same shade of pale as his liege's horn, sipped quietly, without much comment. Suffering just a tad more than the King, the veteran Marshal had decided on a different tonic. His pewter tankard steamed quietly in the cooler morning air and smelled of chamomile.
The King of Gondor was himself only very slightly off. A smallish patrol of orcs pounded round his skull. More than passingly familiar with the customs of both kingdoms and having both of their best interests near to his heart, he had previously, and perhaps precipitously, agreed to facilitate negotiations.
The mood was relaxed, even a little languid, all enjoyed the warmth of late summer sun upon their faces. If the young Steward of Gondor had a hard time keeping his mind firmly upon the matter set before them well it was the only to be expected. Queen Arwen had asked the White Lady to give her an introduction to Meduseld's impressive architecture. The two strolled arm in arm, hair glinting, raven and wheat-gold, light voices lifted in laughter and excited repartee, once, twice past their gathering.
(On their third pass round Aragorn wondered briefly if this was a deliberate distraction, if his Undomiel was playing with them all. Surely not. He caught his wife's dove grey gaze and tried a mock serious glare. It was, appropriately, ignored.)
The problem was not the setting, nor the company, nor the nature of the deliberations: settling on a Bride Price took some work after all. It was the complexity of the Steward's holdings that had been the great surprise. To Faramir not least. There had been simply no time to delve into the details of his inheritance before, what with a coronation and a wedding to be organized, a realm to put back on its faltering feet and a funeral to attend. Unsurprising really. Gondor's young Steward had had to wait until the morning after he himself was hand-fasted to plunge into the work in earnest.
Now he sat, nursing a small tankard of cider and looking a little stunned and shocked, as Imrahil reviewed for them all the thorough and detailed report assembled by Lord Hurin.
Some holdings it appeared the Steward knew; parcels bequeathed to Boromir on his majority, his own lands in Emyn Arnen. Some it appeared he had not. They had all looked at Faramir a little worriedly when the young man burst out laughing. The prospective groom hiccupped and gasped as a stream of helpless tears coursed down his face.
The import of that one particular address quickly settled in. Who would have guessed that when Boromir had frequently remarked to his little brother that he was off to inspect the Steward's holdings, he had meant the most lucrative tavern in the 4th?
For the former Captain Thorongil the image of abstemious, impeccably correct Denethor making coffers of coin off others' drinking habits was all too rich. When exactly had that been acquired? The heir of Isildur belatedly pictured nigh a thousand years of shrewd Ruling Stewardship.
Perhaps they should not be surprised.
Eomer-King was himself sufficiently intrigued by this one property to note that if the Steward saw fit to turn over those leases within the Bride Price proper he should not expect them to be the ones customarily returned within the dowry.
Faramir merely smiled, and sipped his cider and carried on perusing the extensive list. (Privately, the King thought it a very good sign indeed, that his young friend could derive a little amusement from a memory of his beloved brother.)
It quickly became apparent that even if Faramir's ever tasteful peacock of an uncle appeared to be the wealthiest man in Gondor, (dressed even here in blue and silver, discretely embroidered robes) it was not so. The King smiled at the incongruity of it all. The young Prince of Ithilien, so oblivious to clothes and ostentation that he looked habitually more like a badly wrapped package than an elegant and affluent lord, could now afford anything his simple Ranger heart desired.
The sheer variety of the Steward's holdings was mind-boggling. Lands in Dol Amroth, Lossarnach and Lebinnin. Farmsteads about the Townlands, horse-breeding farms and orchards. Tanneries. Tapestries. Caskets of gold royals. Two merchant ships on the silk trading route (Imrahil raised his eyes at that). Entire cabinets of vases in Alcarin's distinctive, pastoral style. Exactly one prize Kine.
From the sublime to the ridiculous they reviewed it all, bandying the merits of what could be of use to Rohan. The general swift agreement was that horses were not needed. Nor the vases. Aragorn thought he heard his friend whisper 'target practice' to his Uncle but was too far away to be quite sure.
The Steward personally found the idea of measuring his future wife's worth in cloth and cows and sheep a tad ridiculous, wondering rather if swords and armour wouldn't be more in keeping with her spirit. But practicality found a way to assert itself: there was a shortage in arms everywhere. No need to divert efforts for the merely ceremonial.
Eomer explained to his Gondorian guests that the Bride Price for a woman of the Royal House of Eorl was divided traditionally in three parts. First, the part most familiar to the noble houses of the south, was the wituma geweorc: the goods and money given to her family in recompense for the loss of her labour and her efforts. This had been the focus of their first deliberations. The cattle and timber, wine and silk, sheep and gold would all flow to Edoras some two weeks before the wedding day.
The second part, the geoweorþ berendnes, was new to them. Noticing confused blank stares, Eomer, himself just slightly ill at ease, turned to his Marshal.
"Elfhelm would you be so good as to explain?"
Graced with the sort of homey, weatherbeaten face that was immobile and expressive all at once, the older man's blue eyes narrowed in mild panic for a moment. Aragorn briefly wondered if he would decline.
Elfhelm took a quick pull of his drink and cleared his throat, not once, but twice. "Yes Sire. Well…My Lords, it is the price paid to a woman's family for loss of her…ah…fruitfulness."
"Fruitfulness?" Imrahil's elegant features twitched into the barest smile. "Could you clarify? Fruitfulness in what? Weaving? Embroidery? Perhaps crochet?"
The Marshal flushed to the roots of his thinning, tawny hair. Clearly Imrahil had missed the mark. He shook his head and manfully soldiered on. "Her fertility Prince Imrahil. The loss of her as a dam within the bloodline."
From off to the King's left there came a strangled snort. Aragorn was sure he recognized the sound, having heard it from his Steward in council when some Lord or other made a particularly importunate remark.
Imrahil, son of the Old Sea Fox and an accomplished haggler in his own right, sat up attentively, grey eyes sparkling with renewed interest. The prospect of additional negotiation was an exciting thing.
"And exactly how, Marshal, is the value of this 'fertility' to be assessed?"
Oh Valar, he hadn't thought of that. How indeed? Aragorn tried and failed to imagine how it was to be done. The width of her hips? Would he as mediator be called upon as objective judge, measuring tape in hand? Surely this was a case where a King could delegate?
Now the older Rider's grin turned wolfish. "The bride's weight in ale, Lord Prince. The groom gifts to her family casked ale of equal weight."
The was a pregnant pause. Elfhelm let the image sink in for a longer minute.
The Gondorians looked mildly shocked. Eomer-King's handsome face stayed remarkably and impressively impassive. His sister was, after all, just yards away. Under the table the young Rohir's knee vibrated like a bow. The only obvious sign he was enjoying this.
It was Faramir who raised the question on all their minds, black brows furrowed in puzzlement. "How is it to be measured?"
"The groom by tradition uses the main scales in the market." answered the good Marshal, gesturing downslope toward the unnaturally quiet, central square. "Casks are placed on one side while the bride sits on the other until a balance is achieved."
Faramir looked aghast. The full dangerous import was sinking in.
"I am not expected to guess am I?" The Steward's voice became a little faint as he looked from one grinning Rohir to another. "Surely not with a hogshead?!"
Imrahil and Elfhelm exchanged a knowing look. Both veterans of long and happy marriages, they were well aware of the unfortunate repercussions of overestimation.
A hogshead took two or three men to lift.
"A kilderkin?" The Prince of Dol Amroth suggested, eyeing encouragingly his nephew. That was a little smaller, though even a strong man might struggle to move it very far.
Eomer's smile began to fade. It occurred to Aragorn that the young King had not the slightest idea how much his little sister weighed and had not thought the issue through in detail. The possibility of a diplomatic incident loomed large. Eowyn was a brave and feisty woman. No one wished there to be an upset with her future husband, particularly in the weeks before the wedding.
"Surely a firkin." He smiled in relief upon the group. A pony cask, such as the barkeep used below the tap. "Or two?"
Faramir shook his head with authority. From the thoughtful, dreamy look within his eyes he had been remembering the few times he had boosted his future bride into the saddle.
"A firkin with a smaller pin…"
Much better. To a man, they relaxed and sat farther back and sipping contently their respective beverages. Potentially life-altering situation averted. Eomer would ensure that suitable casks were laid to hand and no one need fear the outcome. Aragorn was about to ask about the last issue: the Morning Price, when his Steward raised his hand.
"A point Eomer-King."
Oh Valar no… Aragorn had heard that tone in council. It never boded well.
The young liege nodded warily, fingers tapping slowly on his horn. "My Lord Steward?"
"It occurs to me you said her weight in ale. The measurement method you propose is thus not accurate." Four pairs of bleary eyes turned to look at Faramir. Whatever did he mean?
The Gondorian hastened to elaborate. "The wood cask itself weighs some fraction of the liquid contents one must assume. Weighing a cask on the scale would then underestimate the volume of ale you should receive."
Aragorn rolled his eyes as Imrahil bent his head and pressed long elegant fingers to his furrowed brow.
Elbereth save them from his Steward's famously precise mind.
Eomer scowled, more than a little irritated. "But that is the way it always has been done. How else?"
"Well surely the most accurate method is by displacement."
The Marshal had unfortunately just gulped a large mouthful of tea. He choked. So hard a wide spray of hot, dark liquid cascaded across his papers. Coughing and spluttering, proceedings halted for some few minutes while his King thumped him vigorously across the back.
Is he touched? That could well have been the phrase uttered by Elfhelm. Or not. Aragorn's Rohirric was really rather rusty. And he did not to offer to translate.
Having saved his second, Eomer sat again and needlessly smoothed his mustache down. Took his time in framing an appropriately diplomatic answer.
"My Lord Steward that could be…. difficult to arrange… "
"But not impossible." A faintly worried look crossed Faramir's handsome face. "I wouldn't want to underestimate Eowyn's true value. And that way you would get more."" He looked from King to King and Prince to Lord as his voice trailed softly off.
As one, the men glanced up to a great golden post beside the heavy doors. The White Lady, her river of golden hair shining in the sun, paused in her explanation of its exquisite chasing to smile shyly for her betrothed.
Faramir paled. Noticeably. Had belatedly remembered his bride was not fond of swimming. The others glanced guiltily away.
It was Eomer who answered for them all.
"I will let you tell my sister that."
Excellent, thought Aragorn. Perhaps he would think better of the plan.
Now that the sun had nearly reached its zenith the conclave turned its attention to the third and final part of the negotiations: the Morning price. A gift given to the bride for her very own on the morning after the avowing.
Faramir had thought long on this and discussed it at great length with Aragorn and Imrahil on their journey thence. He wished very much for Eowyn have something of value and importance, something substantial so that she need never feel beholden to him for income.
Finduilas' dower lands were the first thing that came to mind. Rich lands about the Bay, cultivated in flowers and grapes and olive, of great worth and justly famous for their pale summer wines. Gold like her.
At Imrahil's quick nod, a young guard brought forth a case of wine and presented it to the surprised young King. "We have a settlement to propose. Founded on tradition and ties of family. My sister's dower lands, all their vineyards and production. Faramir and I both feel it is rather fitting to have these lands pass from one Princess to another. Both fair flowers and ladies of great distinction."
Eomer glanced avidly at the bottle Dol Amroth's Prince now proffered. "Assuredly you do my sister great honour to propose a gift of such worth and value. A fine and admirable gift." The blue-grey gaze turned wistful. "But one I am afraid I cannot accept."
"Cannot accept?" Even Aragorn was stunned at that.
"There is an established practice to set the value of the Morning Gift for a member of the ruling family. A contest…."
Faramir turned questioningly to his King but Aragorn could only shrug. It was as much of a mystery to him. Theodwyn had not yet been betrothed to Eomund when he had left the service of Thengel-King.
"What sort of contest?"
"A footrace. With two people. Across obstacles." Truly? Elflhelm was known to enjoy a jest, but surely he would not do so now with the future relationship of two great allies to consider.
The Steward made to rise. "But that is ridi…" Imrahil placed a calming hand upon his nephew's arm and turned to ask. "Against whom?"
"Not against. With. Carrying the bride.."
"What?!" The Steward's outburst brought all ears turned toward them with heightened interest. His uncle quite pointedly pulled him down again.
Elfhelm grinned. If one did not know better one might think he was mightily enjoying the Gondorian's shocked surprise.
"If you are to spirit off a royal Rohir bride, you must demonstrate sufficient prowess. No part of her body is allowed to touch the ground. The farther through the course you get, the more obstacles you complete, the higher the morning price. To a maximum of 500 golden royals."
"Obstacles…?" Aragorn asked curiously. He was trying rather hard not to laugh at his friend's expense. It sounded like some northern villages he had heard in legend where wife stealing was an art.
A flash of fine white teeth showed in Eomer's blond beard. He ticked off the list upon his fingers. "Logs, trench, water course, stiles."
Faramir's grey eyes grew wider with each word. A test indeed. One that would be highly entertaining for the spectators but likely uncomfortable for the participants.
Around the table most everyone held their breath. Clearly negotiations had reached a crucial point.
"When?" Faramir asked suddenly after a long and increasingly uncomfortable silence. The King was relieved to see his Steward looked a little calmer. If he was asking for more detail he was not likely to refuse.
"Two weeks before the wedding….by tradition."
Aragorn would later swear he saw the exact moment the gears begin to turn in Faramir's nimble brain. Two weeks before the wedding. Carrying Eowyn in his arms. Any way that he could hold on to her.
The young man's sudden smile could have lit the sun.
"Done." The Gondorian stood and offered his hand across to his future brother. Eomer took it and shook so hard the table jostled and his Marshal winced.
The deal was struck. The faint sound of clapping echoed from the terrace.
Imrahil, relief plain upon his face, pulled a bottle out of the crate and a slender metal tool. With practiced ease he pulled the cork and poured the frothing mellow wine into each of their cups.
"A toast! May all our negotiations prove so very…..fruitful."
Eomer felt like a niggard. He had understood that the couple would keep in touch. Ten months was long. Ten months until next Midsummer's Eve, the shortest time to be expected with both families in official mourning and two kingdoms to rebuild. But this…this snowstorm of parchment passing back and forth between Edoras and Minas Tirith was out of control. It was driving him quite spare. The number of letters had already reached alarming proportions and it was not yet Yule.
As the wind howled about the eaves and whipped the early snow into ever higher drifts, the young King watched his sister drift, light as a snowflake, about the hall. Utterly absorbed, she paced and read and laughed, barely avoiding the dogs and men, oblivious to it all. His sister! Giggling and blushing like the most empty-headed chit. He would not have believed it if the evidence did not stand, lost in some other sphere of Arda, right before his eyes.
Even more disconcerting and alarming than any inattention, was Eowyn's tendency to hide the missives when he was around.
Faramir, in Eomer's experience, acted like an honourable and honest man. He had had no prior reason to think the Gondorian would behave in any way improperly. Quite the opposite in fact. But that was before the man's words bewitched his sister, made her watch obsessively for every horse and rider to came down the Great West Road.
Steward or no, he'd have the man's guts for garters if he was writing of unchaste things. Why else would Eowyn smirk and hide each letter from him?
Finally, cooped up one maddeningly cold and blustery afternoon, unable to stand more of the unexpected torture, the young King followed his sister's almost ghostly form.
"'Wyn, whatever are you going on about?"
Rapt in yet another letter, the White Lady had wandered from the hall to kitchen to Meduseld's small but neatly organized record store. Her brother strode in behind, determined to gain an answer.
"Nothing…" Eowyn reached up with one long, pale arm for several scrolls, laid them on the little, leather-topped desk. Sat down and began to read. As if he wasn't there...
Eomer shocked, could only stand and stare.
His sister checking in the archives? What in Bema's name was she doing there?
The Groom's party from Minas Tirith arrived two weeks before the wedding day in high good spirits. So loud was their bantering and song and laughter the sound of their arrival preceded the messenger. A bright cavalcade they made: Faramir, his Uncle Imrahil and all the cousins, the King and Queen, and a smattering of Rangers. Even Elphir's little son Alphros had come along, riding proudly before his father and burbling happily at every new sight and sound. A troop of guards followed close behind, watching keenly the great long line of wains, each more heavily laden than the last.
With an eye to keeping his sister not waiting overlong, the King of Rohan dispensed with strict formality. Arm in arm, he and Eowyn met their guests in the courtyard of the Royal Stable block. Eothain was dispatched to deal with the wains while a small flurry of stable boys and grooms took away the tired horses. Eowyn, hopping foot to foot and oblivious to the fact she was standing on her brother's toes, searched the crowd, a hopeful but puzzled frown on her smooth brow. Her betrothed was not immediately in sight.
"What are you missing my Lady?" asked Erchirion, handing his reins to a tow-headed Rohir lad and pulling off his riding gloves. One black eyebrow raised sardonically. "Have we forgotten something?"
"Faramir…" Eowyn answered absently, ignoring the tall Gondorian in favour of standing higher on her tip-toes. Her brother, wincing as his toes were further crushed, gave in and lifted her bodily. At last she could see above the milling throng of black-haired and grey-eyed men. Arwen, Lothiriel, and Elphir's wife Mareth stood out as bright-coloured birds amidst the sea of black Gondorian livery.
Eomer frowned. From his much taller vantage point even he could see that Ithilien's young Prince was absent. As was Gondor's King now that he came to think of it.
"Were we supposed to bring a Steward? I hadn't heard." Dol Amroth's youngest sea captain turned a tanned and handsome face to scan the crowd.
"Rothos?" he called, "did you remember to pack the groom? You know the one. Tall, black-haired, insufferably usually right and desperate for a kiss?"
His little brother theatrically smacked a palm against his brow. "Right! Knew I had forgotten something. Last saw him in the library muttering about volume." Imrahil's youngest son pushed his way forward to stand before the bride, doffing his hat and bowing deeply. He graced the White Lady with an elaborate courtesy. "My deepest apologies, my Lady. Unlike my brother here I have some small ability with words and am quite handsome. Perhaps I will do instead?"
"You two."
Imrahil's sigh spoke of a world-weariness even the Firstborn could not comprehend. He hastened to take Eowyn by the hand. "Dearest Lady, they are but being jesting fools. Faramir is a little way behind. He and the King slowed down to look at something beside the pastures. They will arrive directly."
Dol Amroth's urbane Prince, miraculously unrumpled for all their time upon the road, turned to his host and bowed low with practiced ease. "Eomer-King, I bid you welcome and thank you greatly for your hospitality on this most happy and momentous of occasions."
"You are, as always, most heartily welcome to Meduseld, Lord Prince." Eomer bowed in return but quickly clasped the older man to his chest, thumping him hard in greeting upon his back. "Tell me, I am curious. What has delayed the King and his Steward?"
"Intelligence." Imrahil's sea-grey eyes sparkled merrily. "They spied something that looks rather like a course of obstacles in one of the lower paddocks."
Eomer met Imrahil's wide grin with one of his own. "Of course. I am relieved. Thank the Valar reading all those council briefings has not dulled their powers of observation."
Turning to his left, Eomer started to remember his sister to her future Uncle but found only a blank and empty space. With a start he realized his toes were also no longer pinned to the cobblestones. Where ever had Eowyn gone?
He scanned the courtyard and there beyond the Dol Amroth contingent he spied a white-clad form. Pulled by some hidden lodestone, Eowyn drifted inexorably and with purpose towards the main thoroughfare.
Wyn! His besotted little sister was ignoring their guests completely.
Eomer quickly glanced sidelong, worried that the absence would insult their guests. Instead of umbrage he found mirth in Imrahil's shrewd grey gaze. Of course. After weeks of travel the Prince must also be all too familiar with the addled mental state of the prospective groom.
"Imrahil you have no idea how happy I am that you are all finally, or at least nearly finally here!"
The feast that eve was a time for joyous re-acquaintance. Food and firelight and more of the celebrated Belfalas wine conspired to create a light-hearted, easy mood. Rohan's King did not even bother to converse with his sister and her groom. There was no point. From the moment Aragorn and Faramir had ridden into the yard Eowyn had been lost to them all, chattering excitedly non-stop like some rare and golden magpie. In haste to regale her love with every single thing that had happened since they had last met. Her equally enraptured Steward appeared to have lost his normally silver tongue, content to hold her small, neat hands in his and simply grin.
Sitting at the high table, cup in hand, an empty plate before him, Eomer mused that Faramir may have lost his tongue but not his sense of daring. There seemed, to his critical and suspicious gaze, rather a lot of passing of implements and goblets back and forth between the bride and groom. Fingers lingering far more than strictly acceptable for propriety, particularly in a public hall. Catching King Elessar's wink from the corner of his eye, he forebore with grudging grace to remark out loud.
Later, when the sweetmeats and cakes were handed round and a rich, honeyed wine was served, Eomer found to his dismay he had dropped his fork. He had been distracted between the need to pointedly ignore the lovebirds and lead Gondor's Queen through the tangled details of Mearas lineage.
Nothing in that moment could have induced him to bend down and accidentally discover what might be happening underneath the table. He gave up and left the implement where it lay.
The strains of harp and pipe and fiddle started up. Arwen, noting the sweat of strained concentration upon Eomer's brow, excused herself and asked her husband for a dance. Soon much of the table followed suit and Rohan's young King was left alone to hold the fort.
Seeking comfort in occupation he reached for the carafe and poured another measure in his glass, resigned himself to watching the merrymaking. With the ease of recent practice he plastered on a happy face, all too aware that his subjects looked to him to set the tone for celebration.
Rohan's King could not explain why he felt so out of sorts. It was not the prospect of Eowyn's imminent departure. He would miss his sister greatly but was honestly thrilled to see her so very happy and destined for a loving home. Nor was it his new found responsibility. He had in time adjusted. Had even come to enjoy his role as king, finding surprising reward in sorting out problems others needed solved. In the rare and quiet moments that he was left alone he felt restless, jittery under his skin, as if some essential thing was missing. The problem was he did not know what it was...
Perhaps another flagon would pull him out of his somber mood? Eomer drank and quickly stilled a frown. The wine was sickly sweet and not to his taste. He sighed. It was a gift and this was a celebration. Reluctantly he took another sip.
"May I join you?" asked a clear, contralto voice. The elegant, youngest Princess of Dol Amroth stood beside, a look of curious, cool regard upon her fair, pale face.
"Of course." Eomer replied, rising and pulling out a chair for her to sit. "We are honoured to have your whole family here to visit, Princess Lothiriel. I hope you will enjoy your stay and the festivities."
"I am quite sure I will, my Lord. Rohan is famous for its hospitality." Though her words were formal her smile was genuine. He found himself smiling in return and felt the muscles in his face relax. Perhaps the evening would be a pleasant one after all.
Once the lady had settled her skirts and sat back in her chair he gestured to the wine. "You have no glass, Princess. May I pour you some?"
A sudden moue of distaste crossed her face. "No thank you. I am not fond of sweeter drinks. Though I have tried I never am able to quite finish a glass. Father considers it a serious failure of my palate."
"If so, it is of mine as well, my Lady. Ale is what I prefer." replied Eomer, eyeing his own glass with clear disdain. "You will not feel it rude if put mine aside?"
"Certainly not." One long and shapely hand tucked a glossy black lock behind her ear. "Though I hope you do not think me rude in turn when I decline the horns your servants pass round. I have never developed a taste for ale."
"You could have never tasted something worthy of the name!" came the quick protest. Eomer had tasted Gondor's thin, pale stuff. In his opinion one might as well drink water from a well.
As if she caught the unspoken thought the Princess smiled. "Funny my brothers' have always said the Rohirrim drink something akin to tar."
What?! Eomer threw back his head and laughed. She had him and a king must accede with grace.
As he congratulated the Princess on her quip Eomer could not help but notice how the light of amusement made her grey eyes sparkle like the sun upon the strand. She was enjoying her joke at his expense. How refreshing was it to find a young noblewoman with such a quick and ready wit and no fear of using it.
Lothiriel turned her attention to the revelers, elegant fingers tapping lightly on the table in time with the now slower measures. "I do so love a strathspey." she sighed. The music was more lilting, letting the dancers catch their breath. "You are not dancing, your Highness?"
"No my Lady, I do not dance."
"Not at all? I had assumed you stayed here just to finish your own bottle. That is a pity for I am starting to feel a little restless."
Eomer started to explain that he did instead like to walk when he was drowned out by a great shrieking and commotion from the centre of the hall.
Erchirion and Amrothos were attempting to drag their older cousin off of the dance floor, loudly decrying his lack of manners at monopolizing Eowyn. Amidst the protests and half-hearted wrestling his sister stood, laughing and holding one hand of her groom, beseeching him not to leave. If one side did not let go soon, it looked certain the young Steward might lose an arm out of its socket.
Elphir paused beside the melee, Mareth laughing in his arms. "I pray you brothers, do not damage the goods. Faramir has to race upon the morrow and I, as second, might be called upon to compete in his stead."
'Chiron, gasping in mock horror, abruptly let go his cousin's arm. Faramir stumbled back. He found his feet but not before Eowyn's arms grabbed at his waist, helping to hold him steady.
The look of excitement and adoration the young Steward's turned upon his saviour made the heart of Rohan's King lurch. Eowyn and Faramir had the rest of their lives to spend together but were so very much in love they begrudged every minute spent apart.
We should all be so lucky he thought. With a start Eomer noticed that Lothiriel too was gazing fondly on the pair, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with happiness.
"It is wonderful to see him smile again."
The lady's wistful comment was said so low he had to strain to catch it. He had drifted in his thoughts. Had missed whatever else she might have said. Surely she meant her cousin? He understood them to be very close.
Eomer nodded quickly, hoping his rudenss and inattention not too obvious. "And I had forgotten what jokesters your brothers are." he declared, hoping to cover his momentary lapse.
The Princess's wry half-smile was one he recognized, from both her cousin and her father. "I never get that leisure. I should not like to be betting on my elder brother to stand in Fara's stead. Elphir is a great soldier and fine administrator. But he has not my cousin's craftiness."
Something about the lady's easy manner made him feel a little daring. "Would you care to wager on the outcome, Princess? My father famously completed the course when he wed my mother. But he was the most determined man I know."
Lothiriel's storm grey eyes sparkled with sudden mischief. "As my cousin is mine. Wager accepted! If Faramir fails to cross the finish line I shall promise to…"
"Try Rohan's ale?" Eomer suggested with a grin.
"Agreed." she said. "And then let us say that if Faramir crosses the finish line without default you will dance with me at the wedding feast."
'Done!"
The deal was struck. As the pair toasted their agreement with fine Belfalas white and Aldburg ale, Eomer wondered fleetingly why he felt a twinge of guilt. And why, with his chance of losing so remote, did the decidedly smug expression on the Princess's narrow lovely face bother him so very much?
The appointed day for the settling of the bride price was quite nearly perfect. The sky was a hazy pale and delicate blue, almost the exact colour of the meadow flax that bloomed amidst the meadow grass. The clouds were high and feather-light. The breeze was just enough to lift the many pennants of white and green that fluttered from about the fences to the hastily erected stands.
Looking over the lower paddock, now graced with a curious assortment of wooden pieces, Aragorn reflected that most of Edoras had assembled for the event. After a long and difficult winter of hard rebuilding all the folk were in the mood for celebration.
The geoweorþ berendnes had been set successfully that morn. Much to the groom's relief a firkin and three-quarters of a pin had been quite exact and the bride herself appeared quite unruffled when her weight was announced to the enthusiastic throng. The sound of castars changing hands had very nearly drowned out the instructions for the next event. Gondor's King had been sorely tempted to ask Elfhelm which way the bets had broken but wisely kept it to himself. He was the mediator after all and could trust Arwen to have found out.
As the crowd had wandered down through the city gates toward the course, Aragorn had overheard one Rohir lad ask worriedly (but quietly, mindful not to insult their noble guests) whether that was all the ale that would be served that night?
Erkenbrand, the wise and veteran Marshal of the West-mark, had laughed, assuring his young lieutenant it was not so. He had personally overseen many barrels of Gondor ale and crates of Belfalas wine off-loaded from the wains. The young man frowned but reluctantly agreed he could likely choke it back. One could make allowances when drink was free.
Once seated with their host in pride of place at the centre of the viewing stand, surrounded by a vertiable sea of white and green, Gondor's King and Queen, alone among the audience, remained conspicuously neutral. They would not outwardly show favouritism to either side.
Not so the rest of the Gondorians. The Rangers, Mablung and Anborn leading the affray, competed with the King's Eored to sing the loudest the most famous ballads about the bride and groom. Faramir's Dol Amroth family had come aptly armed and made a vivid, if tiny, knot of blue and silver. Even Alphros, sitting proudly on his grandfather's lap, waved a swan-shaped flag and cried "Mir!" as loudly as he was able.
Erchirion and Amrothos as ever did their level best to make up in boisterous noise what the Dol Amroth side lacked in numbers. Aragorn sincerely hoped that they were shouting Adethion: the Sindarin word for cousin, not Adahion the Quenya word for 'ass'.
From Arwen's amused expression he was not exactly sure.
Eowyn was the first to appear down by the starting line. There was the slightest ripple from the assembled crowd. Unlike general expectation, Rohan's latest daughter of Eorl was not elaborately dressed as for a formal contest. She was barefoot, sporting nothing loose that could be caught; her blond hair tightly braided and coiled up into a bun.
Eyeing the lady's tawny breeches and dark linen shirt, Imrahil, unusually oblivious, remarked to his daughter that the Lady looked ready for a ride.
Lothiriel stifled a giggle behind a long, elegant hand, while 'Rothos and 'Chiron snickered quietly. Thankfully they held their tongues. Just to be sure she glared meaningfully at the idiots and jammed a pair of pointed elbows into unprotected ribs.
It was a mercy. The King of Rohan had chosen that very moment to turn and speak with Marshal Elfhelm. He had not heard.
Faramir and Elphir walked out next, clad in dark green cloaks and looking remarkably relaxed. Dressed identically, the resemblance between the two was marked: both had the finer features and small neat ears of their grandfather's line. Faramir's long raven hair was braided into a plait but Elphir wore his own loose, held back by a fine mithril circlet.
Aragorn risked a look sidelong. Dol Amroth's ruling Prince beamed quietly with pride.
The young Steward greeted his blushing bride with a chaste peck upon her hand and a stunning smile. From his vantage point Aragorn could not hear what Faramir asked his second as he turned and raised a black eyebrow for emphasis. But Eowyn clearly knew. She grinned and nodded to them both.
As one, Faramir and Elphir doffed their cloaks and the crowd gave a startled gasp.
The pair made a quite breathtaking sight: clad in a curious uniform of a type Gondor's King had never seen.
Both men wore short white kilts and ornamented cuffs of brass and gold at wrist and ankle. Their chests and backs were not exactly bare: symbols and tengwar in a blue and silver paint adorned much of both men's skin. Against the light decoration their scars were plainly visible, a vivid reminder of the recent past.
Elfhelm, both bushy brows raised in great surprise, was the first of them to speak. "Well the water obstacle is chest deep on a man. He's going to be soaked no matter what he does. Might as well be lightly clad."
"What are they wearing?" Eomer looked from Prince to King to Queen, hoping someone would deign to clarify.
Aragorn and Arwen only shrugged; they did not know. The Queen did comment that the pleated, thigh-length garments reminded her of Silvan battle kilts.
It fell to Imrahil to helpfully explain.
"It is the Hammathen."
When that did not diminish the looks of curious confusion, the Prince cleared his throat and tried again. "If you will allow me, a little history. The Houses of Hurin and Dol Amroth came east on ships with many of the Faithful after the fall of Westernesse. Faramir's forebear, the first Hurin of his line, was kin to Amandil, Elendil's father, through his wife's sister-son. They, like many of the Faithful, were persecuted by the heretic ruling house. Hunted and sacrificed in Morgoth's temple for their allegiance to the Valar. The Hammathen, worn underneath their robes, became a powerful symbol of rebellion, a secret sign of their faithfulness. The cuffs are emblazoned with a tiny sigil of Nimloth, the White Tree that grew in Armenelos."
Aragorn looked on his young friend and Prince with new-found awe. What a subtle yet open way to reinforce that Eowyn was marrying the man and not the position. The last scion of the house of Hurin, not the Steward he had never expected that he would be. Neither Ecthelion nor Denethor had ever worn the Hammathen that he had ever seen.
"If the kilts and cuffs were brought from the fall of Numenor then surely they are thousands of years old?" Eomer, unsure what he should feel about the unusual display, found himself amazed that something so delicate could have survived so long.
Shy Mareth suddenly blushed and spoke aloud. "Elphir's is the original. I did his paint. Faramir's is a copy, in case it gets too wet. Eowyn was the one who made it for him."
"That was what she was embroidering?!" Rohan's King looked slightly horrified. "It was white. I did not look too close. I thought it part of her wedding underclothes."
As one the whole group burst out laughing.
Lothiriel, giggling helplessly, pointed to the silver words snaking round both men's midsections and up along their arms. "What is the message? For surely those are lines and not just words."
"The Erulaitalë, the Mid-summer prayer." Arwen explained, "Made to the One for fertility and good harvest."
"Seems a little premature…"
"Rothos!" Three voices cried in practiced unison. Even his siblings were appalled at audacity of the young Prince's comment.
Eomer raised his brows at that, suddenly picturing someone writing on the Steward. "Who did Faramir's?" His all-but-growl brought another burst of mirth from the younger Princes.
Dol Amroth's Crown Princess, the focus of his pointed question, blushed so deeply that Aragorn prayed for a moment she would not answer, lest Rohan's King be forced to find Guthwine. He would not have said that the shy and quiet spoken lady had it in her to outright lie.
"Elphir…" Mareth explained with only the barest trace of hesitation.
Oh well done. Aragorn smiled and nodded approvingly in her direction. It was always a pleasant thing to be surprised.
Arwen placed a delicate hand upon his arm and raised a perfect brow. She had been admiring the drape of the fabric across strong thighs. "Do you have one Estel?"
"Vanimelda I do not know." he replied truthfully. And I am not sure I want to know went the unspoken thought.
Imrahil sat close enough hear his soft reply. "Sire surely all of the Faithful had them? Anarion's should be in Minas Tirith still. There are many ceremonial royal robes still held in trunks."
"Thank you so very much my Lord." Aragorn replied. "Next time please wait for me to ask before you give advice." The Prince was unperturbed. He winked at his Queen and insouciantly grinned despite his liege's half-hearted glare.
Further comment was postponed as Eothain, the Captain of the King's household guard, walked calmly and with purpose to the stand. There had been a hasty discussion between him and Faramir and now the man bowed and gestured to his King, imploring him to join.
Eomer-King rose and made his way down to the turf. Arwen seized the opportunity of his absence to lean over and speak softly in Mareth's ear.
"Now I can ask. Princess, do you know what they wear underneath?"
"Walk the course? I do not know that that is allowed!" Eothain turned in confusion and consternation to his King. This was most irregular. He would not like to be the one to decide.
"Surely you would not deny what is to your own advantage? What could gain Eowyn greater wealth should I be able to complete the thing…?" Faramir stood placidly, even confidently, before them all.
There was not the slightest doubt in his face or carriage that Eomer could see. Perhaps it would be best. It would clearly please Eowyn and he had not the wish to seem uncharitable.
The young King acquiesced with grace and quickly regained his seat, eyes narrowing as he watched the bridal couple begin to walk the turf. Faramir's fingers were laced tightly with Eowyn's. He might possibly be just pulling her along for speed. Then again he might possibly not. They would have little chance of unchaperoned consultation in the coming weeks.
Watching Ithilien's prince bend and inspect the height of a low-set bar, Eomer fretted that some Rohir might think it not a proper test. The last thing that was needed was for the assembled folk to feel the Gondorian had cheated them. The irregularity of the geoweorþ berendnes had been quite enough. Folk were slow to change.
"I suppose tis fair," he mused almost to himself, "Faramir would have never have seen their like before."
Lothiriel's distinctive chuckle drifted down. "Actually I think he has…"
"What?!" He whirled round and met a pair of dark grey eyes. They were unashamedly laughing at him.
"You should never underestimate my cousin, Eomer-King. He is spectacularly good at research in any archive. Many, many letters, even some quite detailed drawings, arrived in Minas Tirith from Edoras."
Eomer groaned. They had and he had watched her writing them. An unfortunate realization began to dawn.
He and Elfhelm had followed his father's account to the letter in their design.
Bema's balls. His own sister. Conspiring with the other side to pass information. For the first time that day he did not feel quite so sure about the outcome.
The excited crowd did not have long to wait. Soon the contestants were back at the starting line and standing on their mark. An expectant hush arose as Eothain raised one arm and on a count of three swiftly brought it down.
Faramir scooped his bride up in his arms and began to run toward the first hurdle on the course. The laughing and chatter rose steadily with each step he took and it did not take long for Eomer to realize he was placed in perhaps an unfortunate location. As the young Steward stepped nimbly up onto the first of several zig-zagged logs, the Princess of Dol Amroth rose and began to bellow her cousin's name right in his ear.
The first test of dexterity and balance seemed to trouble the Gondorian not at all. Even cumbered by the lady in his arms Faramir ran lightly and without a slip.
"Perhaps we should have slipped him several jugs of ale beforehand." The young King grumbled to his Marshall.
Elfhelm grinned and shook his head. "Wouldn't have changed much. Logs Sire would be no great trouble for any Ranger. In Ithilien he would have encountered them every day."
Well of course. He should have thought of that.
Eomer gazed farther down the paddock. The next challenge was to cross a ditch. A bar set well higher than a man stood on poles and spanned a large muddy trench. It had taken the guards several days and many oaths to dig.
The young Steward halted just shy of the nearside pole. The tricky part of this was to shimmy along with a passenger lying across one's body. The balance was quite delicate and if the unfortunate bride tipped…well it would be a muddy end.
Eomer leaned forward, wondering just how the young man would try to mount.
Calmly and without rushing Faramir walked up to the hanging bar and boosted Eowyn up until her hands reached the overhanging wood. She hugged the pole, swinging her shapely legs up to wrap tightly round, and began to expertly to shimmy across the gap.
So that was why she wore breeches instead of skirts! Surely Faramir was going to carry her across? But Eomer watched with mounting trepidation as Faramir followed suit. Once both had traversed the bar and hung over solid ground again he dropped lightly down. The bride let her feet dangle free and without fear dropped right onto her groom's broad shoulders.
"Fault!" The young King stood and gestured angrily to Eothain. The crowd may be clapping and laughing at their ingenuity but this wasn't how it was to be done! "He was supposed to carry her." Eomer's protest carried loudly across the throng.
"But no part of her has touched the ground!" A look that had quelled many a Corsair's heart bore down from Erchirion's flushed and angry face. Around him the Gondor crowd began to loudly dispute the call.
"We read the rules." It was the certainty in Lothiriel's indignant face that made Eomer hesitate. "Fara, Eowyn and I. Nowhere did it say that the bride is to be carried at all times. Only that she cannot ride a horse or sit a cart."
Down below only Eothain dared to meet his ruler's glare. "Sire, I believe that is quite true."
Eomer turned to Aragorn for help but his friend only shrugged. The High King had already learned that sometimes it was the better part of valour to keep one's opinion to oneself.
Oblivious to the ruckus Faramir reached the next obstacle, a rope ladder over which he was to climb. He stopped and waited while his bride dextrously swung behind his shoulders, slid down his back and clasped her legs around his waist. Without evident distress, quite unhindered by the lady's hold, Faramir reached for the rope and began to climb.
Eomer reluctantly took his seat and tried to hide his eyes. His innocent little sister had her legs wound around her future husband's waist! Bema it wasn't proper and what was worse, all of Edoras was witnessing the display.
Judging by the loudness of the cheering all of Edoras didn't care. They were getting into the spirit of the race. Many had seemingly forgotten which side they were supporting, cheering every move and swept up in the excitement of the thing.
Arwen, with her keener Elven sight, could just make out the slight shifting of caressing hands across the groom's collarbone and the soft kisses pressed surreptitiously to his nape as he stepped across the ladder's top and began to descend again.
By the time the young Steward touched the ground he was quite flushed. Wisely the Queen kept her observation to herself. Perhaps the others would think the effort was proving taxing.
Faramir next paused beside the ladder to rearrange his hold. Effortlessly he swung Eowyn down over his shoulder and into his arms. With his lady love settled comfortably again he began to stride quickly toward a wide pool of darkly gleaming water.
As one they all looked a little anxiously at the next challenge he was to navigate.
"Does it count as a fault if part of her touches the water, too?" Mareth asked, worried by the sharp slope of the banks and hoping that she was wrong.
Elfhelm grinned and glanced up at the blushing Princess. In her excitement she had unexpectedly spoken louder than was her wont.
"Oh yes. It is chest deep. There is no way that he can make it. Eomund did, but he had the strength of five and Theodwyn was light as a little bird."
"How did he do it?" asked Aragorn curiously.
"She stood upon his shoulders."
Imrahil's eyes widened in appreciation. From the worry line between his brows Aragorn knew he was picturing the taller Eowyn overbalancing and landing in an inelegant belly-flop.
For his part, Eomer sincerely doubted Faramir could replicate his father's feat but he really had no idea what the ingenious pair would do. He watched, heart in mouth, as the Gondorian stopped just shy of the water's edge.
Slowly the young groom let his bride down until her feet were just touching his. She balanced, standing perfectly on his toes, not on the ground but just inches from it.
Faramir placed both hands upon her hips and bent his knees. In one fluid movement of surprising grace, at Eowyn's sudden nod he sprung her up and over his head. She came to rest upon his hands looking as if she were ready to take flight, arms back along her sides and legs held taut and straight.
"My heavens he is strong."
Arwen's quiet comment made Amrothos chuckle low. "As I have cause to know, fair Queen. I have lost every single time we spar. He is far stronger than he looks."
Perfectly balanced, Faramir walked down the sloping verge into the water, stepping carefully and slowly, concentrating on the purchase underfoot. First the gold ankle cuffs disappeared, then his knees and soon the kilt was entirely submerged. By the time he was at the deep centre of the pool the crowd had leaned forward in rapt anticipation.
Ten feet, then five, then two and he was walking up other slope, Eowyn held high and dry and his arms shaking barely perceptibly. With a broad and happy grin he let her down, this time to rest lightly against his chest, legs around his waist and his hands clasped underneath her bottom.
Elfhelm glanced with worried sympathy at his King.
"They will never make the lower stile." Eomer mumbled, now more concerned about the contest than Eowyn's reputation. "That is the one that nearly always makes them lose."
Who was he trying to convince? the Marshal wondered to himself. He felt quite thankful it was not his sister about to shimmy with a man under a low set pole or he'd be the one reaching for his spear.
The stile was set across the course, barely three feet above the turf. It was long and high enough for one man to sidle underneath but of course was not meant for two. Here was the hardest test.
Faramir paused, brows furrowed and speaking quietly to Eowyn. Her hands gestured excitedly while his held her close. They seemed to be having quite the intense debate, although on what point none in the crowd could hear.
Finally some agreement was settled on and the young Steward began to fold his long, thin legs. He sat carefully down upon the turf, his bride still held before him and her legs crossed behind his back. One by one, she lifted her legs around his waist to sit cross-legged in his lap. Then, in a move that surely was not rehearsed but looked altogether like a dance, Faramir clasped both Eowyn's hands in his and lay her back along his outstretched legs. She came to rest, her body athwart his hips, touching back to partly naked thighs and calves to naked chest.
She was not on the ground, but most assuredly she was on him.
Imrahil shook his head in admiration as Aragorn whistled low. "Ingenious. Just ingenious."
Slowly and with great care Faramir shuffled his body under the hanging bar, moving smoothly so as not to dislodge his happy burden. When at last they were past and had only air above Eowyn raised her hands and was pulled back up, executing in the reverse the self-same move.
Faramir stood up, Rohan's favourite daughter safe and sound within his arms. As the couple made their way toward the end, the crowd erupted, cheering and clapping wildly, pennants of both green and blue swirling in the bright sunshine. They had done it, completed the entire course and none could say there was any reason not to be satisfied with the match.
At the finish line the bride was set gently on her feet.
"You did it!" Eowyn, beside herself with glee, hugged her groom and planted a kiss upon his flushed and sweaty cheek.
"We did it, my wild barbarian Shieldmaiden." Faramir corrected, grey eyes shining, proud and relieved by their achievement. "Now a lowly Captain of Gondor is acceptable for you to wed."
Of their own accord fine long fingers drifted up to tuck a lock of spun-gold hair back into her bun. The two lovers stood, a world apart from the cheering throng, pressed cheek to cheek: two hearts thudding from exertion and something more.
Then, for a second time but surely not the last, heedless of the audience, an elated Steward took the White Lady of Rohan in his arms, bent his raven head and kissed her passionately in front of all.
"Eomer-King it is with great delight I pay you the maximum morning price." Elphir 's rang across the stands as he bowed and handed the small heavy enameled casket over to a still stunned King.
Eomer frowned. He wanted to be annoyed. Outraged. Even a little bit offended at their flagrant disregard for the established rules. This was not how it was to be done: touching openly in public and conspiring to win the race. In these quickly changing times did not tradition and decorum matter?
And yet, to look upon his sister's glowing, happy face made him remember a pinched and white fair brow upon a battlefield. Perhaps there was no great harm done. That these two, betrothed a bare two weeks after they had met, should happily buck tradition every chance they got was surely by now no great surprise. They were well matched and for that he would be truly thankful.
Sighin, the young King smiled and took the cask. "And I delightedly accept." A cup of ale was pressed into his hands. He raised it, ready to make a toast.
"My lord, will you take a cup?" asked Eowyn, proffering another full drinking horn to Faramir. He was trying without much success to stop the sopping wet Hammathen from clinging to his legs.
Straightening up, still panting a little from his exertion, the groom smiled and let his fingers linger once more a shade too long upon his bride's.
"With pleasure, my love. I am so thirsty I could even drink the ale we weighed you in this morn."
Amidst a day filled with many entertaining and unexpected sights perhaps the most surprising was the one that occurred after the contest had been completed.
The King of Rohan, in a gesture worthy of the name, raised his drinking horn and turned to toast his noble guests still sitting in the stands.
He drank long and deep, drained the horn at once and then, without much ado, turned a startling and perfectly acceptable pirouette for a man so tall.
Arwen, always the most perceptive in any crowd, noted the exact direction of his final bow and the sudden blush upon a fair young cheek.
As the group rose to walk down the stands and join the celebrating on the field, The Queen of Gondor turned and spoke softly to her husband's vassal.
"Imrahil, I am just curious. Does Dol Amroth do anything similar when a royal princess weds?"
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A/N For those interested: A Hogshead calculated on the density of India Pale Ale, contains 271 pounds. A Kilderkin is 152 pounds, a Firkin 84 pounds, and a Pin…38 lbs.
The Sindarin and Quenya words used here are made up from root words that suit for the Sindarin, whereas the Quenya is pure gibberish. My apologies. One day I will have time to learn.
Thank you so very much to those who voted this to first place at Teitho. And thank you so much as always to the ladies of the Garden of Ithilien for critters and encouragement.