I own neither Middle-earth nor The Hangover. Who would have guessed?
It was a fine Tuesday morning in the Capital of the Reunited Realm. A gentle breeze was blowing – well, it was what Minas Tirith folk would call a gentle breeze. The sort of breeze that howled between the towers and tore viciously at the washing that a few early-rising Gondorian housewives had already hanged up on clotheslines going from window to window. Beneath the fluttering shifts and linens a maiden of fair complexion and foul mien was struggling up the cobbled street, clutching the shawl around her shoulders for dear life and cursing under her breath in a foreign tongue.
"What possessed me to come to this Béma-forsaken country?" she muttered, more to herself than to the other young lady following her cheerfully.
"Come now, dear, it's just a bit of wind," the latter pointed out, "and such a splendid, sunny day!" She brushed away a strand of her companion's hair that had just slapped her in the face.
Maiden number one gave her a scowl. "Don't get me started, Lothíriel. Not two days before my wedding and certainly not while my betrothed is missing." She marched on towards the Sixth Gate, where the two armoured guards snapped to attention under the Nazgûl slayer's murderous gaze. The ladies entered the Sixth Circle and directed their steps towards the house of Imrahil. They passed between the two delicate marble swans on either side of the door – at which Éowyn rolled her eyes – stepped into the entrance hall and were greeted by a maid who curtseyed before them.
"Any news of the Lord Steward?" Lothíriel asked quietly after she had convinced herself that no one else was listening in.
The old woman shook her head. "No, my lady, still no sign of him."
"What about…?" A jerk of her head towards the second corridor on the left was enough to make the servant understand.
"Unchanged, my lady." A shadow of horror crossed the woman's face.
The ladies exchanged a nod of silent agreement – there was no other way, it had to be done. They strode down the corridor, determined to execute Plan B with as much dignity as they could muster. Bracing themselves, they shared a last look of mutual reassurance, and Lothíriel pushed open the door to the morning drawing room.
"If they're still asleep, I swear I will…" Before the shieldmaiden could lay out her full plan of vengeance, the stench of alcohol mixed with the aroma of unwashed men engulfed them.
"Valar!" Lothíriel gasped, covering her mouth and nose with her shawl. She glanced around the darkened room and made out six figures sprawled over armchairs, the tea table and even her mother's outrageously expensive Umbarian carpet. She had to step over her eldest brother and the Marshal of the East-mark to get to the window. When she opened the shutters the light revealed the full extent of the misery. There lay the three Princes of Dol Amroth as well as the King of Rohan and two of his most distinguished warriors, snoring loudly, the traces of last night's exploits plainly visible on each of their sorry figures.
While Lothíriel knelt down beside the nearest of her siblings – namely Erchirion, draped over the tea table with his hair in the fruit bowl – and gently patted his arm, the shieldmaiden planted herself over her own brother dearest and gave him a loving kick in the shin.
"Béma's bollocks!" groaned the Lord of the Mark and sat up in his armchair. He gazed up at his sister, which was no mean feat, given that one of his eyes was swollen shut and glowing in various shades of purple and black. "What the…" He looked around the room, then back at Éowyn, and winced on touching his eye.
In the meantime Lothíriel had managed to wake two of her brothers, and the third one was stirring on the carpet because a bright sunbeam had fallen on his face.
"Lothíriel?" Amrothos mumbled. He stretched his arms, but stopped short on noticing that his tunic was missing whereas his shirt and breeches were soaking wet and his damp hair was clinging to his neck. "What on Yavanna's green earth happened?"
Erchirion was none the wiser. He stared down at his forearms and prodded his cheek – he was covered in scratches and very human-looking bite marks. "Ilúvatar have mercy," he whispered, "Hálwen is going to kill me!"
He glanced at his elder brother who was propping himself up on his elbows, looking down on himself – and let out a hoarse scream that turned into a coughing fit when he realised he was wearing a dress, complete with apron and bonnet. "Good gracious," he eventually said, "now that is… extraordinary!"
"That's one word for it," contributed Marshal Elfhelm, who seemed to be the only one without any obvious disfigurements.
Next to him Captain Éothain was still blissfully sawing logs, until the marshal punched him in the shoulder, making him jump straight to his feet while desecrating the name of Béma in at least four different colourful ways. He shook and tilted his head a few times before he figured out what was causing the unfamiliar sensation: His hair had been braided and his beard was sporting several blue beads. "Son of a…" He stopped on noticing the presence of the ladies.
Said ladies watched the spectacle with a mixture of amusement and contempt – and perhaps a pinch of sympathy, even though they would not have admitted it if their lives depended on it.
"Must have been quite the night," Éowyn noted dryly. "Now, would any of you care to tell us what you did to Faramir?"
"Faram-…?" Éothain repeated, looking around the room.
Lothíriel saved his clouded brain the trouble of working it out for himself. "He's missing. We've been looking for him all morning, and according to his housekeeper he didn't come home last night. Do you have any idea where he might be?"
The six men looked at each other in bewilderment. Finally Elphir voiced what all of them were thinking, "I do not even recall how I myself ended up in this predicament. My memory of last night is quite gone, I'm afraid."
"So is mine," said Marshal Elfhelm, and all the others nodded.
"I wish I was more surprised," Éowyn sighed and dropped into an armchair.
Meanwhile the King of Rohan had successfully opened both his eyes and asked, "Have you tried the royal quarters? The library? The barracks?"
"Believe it or not, brother, we have," Éowyn gave back.
Éomer laid a hand on her arm. "Calm yourself. Faramir is a grown man, he would not just vanish in his own city."
"Have you asked Father?" Erchirion stepped in. "If he orders a search party, they will sift through the entire place in a few hours…"
"So far we have preferred not to involve anyone else," Lothíriel clafiried. "We thought it best not to alarm Father, let alone King Elessar. Not before we have exhausted all possibilities – which is where you come in." She glanced around and was met with six clueless faces.
"Truly, I am at a complete loss," repeated Amrothos. "I do remember the beginning of the night. We went to the Two Serpents, had a bite to eat and a sip of wine…"
"More than a sip, I reckon," Éowyn chimed in.
"… but after that everything is rather blurred," Amrothos concluded.
His eldest brother added, "To have one's mind so compromised by wine alone – or even by the Rohirric ale these fine fellows brought along – I daresay there must be some other mischief afoot." The Lords of Dol Amroth shared a grave look.
"Then let's get to the bottom of it!" resolved the king. In a sudden fit of vitality he got on his feet, but unfortunately his vestibular organ was not as keen as he was. He staggered and bumped into a mildly baffled Éowyn. "Ugh, Béma's b-… beard," he mumbled and sat back down, rubbing his temples.
Lothíriel watched the display with an ever deepening frown. Eventually she determined that what this assortment of heroes needed was a bit of common sense and some of Aunt Ivriniel's famed "heavy head tonic". In her best commander-in-chief voice she chirped, "I'm afraid this won't do at all. My lords, all of you," she gestured at the whole miserable ensemble, "on your feet, and come along!" Without another word she marched out of the room.
About half an hour later the band of conspirators was assembled in the winter dining room. On the ladies' insistence everyone was now tolerably cleaned up, munching bread and cheese and sipping a greenish-brown concoction that the Princess of Dol Amroth, having grown up with three brothers in one of the realm's main wine regions, had perfected over the years.
"I must say, I'm feeling much more the thing now, aren't you?" Elphir asked almost cheerfully. Having his breeches back had clearly lifted his spirits.
"Yes, splendid indeed," grumbled Erchirion behind gritted teeth while his sister was dabbing honey on his mysterious bruises. "Thank you, dear, I think that'll do."
Éomer, who was pressing a generous piece of raw beef against his eye (a shameful waste of a perfectly good dinner, according to Lothíriel), laid out the battle plan. "If we want to find out what happened to us and find Faramir without letting anyone know, our best bet might be to trace back last night's events. Amrothos!" The prince lifted his head about an inch off the table. "You were in charge of the Quest. Do you…"
"The quest?" Éowyn interjected, which convinced Amrothos to lie back down.
Captain Éothain clarified, "Some silly Gondorian custom, my lady. They made the Lord Steward fulfil several tasks, one given by each of us, to prove himself worthy of you, or so they said." He shook his head as vigorously as the throbbing pain under his skull permitted.
"How ridiculous! Why would you do such a thing?" Éowyn exclaimed. "Why not just have a drinking contest, or a footrace, or a fistfight with my brother, as we would in the Mark… Oh!" A glance at Éomer already seemed to reveal part of the mystery.
The King of Rohan gave her an incredulous stare. "Are you suggesting Faramir did this to me? Faramir? Of all people?" He snorted at the outrageous assumption.
"And whyever not, my Lord King?" Lothíriel jumped to her cousin's defence. "Would a fine Gondorian warrior not be a match to you?"
Éomer made an honest effort to be civil but his headache got the better of him. "Sit down, Swan Princess, would you!" he snapped, rolling his eyes.
Lothíriel opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again on realising that all three of her brothers and Éowyn had already proceeded to shout at the king, whereas Éothain had taken his lord's side. She exchanged a look of silent suffering with Marshal Elfhelm. One way or another, this was going to be a long day.
To be continued...