29 FA

"I hate having a brother," the girl muttered. "My parents do not like me anymore. I bet they have not even noticed that I left the stupid party."

Having six sisters, Elfwine wisely decided not to lecture, though he was felt like it. He was not feeling too happy himself. "I doubt that," he said. "You were an only child before Eldarion was born. You get exactly half of your mum and da's affection." He gazed out across the darkening sky, the mountains that bordered Mordor in the distance. This view from the roof of Minas Tirith's library was a very good one, he was lucky to have found it but not so for the girl that had joined him soon after. He had come to simmer in peace, and his resentment surfaced. "And you are lucky for it!" he continued, clenching his fist. "For I only have one-tenth. I would trade places with you in a heartbeat!"

"You would want to be a princess?" Gilræn smirked at him.

"No-o-o," he rolled his eyes. "I want to be an only child."

She considered this, scratching her elbow. "It is not very fun," she admitted at last. "I rather envy the camaraderie you share with your siblings."

"It only seems fun because you aren't embroiled in it. It's horrible! Once Eorl put a frog in my bed. A frog! And he is younger than me, too — I should be the one pulling pranks! But I can't because I'm the stupid heir and I must be a perfect model of behavior."

Gilræn shrugged. "Who cares? You should be yourself anyway. You were you before you were the crown prince, anyway."

"Sure, for about a week. I don't even remember it."

"You and Eldarion," she scoffed, an ugly frown twisting her face. "Dumb babies."

Elfwine felt now that she had gone too far. He detested feeling like he had to compete for his parents' attention, but he did enjoy playing with his siblings when they were very young. But he could not admit to this grouchy princess that he liked babies. "Anyway," he said.

"How old are you?" she interrupted.

"Er - twenty-one. Why?"

"Just wondering." But Gilræn sighed. He felt awkward.

"Um, how old are you?" he asked.

"Sixteen," she muttered. "But it does not signify. Shouldn't you return to the party now? You at least might be missed."


34 FA

Elfwine scuffed his boot in the dirt, his hands in his pockets. If his mother were around, he would surely be reprimanded for both his despicable posture and his surly expression. He had learned a great deal of self control since that embarrassing rooftop conversation with Gilræn, even if it now was not manifest. His cheeks burned as he recalls snippets of what he had said. He was a fool to have sought her out again.

And yet there was something about her, something that had been absent five years ago. Something desireable. Something that could draw him him, and something that might also just get his ass whipped by the king of Gondor.

He was definitely not fated for the relaxing summer at home for which he had hoped. Gilræn was still as irascible as ever, and as afeared as he was to cross swords with her again, he was worried too for himself. Elfhelm, his father's old friend, had once treated Elfwine to a long, drunken rant on the king's languishing when he had fallen in love with a princess of Gondor. If love was as debilitating to the men of his family as it seemed... Elfwine swore and scowled at the ground, even as he felt his stomach flutter nervously. The princess had married Father, anyway. And they were still happy.

The sun had just set, and hundreds of people were beginning to assemble for the dancing, which would last all night long. He had yet to see Gilræn, and he both anticipated and dreaded seeing her again.

What in Arda had he been thinking? He should be hiding.

A huge hand clapped on his shoulder, and he startled violently.

"Hullo! I won first prize!" Éomund's grinning face, filled his vision, and Elfwine forced a smile. His brother was waving about a bag of coins, which rattled.

"Congratulations," he said. "I saw the competition; it was a tough one. I am most impressed."

"Well - l," Éomund's ears turned red. "Thank you, brother. I am happy to hear you say that."

Elfwine stared. Éomund looked extraordinarily touched, and he wondered why. Was he really seeking Elfwine's approval? But...why? "You care for Sunbolt very well," he said in all honesty. "You deserve the prize."

"Aww…" Éomund said, digging the toe of his boot in the ground just as Elfwine had done just moments before. "I could - I could help you with your horse, any time."

"I would appreciate it," Elfwine grinned. "Béma knows Evil-Eater needs some discipline."

Éomund grimaced. "You never changed that nag's name?"

"Never got 'round to it," he shrugged. "Normally I just call him Shit-Eater, it fits him better."

Éomund roared with laughter, his carrying tones sounding almost exactly like their father's, and Elfwine joined in though less enthusiastically. As much as he envied every bit of his father which he saw in his brothers and not himself, it was a very contagious laugh.

"I am going to find Da to tell him that I won," Éomund said, still chortling as he wiped his eyes. "He will be so proud!"

"Yes, he will," Elfwine agreed. "Are they staying for the dancing?"

"Nah. I asked earlier and he said they are too old to stay up all night. Besides, Léofwyn will need to go to bed and I think they will take Synnifa with them too. There was an awful row about it."

"What about Friede?"

Éomund grimaced, all humor gone. "I have been assigned as her chaperone for the night."

"Bad luck!" Elfwine did not envy his brother this duty, but immediately felt disgusted at his disloyal thoughts. "Say, bring her around to me when you need a break. I grew a pretty thick skin around Cousin Aeliel in Dol Amroth."

"Thank ye, brother!" Éomund threw him a final, grateful look, and left. Elfwine sighed. His brother had eased some of his apprehension, but now it returned in full force. While they had been speaking, several lines began to form for the dancing. Where was Gilræn? The music began.

Midsummer's Eve had always been one of his favorite holidays. Summers in the Mark being relatively mild, the nights were very cool and pleasant. With the right amount of dancing and drink it was easy to stay up to toast the dawn. Elfwine had many amusing Midsummer memories, especially with his older sisters, who had long since married and left Edoras. He wondered why Aoife, the eldest, had not come in from Snowbourne for the holiday or even to see him. His pride pricked a little at this. Ebba had relocated to Dale and of course he could not expect a visit from her; he recalled Mother writing to him while he was in Dol Amroth that she was expecting another child. And of course he had seen Jórahild not three weeks ago, having stopped at her home in Lossonarch for a brief visit before continuing on to the Mark. Though she was three years younger than him, she was so sweet and caring that she had always been his favorite sister. They, along with burly Eorl, had never lacked for mischief in their younger years.

Elfwine felt his heart squeeze, and he sighed. Then, before his unhappy thoughts could continue, he saw Gilræn walking towards him with her nose in the air, and he choked.

She had changed into something far more appropriate for celebrating in the outdoors: a grey wool gown with silver trimmings. It suited her very well, and for the first time Elfwine was reminded that she had elven blood. Her dark, cascading curls, pinned half-up, fairly glinted in the torchlight. She was glowering in his direction, but glowing too. He swallowed.

"Good evening," she said, stopped a few steps away from him.

"H-hullo," he managed, hating that he found it so difficult to form sentences when she was near him.

She grimaced. "I would care to dance with you sooner rather than later, sir, if it is all the same to you. I wish to enjoy the remainder of the evening." But she would not enjoy dancing with him. Her tone made it obvious.

"The next one, then," Elfwine said. She turned away, her arms folded as she watched the dancers with dark eyes. He continued to stare at her, amazed that such a gawky youth could have matured into someone so...elegant. Five years be damned, this was a century's worth of transformation. Her hair was silky instead of matted, her skin was clear and clean, and she was not hiding in unbecoming drapes of excessive clothing. What could have spurred on such a change, when last he had seen her she was so miserable?

Then he felt himself flush. Mother would box his ears, if she knew what he was thinking. There is more to a woman than her appearance!, he had heard many times in his youth, directed mostly to his sisters but to himself once too, when he had found himself twitterpated at age seventeen for a nobleman's buxom daughter.

The dance ended, and with a pang of trepidation Elfwine bowed low to Gilræn, who sniffed at him but took his proffered hand. "It is a simple dance," he found himself growling to her in a low voice. "Not an execution. At least pretend that you do not wish to stomp on my feet."

She glared at him, and he clasped her waist rather too tightly. Her fingernails dug into his hand. "If I wish to stomp on your feet, I shall," she muttered as the next set of music began.

"And you shall have it paid back in turn, wench! You are sorely testing my patience."

Gilræn scowled.

"I do not deserve this treatment from you. I have done nothing to offend."

She gaped at him, and then huffed in indignation. "You - you -" she began, then faltered.

"What did I do?" he prompted.

"You leered at me!"

"That has already been established, though it was debatable in the first place. I did not realize you held such petty grudges."

"And you demanded that I dance with you without so much as a by-your-leave!"

"For which I made amends. Do you not accept restitution either? You would make a very poor diplomat; such a shame you were born a princess!"

Gilræn's face was red, her scowl quite black. Elfwine was not sure where his temper was coming from; he was generally not disposed to dramatics. He felt red, too. "I am sorry," he said, gentling his tone. "I should not have -"

"Stop!" Her expression had grown devastated, and if he were not mistaken there were tears gathered in her eyes. "I deserved it."

Elfwine had stiffened, his shame burning bright. "No, ma'am, there is never an excuse for rudeness, especially to a lady."

She laughed humorlessly, avoiding his gaze. They continued to dance, each unable or unwilling to break the silence that descended upon them. Elfwine sorted through his memories of their rooftop coze so many years ago, searching for something he could speak to her about about her life. But all that he remembered was not very nice for her, or embarrassing for him. "Have you enjoyed your stay in Edoras?" he asked, at long last deciding to at least ask something that was unlikely to lead to dreadfully strong emotions.

"Yes, very much," Gilræn said, a small smile tugging at her lips. "I rather like not being recognized."

"Why should being recognized make a difference?"

It was the wrong thing to say. Her lips disappeared into a thin line, and Elfwine could have hit himself. "It makes a difference, sir, because I am not held to a standard of eternal patience, beauty, and graciousness. A standard which is impossible to maintain, might I remind you, because I am, after all, mostly mortal.."

He did remember her saying something similar five years earlier. It is so hard having an elf for a mum!, she'd said. Everyone expects me to be just like her, but I'm not! I look like my papa! "I can imagine the burden that is eased by living here, then," he said, feeling like a vague agreement was the best path. She sneered, definitely not looking like her mother. Elfwine decided not to point it out. "Have you travelled around the Mark very much?" he asked.

"I spent a night in Aldburg on my way in," she said. "I was hoping to see the Glittering Caves soon, Papa has told me of their beauty."

"The caves are certainly worth a visit! I ought to go to Helm's Deep soon myself, I have not been to see my great-aunt in far too long," Elfwine said, and he inwardly cringed. "Or my brothers."

"You have brothers in Helm's Deep?" Gilræn asked, her brows drawing together.

"Yes; Eorl and Folcred."

"I did not know!" Her expression, having been wistful, turned into agony. "I have been here two months and I did not know! Gods, I am an idiot!"

"You are not an idiot," Elfwine said, suppressing a grin. "There are a lot of us to keep track of."

Gilræn glared at him. Again. "Your condescension is unnecessary, sir. Would you be so kind to leave me with your sister?"

He stared at her, finally registering that the music had ceased before stopping himself midstep. Gilræn pitched forward and he caught her firmly, setting her upright. She yanked her arms away. "Never mind," she snapped. "I shall take myself."

"Absolutely not!" Elfwine said, suppressing a snarl as he caught an arm to tuck through his, keeping a tight grip on her hand. "You will not dissuade me from my gentlemanly duties!"

She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a very vulgar Sindarin phrase, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise. What was the woman's problem with him, anyway? And why did it bother him?

"You are going the wrong direction, sir; Friede is by the green tent," Gilræn said. Elfwine altered their path, his jaw ticking at the sight of her smirk.

"I must thank you for obliging me with a dance," he said, remembering to be courteous.

"I must thank you for allowing me to finish my disdainful duty early on," she retorted. "Which was unwillingly done, I must say."

"I did notice."

"Ah! Friede!" Gilræn rushed forward, embracing his sister but not without a scowl thrown over her shoulder in his direction.

"Were you dancing with Elfwine?" Friede asked, looking strangely at them.

"Yes," he said before Gilræn could speak. "And now it is your turn. Friede, if you would, I would very much like your company. It has been two summers since last we celebrated together."

Friede looked pleased at his request, but Gilræn cut across. "Just because you are her brother does not give you liberty to force her around!" she said in a shrill voice.

This confused Friede, and she looked back and forth between them and noticing the metaphorical daggers pointing every which way. "I will dance with you, Elfwine," she said. "But you should ask Ísond first. She has not spoken a word to me all evening! She is over there."

Elfwine followed her gaze to see Ísond leaning against a tent pole, her nose stuck between the pages of a book. He sighed. "Should Éomund not be with you?"

"He left me with Ísond. I think he set up a target for axe-throwing," Friede informed him, lifting her nose in the air.

"No! How utterly improper!" Gilræn said.

"How utterly like Éomund," Elfwine said dryly. "Steer away from the axes, ladies, I would hate to have to cart your dismembered bodies back up to Meduseld." He left their horrified expressions and left to bother Ísond. She was put out when he asked her for a dance, but agreed anyway, laying aside her book to take his hand. "You could have stayed in Meduseld, if you wished to read," he commented as they began a lively country dance.

"So could you have, if you were not so intent on showering your angry mood on all of us," she snapped.

"I am not angry," he growled, swinging her around.

"Liar!"

"For your information, I was perfectly happy until I was enjoying the company of the women here," Elfwine said, giving her a pointed look. "And what, may I ask, is your excuse?"

To his surprise, Ísond blushed as she snarled, "None of your business, brother."

"Great Béma above," he sighed. "Ísond, I am sorry, I have been all out-of-sorts tonight."

She studied him for a moment, then said, "I forgive you. Mother did say, I recall, that you might regret getting so little sleep last night…"

"You will be a great mum, Ísond."

Ísond bit her lip. "Elfwine, I…" she stopped. "Do you remember when Aoife first met Gárwine?"

"Unfortunately, I do."

"You were very kind to keep their romance a secret until they were ready to tell Mother and Father."

Elfwine shrugged. "They were always kind to me. It was the least I could do; after all, what else could brothers be for, if not for covering up their sisters' mischief?"

"I am in love," Ísond blurted.

He stared, realization dawning. "You want me to cover it up. For Béma's sake, you could tell Mother and Father yourself. They are not bears, you know! They have yet to disapprove a match." She mumbled something, and over the music Elfwine was hard pressed to hear. "What was that?" he asked to her downcast face.

"He is a baker! I love a baker; at least Gárwine was a son of a lord," Ísond was now looking like she might start weeping, and Elfwine grew alarmed. "And Ebba married a prince, and of course Eorl loved Gúthild since they were children, with she being Elfhelm's daughter…"

"Baker or stable-mucker, it does not signify," Elfwine said. "I suppose...it only matters who I marry, anyway. You can do what you like."

"Do you really think so?" Ísond's watery eyes met his.

"Of course. That fustian notion of keeping blood 'pure and noble' is disappearing anyway. Cousin Alphros married a reformed whore, after all. Father did find that most amusing."

"Yes, but Alphros is not his child."

"Ísond," Elfwine said, and looked firmly at her. "Mother and Father will be pleased that you have finally found a place for yourself. You might be considered little old to still be living with them, after all," he added, trying to tease a little good humor into her.

It did not quite work, and she scowled. "I am only twenty-two!"

"And the eldest at home."

"You are the eldest at home, idiot!"

He did not rise to the bait, and smiled benignly. "I have little choice," he said. "You should tell Mother and Father that you intend to marry a baker and I am sure they will send you off most spectacularly. Is that why you are here tonight, anyway?"

"Yes," Ísond blushed again, smiling slightly. "Déor said he would be by after he cleaned the ovens. He has been busy all day with the festival!"

"It will be hard work, being his wife."

"I know. I shall find a way a manage, even if I can only read at night."

Of course she was worried most for her books. Elfwine grinned just as the music was ending. "Where can I leave you, for your handsome Déor to find you?"

Her pleasant expression hardened into something he was more accustomed to receiving, and she rolled her eyes. "Where I was would be preferable, brother." He linked her arm through his, and they wove through the crowd. "Thank you for the dance," she said, warming slightly. "I enjoyed myself."

"As did I. Do let me know when you intend to introduce Déor to the family; I shan't wish to miss that!" He winked, but did not receive a kick as he expected to, merely another glare. Béma, Ísond really was in love. He watched her pick up a book and wander away, and then shook himself. Now, where had Gilræn — his stomach tightened at the thought of her — stolen Friede away to?