"Captain!"

"Captain!"

Mablung pauses in the act of crossing Emyn Arnen's courtyard and turns toward the sound of excited voices. A pair of tow-headed youngsters are exuberantly waving from the nearest garden bench, broad smiles on their tanned faces and sleeves rolled up for work.

They are almost as much two peas in a pod as the small mound of fresh green that sits between them.

"Théomund! Elfwine! Well met my lads."

He waves back, shifting the heavy dispatch bag at his hip and watching as both boys bolt up to make their way across the smooth flagstones. Théomund goes carefully and slow. Elfwine shortens his long stride to match, like a warhorse held on a tightened rein- obedient but struggling to contain his speed—solicitous as ever to his cousin's disability.

"You are back!" Théomund exclaims excitedly as he draws near and Mablung finds he cannot resist a swift, sure hug. For both young Princes. The Ranger has functioned as an alternate uncle to his Prince's children and their ever growing pack of cousins since they were but babes. To his eye they both look taller, sprouting like the White Lady's garden in the summer's heat, though he's only been gone a month. Particularly Elfwine, who seems much bulkier than the year before. He has given up the coltish look for solid strength. Already he is gaining inches on Théomund though he is a year behind.

The realization that next spring they will both be of an age to squire almost punches him in the gut.

"I am," he answers gruffly, hiding the sudden rush of emotion behind his well-worn curmudgeon cloak. "And what have you two miscreants been about?"

Théomund glances back to the dish and pile of green pods heaped on the bench's stone and makes a face. "Chores. Mother says we have to finish before we can take Aerlinn out on the lead."

Mablung nods approvingly. If he knows Emyn Arnen's youngest occupants they are shelling the fresh bounty faster than Princess Finduilas talks. Aerlinn is the new Mearas yearling gifted to Théomund by his Aunt and Uncle for his birthday. A striking dappled cream with amber eyes.

She is a beauty, and like all creatures she adores her new young master. "And how is miss filly doing?"

Elfwine practically bounces on his toes. "She's ever so patient! Takes the halter without fuss and already stops and starts on cue."

"Well done!" Mablung has no doubt Aerlinn will swiftly be ready to accept a saddle, for Elfwine under the tutelage of Edoras' chief groom is showing great potential as a trainer. He glances down, belatedly worrying he's keeping them standing too very long. "Have you seen your lord Father, Théomund?"

"He just came in from the vineyard. Mother was going to ask Gwinlith for tea."

The vegetable patch and herb gardens are Éowyn's desmesne but the compact vineyard is Faramir's. It is testing the hardiness of white grapes from his mother's dower fields. Mablung sighs, knowing he will have no time for a tour. "Well then. I must be off. I've business that should not wait."

He turns, about to stride away, when he feels a shy tug on his sleeve. "Pardon sir," asks Théomund, "but do you have letters in your satchel?"

"Do I?" Do Rangers ever bet? He rearranges his mug into a smile. "Of course I do, lad."

"One for me from 'Bron?"

Mablung full on grins. Théomund, like his elder sister, FIn, has his Lady Mother's impatience for surprises. The urge to tease is strong but the pleading look is more than he can resist. "Yes. And one for each of you." Elfwine is beaming-receiving a letter from his commissioned cousin is far more exciting than the dutiful weekly missives from his many sisters. "Shall I leave them with your mother for when your work is done or will you have them now?"

The response is exactly what he expects. "Now!"

Mablung rummages in his bag for the two parchment packets and places one in each hand, calling "Mind you finish every pod!" to the swiftly retreating pair of backs.

He continues round the south side of the house to where Éowyn 's pride and joy is burgeoning under the full Urui sun. Row on row of medicinal plants and neatly ordered vegetables recede down the terraced slope toward the orchard. It is a lovely sight. So much green and bounty where before there had been only ruin. He remembers with a pang the old Hurin manor's burned out shell, surrounded by thickets of prickly juniper and almost mummified in bindweed. Now the space is graceful and bright, graced with a home built of the tawny sandstone that lines Emyn Arnen's hills.

Its restoration is but one of many dreams come true after the Shadow fell.

He walks across the broad green lawn to where a small round table and chairs are set in the deep shade of the majestic mallorn tree.

"Mablung! This is a surprise!" hails Faramir, rising and pulling out a chair. "Come, please take a seat."

"Thank you, Sir," he replies, instantly alerting to the fact that this is not a social call. "I won't say no to resting these old bones." He bows to his Prince and Lady, sets his satchel down and sits, gratefully accepting a cup of cider and a delicate almond biscuit. For several peaceful moments he answers questions about himself (fine, as always), his wife Bethann (right as rain and keen to have him home) and the state of Ithilien's roads (untroubled by aught that he has seen). When the subject finally circles round to the substance of his visit, he does not fail to catch the quick worried look that passes between Faramir and Éowyn.

Both from Elboron's letters know a little of the situation plaguing their eldest, but not perhaps quite how –unorthodox—the incidents.

Faramir picks up a bright enamelled jug and reaches across the tablecloth to fill his wife's empty cup. "There has been no further trouble about the Orc?" he asks mildly, turning to catch Mablung with a dark upraised brow.

"Nay," the Ranger replies, shaking his head, thankful that in this he is the bearer of good news. "Twas just the one. The scouts tracked its course a long way back. Come down out of the Nindalf marsh. Likely wounded in the most recent skirmish."

Faramir nods slowly. The Brown Lands are proving hard to clear. Aragorn's army has routed a troop just the month before above the Emyn Muil. At some cost in mounts but praise Tulkas not in men. "That is a relief. I did not relish the thought that we might have missed a bolt-hole in Ephel Duath." He sits back, at once relaxed and yet more alert, setting down his own drink to point at the waiting satchel. "Then what news from Elboron?"

"Is all well with the town?" Éowyn chimes in, breaking apart a second biscuit. Mablung shifts awkwardly, hesitating Mablung as he tries to decide quite how to start. Ithilien's lady looks lovely and composed, the picture of a serene hostess, but he knows she is like a mother bear with cubs where her children are concerned.

"You do remember that Elboron mentioned thefts?"

"Yes."

"They were petticoats."

"Petticoats?!" both exclaim in surprise.

"And, ah, other underthings."

The Prince sits up, puzzled and a little shocked, but his lady's eyes are dancing merrily. "Women's underthings?" Éowyn asks in a disarmingly neutral voice.

"Yes my lady."

She has clearly jumped two steps ahead but Faramir is frowning, looking from his wife to his Captain. "But who would do such a thing? I like not the idea that the populace are stealing clothes because there is too little to go around."

Mablung clears his throat. "No sir. We do not believe exactly that."

"And it is not some animal seeking soft material for a den?"

An injudicious mouthful makes him choke. Beside, the Lady of Ithilien struggles to supress her smile. "Oh it's an animal all right," she notes.

Faramir's response is swift. "You know?!"

She nods. "A cougar."

"A cougar?!"

Éowyn lips twitch into a full on grin. "It is one Rohirric euphemism I have not taught you love. A cougar: a mature female on the prowl for a husband."

Faramir shakes his head in disbelief. "They wouldn't!"

"They would most certainly would and do. The evidence is all quite straightforward," she turns to Mablung, and begins to tick clues off on her elegant fingertips. "I assume there were no tracks. No dogs going crazy. Incidents all over town and country with no pattern to discern."

He nods to every one. "Aye, you have it exactly right. And," he pauses to take a deeper breath. "There have been other odd reports that support my lady's thesis."

"Valar, I am not sure I want to know."

Faramir watches as Mablung reluctantly pulls another sheaf from his satchel and silently hands the notes across. He scans the pages quickly, getting paler by the moment and eyebrows shooting up at the nature of the calls. "Send backup….?"

"A local widow wanted a more senior soldier to investigate."

"I feel faint. Send help?"

"The mistress was quite fine by the time Elboron arrived."

"My dog sees something in the woods?"

"The lieutenant's investigation found the widow's hound mysteriously ran off." This last had Mablung nearly growling. Bloody waste of precious time but Éowyn is giggling, amused by the widows' brazenness even as her usually analytical husband has not quite grasped the why.

"Can word of an orc so close have made the women more than usually worried? More inclined to reassurance?" he asks.

More inclined to something, thinks Mablung, avoiding his lady's gaze, afraid he too might break down. All this is unorthodox but it is official business. "Nay sir. It err…umm.. Appears to be something of a conspiracy…." he finishes, finally.

"Conspiracy?!"

Mablung pulls out another sheaf and reads with all the steadiness he can muster. "'I feel safer just looking at his picture.' 'Sweet Eru I've broken the law, arrest me please!' 'I feel certain getting arrested in two locations in one night could be accomplished if done correctly.'"

"Poor 'Bron."

"Poor Mablung!"

The Lady of Ithilien is laughing outright but he soldiers on. "'I have a noise complaint to report. In advance. Send the lieutenant and the sergeant.'"

Faramir's eyebrow climbs nearly off his forehead before, at last, breaks down into helpless chuckles, he exchanging looks with Éowyn. "Oh Mab….how did you come by this… intelligence?"

"Private Brand was most shocked by the conversations at the market well."

"Is 'Bron aware of these latest missives?"

Mablung shakes his shaggy head. "Brand hasn't had the heart to tell him yet. They've been careful not to provoke him very much. He's most unlike himself. Snapping like a starving bear in spring." The Ranger flushes, recalling the alert that was the final straw. "This was voted the most..err… original. 'I'll purloin every breastbag in the countryside, every wash day of the week, if it gets me arrested by the entire troop."

Éowyn is doubled over. "Bema, that's made even you blush, Mablung!"

He hastily takes a sip of cider, seeking to cool his cheeks. Beside, Faramir has composed himself enough to run a thoughtful hand through his hair. "When did all this begin?"

That, thankfully, can be answered easily. "Soon after Elboron arrived."

"You have sent others in his stead?"

"Repeatedly. It's made not one of them stop the foolishness. If anything they've been more bloody well determined."

"They?"

"At least half a dozen different widows."

Faramir utters his shieldmaiden's favourite Rohirric oath.

"Exactly, sir." Mablung sets the evidence neatly on the tables weathered wood, rises and looks forward to taking his leave. He is anxious for the calm of Bethann's easy quiet space. "I feel quite certain you my Lord and Lady will know how best to deal with it."

"We?!"

"It's time for a higher and, if I may be so bold, more cunning authority. The whole pack have ignored my admonitions."

"Did you growl?"

"Aye and they growled right back!"

He retreats to the sound of the Lady of Ithilien's ringing laugh.

.

~~~000~~~

Later that same evening the Lord and Lady of Emyn Arnen walk together arm in arm in the warm twilight, drifting past the beds of night-scented stocks, admiring the unfolding trumpets of white moonflowers. It is their habit each night to do so, speaking of the day's joys and cares, enjoying the last crimson of the setting sun as it lowers behind MIndolluin's bed. Most nights it is a quiet stroll, but not this one.

Éowyn is still laughing at her husband.

"I cannot believe you did not guess!"

Faramir shakes his head and tucks her arm in closer to her his side. "Dear heart, I will not gainsay that you are more astute than I, but honestly.. a cougar?!" He snorts and flushes almost as red as Mablung, embarrassed for his son. "Poor Elboron. It sounds most trying. And truly odd."

Éowyn tilts her head. "What does? Slang for a female acting so forward? Or that they have poached a term for a vicious cat?"

"Neither!" he protests, a little ruefully. "I suppose it is yet another change to Gondor's stuffiness. That widows would so aggressively court a younger man. There, I have said it. You may now accuse me of being old and set in my ways."

"You? Old? Never my lord. I get more grey hair each day while yours stays perfectly neat and dark."

Faramir stops to lift her hand and brush a kiss across her knuckles. It is true that he at nearly sixty looks youthful as a man but half his age, but it is not an advantage that he will press. "I am happy to be thought so, love, but time cannot dim your loveliness. Even Arnor pales beside your glow. "

Éowyn, despite herself, blushes at the compliment. "Shameless charmer."

He chuckles. "Always."

They walk on, turning at the drystone wall that looks out across the village fields. Éowyn pauses to thoughtfully touch the unfurling petals of a rambling, half-wild phlox. "So many widows."

"So many good men lost." Faramir heaves a heavy sigh, stands front to her back, winds his arms loosely around her waist and gazes north. Past the higher stands of pine and lebrethon, to the wilder, higher slopes of the north. "I fear Mablung is right in this, we needs must pay Elboron something of an official visit."

Éowyn groans. "I hate the fuss. Can we not just saddle WIndfola and Mithros? Ride up without a retinue?"

"Hmmm," Faramir cocks his head. "The thought has merit. That way our appearance will be unexpected."

Éowyn turns in his arms, excitedly. "Just us? No guards?"

"Mhm-hmmm." Mablung has reported that the way is clear. And both them have swords. It is long past the days when a man needed fear travelling past the Crossroads. "Perhaps we can take our time coming back. You did say you wanted to visit Henneth Annun and collect more of Renil's healing moss."

"I did! It grows more profusely there than any other slope."

Faramir plants a quick proud kiss upon her nose. "Then that is settled then. At least some good can come of the experience. This may be the one time I agree with Termalin about the perils of our printing press. I confess I expected Elboron to have some challenge, but nothing quite like this!"

"Not even then," his wife replies acerbically. 'Termalin the termagent' is Éowyn 's private title for their under housekeeper. Shrill and opinionated and staunchly convinced the world was going to wrack and ruin, she a thorn in her lady's side.

But sadly efficient at her job.

Éowyn looks up at him skeptically. "Truly, you are surprised? That your handsome eldest attracts attention?"

"That your striking son engenders this much competition!"

Éowyn snorts. "Trust me. There are many things a woman will do get a man's attention. Do you not remember when Mistress Paline twisted her ankle at the midsummer ball?"

Faramir's eyes widen in surprise. "When 'Bron was politely making sure she was not ignored?"

"Yes. That was a ruse. Or when Leudice came three times to have me poultice her cut finger?"

"That was…hunting?"

Éowyn laughs. "Yes. It was barely a scratch. And she visited each time the village had word he was in from Minas Tirith."

"I hadn't noticed."

"Your nose was likely stuck in the estate accounts. Or some moldy tome of ancient poetry."

Faramir ignores the jibe. The shadows are lengthening. He starts back toward the house, pulling Éowyn gently along when she cannot resist the urge to stop to weed. There are some things he has noticed, but unlike his wife, he has promised their son not to pry. "Most lads are happy to be chased," he muses, thinking of Boromir as a lieutenant. "My brother kept one half the court on tenterhooks and the other half sighing hopefully."

Éowyn frowns and bites her lip. "True, but I am not entirely certain 'Bron has yet let himself be caught. If so he has been extremely circumspect" She pokes Faramir pointedly in the ribs. "And you won't tell me anything!"

He laughs aloud. The sound carries on the air and startles a nightjar from its hunting perch. "Oh impatient one! I have promised to keep my counsel. And I never lie." He gives her shoulders a sympathetic squeeze. "Sometimes it is best to not look too close. He is of age after all. And cuts quite the figure in his new uniform."

"Quite the figure?" Éowyn sputters, offended on Elboron's behalf. "Are you losing your archer's eyesight? Our boy is quite dazzlingly handsome. He takes after his fabled father."

Said father bends to plant a quick kiss on her cheek. The smirk when he straightens up is only a little smug. "Flattery will get you everywhere, my wild and wonderful wife. But it is not me he looks like."

Éowyn flushes prettily for his compliments still stir her heart. "He is everything a women could want. Smart. Brave. Loyal almost to a fault."

"When he isn't getting into fistfights." Faramir chuckles. "That is all you my dear."

She sighs, looking up into his eyes and planting a warm hand upon his chest. They have almost made it back to the house. The glow of the evening lamps is welcoming. Inside, Nera will be shepherding Théomund and Elfwine in the direction of their beds. In a few minutes they will both go in and settle the boys with a last good night kiss. "Actually," she notes, looking back to the upper room Elfwine has covered in proud spots of green and gold. "I rather think it is Eomer."

"One uncle in looks. The other in temperament and colouring," Faramir observes. "Elfhelm did report a national day of mourning when your brother's engagement was announced."

She shakes her head. "He has your eyes."

"Now who is shamelessly flattering?!"

With that, Faramir scoops Éowyn up into his arms, mounts the wide porch steps to stride quickly to the little terrace next to their private room. He frees a hand to push the tall sash door ajar, pausing on the threshold and nuzzling softly just behind her ear.

He does not set her down but trails a row of open-mouthed, fluttering kisses down her neck "Shall we see, my Fair Flower of the North, if we can scandalize the staff? I think there is a need to water the bougainvillia even if there are no books around."

.

...

As this is set in Annafan's Surrender to the Steward universe... grin...

For those wondering about bougainvillia you can read the general release version here at Fanfic. Ao3 has the Director's cut. ^_^

Breastbags are the unlovely term for just slightly post-Medieval bras. Sort of a tunic with bands and front flaps. They sound decidedly hot and unconfortable.