A few hours before Firefoot's unfortunate predicament became apparent, Lothíriel had found herself in exalted company. While Merilwen listened to Siliveth and Aglarel consider the finer points of flirtation, and Éomer downed mugs of ale with his Marshal, she had enjoyed a rather splendid evening. Her father had taken her and her aunt to dinner with King Elessar. It proved to be as stimulating and interesting a dinner party as the previous night's had been torturous. The first surprise was the presence of a somewhat foppish young man, standing behind the king's shoulder.

The prince bowed deeply; the princesses followed his lead and swept deep curtsies.

The king inclined his head, then ushered the younger man forward. "This is Lord Úron, aide to Lord Faramir. He has come in person to deliver dispatches from Minas Tirith."

The young man swept an extravagant and graceful bow, the primrose silk of his sleeves billowing as he did so.

"Please, do not stand on ceremony," the king added with a smile. Lothíriel looked at the king, trying not to show her curiosity. It was the first time she had had a chance to study him at relatively close quarters, and in relatively quiet surroundings away from the bustle of balls and tourneys. He was of indeterminate age, at first glance younger than her father, though she knew (having done her homework) that he was in fact older. He wore rich but understated garments, in which he looked not entirely at home. His hair fell in unruly curls beneath a thin circlet of mithril, which again, looked somewhat incongruous. He somehow caught the direction of her gaze.

"Your father suggested I wear this – I am not sure it is entirely appropriate, given that I have not yet been crowned."

"It is merely a mark of royal blood sir, such as any prince of the land might wear, Sire," said Imrahil smoothly. "You may have noticed I am wearing something similar."

The king clapped Imrahil on the back and said, "But I think I know you well enough now to know that you take rather more care over your dress than I do." Lothíriel tried not to laugh; her mother had been joking about her father's peacock-like tendencies for years – in fact she often suggested that he spent more time on his toilette than she did on her own. The king, meanwhile, extended his hand to Aunt Ivriniel and lifted her hand close to his lips (clearly, he had at some point learned the finer points of Gondorian etiquette, despite his years of wandering). "Madam, pray be seated."

Once all five of them had settled round a low table and a selection of dishes and drinks set before them, the servants retired.

"To business, then," said Elessar. "I thank you all for your attendance. I am anxious to establish two things. Firstly, I want to know how things stand regarding food supplies – both for provisioning Gondor, and for sending aid to our brothers in Rohan for the coming winter. I understand that you, Princess Lothíriel, have been in charge of the running of Dol Amroth in your father's absence, and furthermore, have made sure provisions both from your own principality and the surrounding lands have made their way to Minas Tirith after the siege was lifted."

Lothíriel found herself the centre of attention, explaining in detail how she had kept track of the state of affairs, arranged the equitable distribution of food, and made sure that landowners and farmers were duly compensated for any food which had to be commandeered. She explained, with the aid of several sheets of parchment, the arrangements she had made by way of trade agreements, lines of credit, loans from the banking families in the fourth circle of Minas Tirith, and so forth. Although she had given her father an outline previously, this was the first time he had seen the details; out of the corner of her eye, Lothíriel could see him beaming proudly, and felt a bubble of pleasure at his reaction.

"But was not your mother in charge in your father's absence?" asked Lord Úron.

Imrahil spoke. "Nominally, my wife, Princess Isteth, was indeed in charge. But while my wife is a gifted healer and herbalist, she has no head for figures..."

"Mother and I divided the responsibilities between us. She kept up morale and made sure that people knew they were being looked after, and, crucially, treated the wounded after Corsair raids on the coast. I made sure that the provisions and material necessary to look after them was at hand," Lothíriel added.

"Thank you for your summary, Princess. I feel confident that, in the light of your hard work, we shall be able to ensure that no-one, either in Gondor or in Rohan, goes hungry this coming winter." The king's face was serious, but Lothíriel sensed a warmth in his eyes that suggested he was as pleased with her as her father was. "And now, Princess Ivriniel, I should like to ask you about the second topic of discussion. What we are to do with the Haradrim? My understanding is that you will be able to provide me with invaluable first hand knowledge."

"To add to your own… Captain Thorongil..." said Ivriniel, with a knowing glance.

Lothíriel was thrown into complete confusion.

"Ah, so you recognise me from my previous visit to Gondor." The king smiled, a genuine, but slightly dangerous looking smile.

"How could one forget?" replied Ivriniel.

Imrahil, seeing Lothíriel's puzzlement, explained "King Elessar, in his younger days, visited Gondor incognito, and served under Steward Ecthelion, undertaking various missions including ones to Umbar, the debatable lands and beyond into the Haradwaith."

"If memory serves me," said the king, "You were captain of the ship that took me to Umbar."

"I was indeed."

"Your seamanship was beyond reproach, which is more than can be said for the bottle of rum we shared in your cabin to celebrate our return to Dol Amroth."

"My somewhat belated apologies," said Imrahil, sketching a bow. "I can assure you that I am now older and wiser, and keep a much better cellar."

The king gave a laugh, then grew serious once more as he continued, "Lord Úron has delivered an admirably thorough briefing document from your nephew, the new Steward, detailing his understanding of the situation in the Haradwaith prior to the various kingdoms there forming an alliance under the Black Serpent, and his subsequent swearing of fealty to Sauron. Lord Faramir was also at pains to place the situation in its historical context. I'm not sure, given what I remember of my time in some of the Southron kingdoms, that I agree with all the details, but I certainly agree with the broad outline of his analysis. And I'm more than happy to concede that his viewpoint may be informed by more recent events; it is two score years since I travelled in that part of the world."

Ivriniel nodded. "Faramir is likely to be correct in most of his details, but if I may, I will borrow his communication and read it thoroughly in my own time. But be assured that he speaks the three main Haradric dialects fluently, and reads the classical form of the language. He is thus well placed to make sense of any documents which have been intercepted, and to understand their significance. He is also likely to have had access to reports from my agents there. Notwithstanding, I will see what I can add to his assessment of the situation."

She and Elessar then fell to discussing the politics of the region in detail, with Imrahil and his daughter largely reduced to the role of interested spectators. Lothíriel felt slightly overwhelmed by detail – Ivriniel, of course, having travelled widely in these southern lands, was massively knowledgeable, and King Elessar knew almost as much, although his grasp was slightly out-of-date. Gradually, however, Lothíriel began to put together the pieces, and the overall picture gradually emerged.

She had a rough idea of the situation from her tutor's guidance when she was younger. The foundation of Umbar was ancient indeed, and it was there that Ar Pharazon had received Sauron's surrender, millienia earlier in the Second Age – a surrender which must have seemed like a great virctory at the time, but which in fact only opened the way for Sauron to corrupt the king. It had been lost to Gondor at the time of the Kinslaying, and many still rued its loss. And not merely because of a longing for lost land and glory; it was of considerable strategic importance, and was now the fortified port from which pirates raided her own coast. But as she listened to Ivriniel and Elessar, she realised that while her history books told of the Gondorian city of Umbar as a glorious part of Gondor's heritage, some of the inhabitants of those lands did not tell the history in quite the same way: they remembered centuries of oppression and slavery at the hands of Black Numenoreans. The situation if anything had got worse rather than better after the loss of Umbar (or, if one were Haradrim, the overthrow of their Gondorian overlords). Centuries of internicine turf wars had followed, with petty warlords vying with one another to become despots. Eventually, weakened by war and famine, the Haradrim had turned to Sauron not out of inherent wickedness, but out of desperation

While Lothiriel might draw a clear distinction between her own ancestors and the Black Numenoreans who had so corrupted the legacy of Elros, it appeared that these nuances did not enter the Haradrim's understanding of the situation. She found that The Haradrim believed the Numenoreans – all Numenorians, to have to sown the wind and reaped the whirlwind, when it came to their claim to the debatable lands. The discussion was a most sobering experience, and she found herself almost longing for the society tittle-tattle of Siliveth as an alternative to the discomfort of having doubts cast on her complacent beliefs about the rightness of her own side and the inherent evil of her enemies.

"So, what is to be done in the longer term?" the king asked. "In the immediate future, the various Haradrim tribes are likely to be quite subdued, but once the wounds of war have healed, they will remember their age old, and understandable enmity towards the" descendants of Numenor."

"Temper justice with mercy," Ivriniel replied succinctly.

"But where to start?"

"You hold as hostages various important Haradrim, drawn from several of the kingdoms. Treat them fairly and humanely while in your keeping, however much Gondorian blood they may have shed, and negotiate fair rather than punitive terms for their ransom."

"If my intelligence is right, Princess, you have yourself been to visit the camp already."

Ivriniel smiled. "My grasp of the Haradric tongue is not as firm as my nephew's, but it suffices for basic conversation."

Elessar gave an answering, somewhat enigmatic smile; Lothíriel suspected he was not fooled by her aunt's down-playing of her linguistic abilities. She knew that Ivriniel prided herself on gaining considerable fluency in any language she considered to be of strategic importance. If one was not fluent, she always said, one could not pick up on nuance, and without nuance, there could be no diplomacy (and equally importantly, no espionage). The King spoke, in measured tones.

"And your assessment of the prisoners is?"

"The most important is crown prince Alazar, heir to King Amudin. He comes from one of the coastal kingdoms south of Umbar, and the only one with sufficient military might and natural resources to provide any real challenge to the kingdom of the now deceased Black Serpent."

"Talking of whom, who is likely to succeed the Serpent?"

"His eldest sons also fell on the Pelennor – he himself was slain by Théoden, Éomer saw to his offspring. He has a younger son, still in his minority, and has left his brother, the boy's uncle, as regent. I should not be surprised if some sort of internal power struggle were to ensue. Regents tend to get rather too comfortable in the position, but one may set against that the fact that the younger son's mother comes from one of the most militarily powerful fiefdoms in the realm, and her family will not relinquish their grip on power without a fight. Hopefully, internal strife will keep them busy for at least five to ten years, and if we can consolidate links with Amudin in the mean time by returning his son to him unharmed, and strengthen his position in the region, we can perhaps tip the balance of power in our favour in the longer term."

"And what of Amudin's son? Is he the sort of man one can open a dialogue with, or is he still smarting at defeat?"

"Young," answered Ivriniel. "An able warrior, but taken aback by the sheer horror of war on this scale, pride wounded by defeat, worried at the thought of whether he faces the ignominy of returning a coward if he is seen to be returned to his native land a ransomed prisoner."

"I think I should perhaps visit him, pay him the courtesy of opening negotiations with his nation in person," Elessar said thoughtfully. "I must rake through my memories for a few phrases in the language. And perhaps take a suitable gift – not too much, for he is my prisoner, but suitable to his station, and to indicate that we see him as a prisoner of considerable importance and value, whose well being we value. Were he not a prisoner a weapon – a jewelled sword, for instance – would be appropriate. But clearly not in these circumstances."

Ivriniel nodded her assent. "In my conversation with him, I made a point of trying to draw him out about his interests in time of peace. Might I suggest a musical instrument – perhaps a lute? And write to my nephew to see if a telescope might be procured from one of the instrument makers in Minas Tirith: I gather he is interested in the movements of the constellations, and whether the future can be divined in the movements of the heavens."

Lothíriel blurted out, "But you always said that was nonsense, Aunt."

Ivriniel gave a gentle shake of her head. "Lothi, my dear, it matters not what I think of the activity. It is what Prince Alazar thinks of the activity that is of import." She turned back to Elessar. "And then I shall turn my attention to trying to come up with a strategy which will salve the young man's pride and make his eventual homecoming less ignoble in his eyes."

~o~O~o~

Wilfram would never have let this happen! Distracted for a moment by memories, Éomer found a lump forming in his throat at the thought of his faithful, long-serving groom, who had fallen before the Black Gates, one of all too many who had paid for their freedom with their life blood. He blinked a couple of times and forced himself back to the problem in hand.

Damn that daft boy! Edric, the young boy acting as temporary groom, had let Firefoot onto the rich pasture down by the water's edge. Now bloated on clover, the great war horse stood pawing the ground. Moments earlier he had been rolling but Éomer had managed to get him back on his feet, just. He placed a hand on the horse's belly. Bloated and tight as a drum… not a good sign. Feeling increasingly anxious, he leaned in and rested his cheek against the steel grey coat, pressing his ear against him. Nothing. Not a single thing. None of the usual gurgling, churning noises. Poor bastard's so full of gas his stomach can't move. Éomer reached for a handful of straw and started to rub the sweat from Firefoot's flanks.

"I can do that, Sire..." The boy was desperate to make amends.

"I think you've done enough!" As the words left his mouth, Éomer felt a slight twinge of guilt; the boy was clearly consumed by guilt. But it was such a stupid mistake to have made. How could anyone call themselves an Eorling and not have known you didn't let a horse gorge themselves on clover and rich weeds on the water meadows? As if reading his mind, the boy spoke.

"I'm sorry, Sire, really I am. I didn't know. I'm from the hill country above the Isen. I've not done much other than watch the sheep – the ground's too steep to run horses on."

Éomer gave a grunt. "Bloody stupid thing to have done." But his voice was not as angry as it had been before. He started to walk the horse round in a wide circle.

"Doesn't he need to rest, Sire?" asked the boy, anxiously.

Béma, the runt really knowsnothing at all about horses. "If he lies down, danger is he'll get a twisted gut. No, we've got to keep walking him till his belly eases."

So Éomer and Edric took turns walking Firefoot round in a wide circle. The moon passed its zenith, then set, leaving them walking by the light of the distant bonfires scattered around Cormallen. A couple of hours before dawn, by Éomer's reckoning, he went to swap once more with Edric, only to find the boy asleep. For a moment, Éomer looked down at him – barely thirteen summers, if that. The boy must have sneaked away to war far too young, evading his parents, lying to the sergeant, hiding his age. Éomer gave a faint smile. He was wrong – the boy was a true Eorling. Just a very, very young, inexperienced one. He vowed to make amends the next day.

Firefoot was finally beginning to move a bit more easily. Gritting his teeth, Éomer decided to try something he'd heard mentioned by Théoden's head groom back in Edoras, many winters past. He lifted Firefoot's tail and felt between his buttocks for the hollow just above the horse's arsehole. Béma, what the faarkin' hell am I thinking? But as the old man had said all those years back, he pressed gently against the flesh… and was rewarded with the loudest, longest, smelliest fart he'd ever encountered.

Firefoot gave a nicker of relief, and turned his great head to Eomer. Circling, he butted his master gently in the midriff with his nose, in the time honoured gesture which said "Where are those carrots you promised me?"

"After the trouble you've put me through over the last few hours? I don't think so!" Eomer walked over and nudged Edric awake.

"He's on the mend now, lad. You go and tie him up with a nice long length of rope, so he can reach the horse trough and some grass, and he'll be right. Mind you don't make it so long the old bastard can get at any clover, though. I'm off to get some kip." And on that note, Edric's King and liege lord took his leave and headed off across the meadow.

There was probably still a good hour to go until sunrise, but the sky was already lightening, becoming a steely grey. No one was stirring yet, though. Or at least, hardly anyone. As he moved beneath the trees at the edge of the meadow, Éomer's attention was caught by a sudden flash of warm, yellow candle-light as the flap of a tent was opened. A figure in flowing skirts flitted through the gap, and Éomer's first thought was to wonder whether it was Erin or one of her colleagues. But then a silvery giggle floated across the meadow, and Éomer, his eyes adjusting to the change in light, recognised Lady Siliveth. She drew her cloak around her shoulders, but Éomer could see that beneath it her dress was half undone and almost slipping from her, revealing her rather ample cleavage. Then a man appeared through the tent entrance, and pulled her into a farewell embrace. Éomer couldn't help a grin as he saw the man grab a handful of buttock with one hand and cop a feel of one of her shapely tits with the other. Then, as the couple turned on the spot, the light fell on the man's face, and Éomer realised with surprise that the man was none other than his friend, Amrothos.

"Like I said, right bunch of randy shaggers," he muttered to himself, and continued on his way. Within a couple of hundred paces he reached his own tent, nodded to the guard outside, slid through the opening and fell into bed, still wearing his clothes, to sleep the well-earned sleep of the just.

He woke about noon, and hastily ate a bite of lunch before heading over to see Firefoot. To his relief, the horse seemed entirely recovered. It wasn't until later that afternoon that an awkward thought suddenly struck Éomer. He had written to Éowyn singing the praises of Amrothos as a potential suitor. And at the time he had meant it – the man was brave, intelligent, good natured, and funny, and as far as he could judge (not being a woman) good looking. What's more he came from an impeccably good family. But (and this was a very big but when considering possible future husbands for one's sister) it turned out the he was the sort of man who was prepared to shag another man's wife. Bugger.

Author's note: details of colic thanks to Gwynnyd and the Ladies of the Garden of Ithilien. Artura very kindly corrected me on various mistakes concerning Numenorean history of the "Debatable Lands."Any remainingmistakes are of course mine.

Thank you as always for the lovely reviews. Willa - yes they are annoying (though I'm not sure all of them are dim - I suspect that at least for some of them, part of the problem is being reasonably bright in a society which offers them no constructive outlet for their intelligence!)