Chapter 25 Ovid's Ode to the Maid of Ulf Hoo

Okay, first the author's note which starts with a grovelling apology for a grievous and egregious failure in scholarly attention to detail on my part. And an erratum. Stand by your man is of course by Tammy Wynette, not Dolly Parton. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa... The Quenya at the end of the last chapter, by the way, was indeed my attempt to translate "Stand by your man, give him two arms to cling to..." (Sorry, TG).

By the way, Borys and I have been discussing normal human age to Numenorean age conversion factors (or rather, I have been boring on about it in my nerdy scientist way, and Borys has been listening politely), and I reckon it's about 2/3 (based on a sample size of one – Faramir lived to 120 according to Canon – but as I said to Sian, what a sample!) So a 41 year old Boromir is actually more like late twenties in normal human years... so picture, if you will (and who wouldn't want to) the young Sean Bean, probably in the early episodes of Sharpe!

The sun was beginning to sink low in the sky, dipping towards the distant glint of the mouths of Anduin in the west, which turned to a liquid gold. (Yay, on the Stella Gibbons-Baedeker Guide star system, this description scores at least a five!) So anyway, it's me, Sophie, back again after another period of neglect by my author (who has found time not only to attend a conference but also to write not just one, but three pieces of Farawyn smut while leaving us kicking our heels – just as well the Field of Cormallen is a nice place).

So, the sun was beginning to set when suddenly, silhouetted against the pink and gold in the west, we saw a slender yet commanding figure astride a magnificent grey horse. The figure at first seemed to have a halo, but then I realised it was a cloud of long fair hair, lit from behind till it looked like golden fire. The horse came trotting rapidly along the road, and its approach was clearly seen by many. Charlize, Arwen and I jogged down the hill to meet the figure, while Éomer and Boromir came running from the other direction.

"Éowyn," her brother bellowed, reaching up and lifting her down from the horse and pulling her into a great bear-hug. "What on earth are you doing here? I thought you'd be staying in Minas Tirith recuperating from your injuries."

"Well, I felt a whole lot better, and it suddenly struck me... this is the first fic I've ever been in (or canon for that matter) where I haven't fallen in love with Aragorn and thus wanted to avoid him like the plague due to excruciating embarrassment. So I thought 'Hang on, I never get to go to Cormallen, and it sounds a blast, so why don't I just saddle up Windfola and ride over here?'"

"Brilliant!" yelled Éomer. "You get to join the party. And take part in the jousting. And I'll be able to make lots of money off the poor idiots who wager against you because they think girls can't joust!"

"You don't need to make loads of money," said Éowyn with a laugh. "You're the King now! Just one thing about the partying, though. I want it clearly understood that you are not to come to any sort of understanding with Immy, and marry me off to Amry-whatsit, or Erchy-whosisname, or the other one. Just because I am eternally grateful to Immy for realising I was still alive does not mean I am going to get hitched to one of his sons."

Like an idiot, I blurted out the first thing that came into my head. "But what about Faramir. Didn't you want to stay in Minas Tirith with him?"

"Why?" asked Éowyn. "Faramir's got everything under control there. He's doing a really good job of running things. Why would he want me under his feet? Oh, by the way Boromir, he's been absolutely sweet to me, and he sends his love to you."

Absolutely sweet to her... My heart sank. Oh goodness, poor Boromir. I continued to dig my conversational hole towards Australia (or whatever is round the other side of Middle Earth, assuming it has an other side, that is). "But you and him... won't you miss him? Won't he miss you?"

Éowyn looked blank for a moment, then comprehension dawned and she gave an enormous snort of laughter. "Oh, Béma's horse, there's nothing like that going on... Well, there wouldn't be, would there?" And she, Boromir and Arwen exchanged another of those "looks".

Oh no! Suddenly it hit me like a ton of bricks. An awful moment of realisation, the most awful imaginable. Finally I realised what those looks were about. Oh god, the embarrassment. I felt about four inches high. I wanted to crawl into my tent, pull the flaps to behind me and never, ever come out again. I couldn't believe I'd been so stupid. They knew... they all knew... knew that I had the most enormous crush in the history of crushes on Faramir. And I'd committed the cardinal Mary Sue sin. Okay, not the cardinal Mary Sue sin (killing the Witch King in Éowyn's place), but certainly one of the seven deadly sue sins. I'd let Éowyn know I fancied her man.

Arwen looked at me, raised an eyebrow, and politely changed the subject. "So, how're the preparations for the coronation coming on?"

"Very well," said Éowyn. "And the wedding too."

"Oh no, not an elaborate wedding," said Arwen with a grimace. "Look, according to LaCE we are married already. Have been for decades. Heck, given that I now have to make do with a mortal lifespan, even a Dunedan mortal lifespan, I certainly wasn't going to sit around and waste decades of it twiddling my thumbs and embroidering samplers. Make hay while the sun shines, or roll in the hay while the sun shines, or whatever that mortal saying is. Oh, and find more interesting things to twiddle, that's my motto."

"Yes, but your new people will expect a big wedding. Fairy tale endings and all that," said Boromir.

Arwen glared at him. "You've got a real thing for all this crap, haven't you? If I see so much as a hint of a net bag of sugared almonds, I will break with millenia of Elven tradition for being dignified and aloof and shove the bloody things where the sun don't shine..." She looked so fierce Boromir took a step backwards, and Éowyn and Éomer took a fit of the giggles. Suddenly, though, Arwen seemed to mellow. A grin spread across her face. "Still I suppose Ada will be really pleased. He'll get to choose a really lovely frock."

"What?" Charlize said. "Is it an Elven tradition? That your dad picks the bride's dress?"

"Not for me, silly, for him. He'll be so chuffed at doing the whole 'father of the bride' thing."

~o~O~o~

The next morning, Charlize, Ruth and I were sitting on a large boulder on the banks of the Great River, feet dangling in the cool water. I found myself staring in a contemplative fashion at my leg hair, wafting gently to and fro in the current like little fronds of fine brown pond weed.

"You know, it's strangely liberating not to have to worry about hairy legs," I offered.

"Not something I worry about," said Ruth, predictably. "Sometimes I shave – it does look quite nice, I'm not immune to the aesthetic norms of my society..." I rolled my eyes at this. Why did Ruth always have to have an intellectual 'position' on absolutely bloody everything, even hairy legs? Ruth continued, "And sometimes I don't bother – never shave when I'm in the Alps, always come back looking like a flippin' yeti."

Charlize shot her a horrified look. Ruth gave an evil grin and said, "Maybe I should braid my pit hair?"

"Eww, gross!" said Charlize. "Anyway, it's bloody typical. I get my first proper boyfriend, and the nearest ladyshave is in a different world."

"Candlewax?" I suggested, and Ruth splashed water over me.

"Seriously," Ruth said, "If Darren's bothered about a silly thing like that, dump him. My mate Tim and I had this conversation once (think it was a bivvy half way up the Brenva Spur), and he said that basically if a bloke was anything other than pathetically grateful to be sufficiently up close and personal to find out if you had body hair, you should kick his sorry arse out of bed on the spot. A decent bloke will think you're wonderful whatever state your legs are in."

"Really?"

"Yes, really," we chorused. I added, "And in any case, in case you hadn't noticed, Darren's a bloomin' Uruk. He's hardly in a situation to be casting aspersions about other people's appearances."

Charlize brightened visibly. "And he's really uptight about his acne, so I suppose he knows what it feels like..."

"So," I began, "You and Darren... Didn't see that one coming."

Charlize looked a bit embarrassed. "Well, I'm not entirely sure I did. I mean, I liked him as a mate from the start – we... well, we just see the world the same way. Have some of the same things we worry about – like teachers judging us on our names, snooty kids at school turning their noses up because our parents aren't quite as good as theirs. Like, no matter how hard my dad works to keep us comfortable, there's always some posh prick saying he learned on the job instead of going to uni. Or Darren's mum – she used to get up at 5.00am to do a cleaning job before her day job just to keep things going 'cos his dad's a useless git who never bothered to pay any maintenance. But there's always some tosser who's going to be snooty about cleaners..." Her voice trailed off. "Oops, maybe I shouldn't have told you that – Darren might feel a bit awkward if he knew you knew."

"Don't see why," said Ruth. "She sounds like a hell of a woman to me. From the odd thing Darren's let slip, she doesn't have the best taste in blokes, but then neither does Earcongota. Doesn't stop her being a great healer, and a good laugh..." She grinned and started to sing, "R. E. S. P. E. C. T., You know what it means to me..."

"So, anyway, moving on from Ruth's bloody awful singing (anyone would think she was an elf) you liked him as a mate – how did you end up playing tonsil hockey with him in the middle of a bloody battle? Just about the last thing I saw before I got twatted over the head."

"Dunno, really. He just seemed so sweet asking me to be his girlfriend, and I thought 'well, what the hell, we're probably about to die anyway,' and just snogged him – and it turned out to be really nice. I dunno where it's all going, but he's nice, kissing him's nice, he isn't pushing me to do anything, he seems to really like me. I mean, it's not like we're madly in love and going to get married tomorrow, just seeing how things go, 'cos it's nice for the moment and we really like each other."

"Sounds a damn sight better than anything Earcongota's managed to date," said Ruth.

We lapsed into silence for a bit, splashing our feet and just watching the river drift past. Then, a bit further down the bank, I caught sight of two more figures, also sitting with their feet dangling.

"You know, I think Earcongota's luck may have just changed," I observed. The others turned to follow my gaze. There, sitting on a low, slabby boulder, were the Piss Prophetess and a tall, dark haired, muscular man. He seemed to be feeding her slices of water melon. She was giggling, and he had an arm casually round her waist.

"Who's that?" asked Charlize.

"Beregond, the bloke who saved Faramir from daddy's little bonfire of the vanities," said Ruth. "I was talking to him on the journey here – seems like a really nice bloke. Widower, has a son of about twelve or so, doesn't seem like a player... You know, I think she may have finally got it right this time."

"Who's got what right this time?" asked a deep voice from behind us. We turned to see Darren. He came and sat down beside Charlize, giving her a little peck on the cheek (it was very sweet – he still seemed a bit shy round the rest of us).

"We think Earcongota's got together with Beregond."

"Ah, that would explain the noises I heard coming from his tent last night," said Darren with a grin.

"What, already?" I spluttered in shock.

Ruth grinned at me. "Don't tell me you buy into that 'hold out to the third date or he won't respect you in the morning' crap."

I nodded.

"Hey, all a guy running off into the distance without hanging around for breakfast tells you is that he's a bit of a tosser. No, scratch that, a complete tosser. Doesn't tell you anything about the girl. I've had one night stands that were just nice one night stands, ones that turned into really nice relationships, and I've come across players who've devoted bloody months to getting into my knickers only to vanish and never call as soon as they've got the notch on the bed post – and believe me, those are the ones that hurt, 'cos you've wasted shit-loads of emotional energy by that point. The honest one-nighters are fine."

Darren, as usual, was listening to this with rapt attention, pointy ears twitching. As always, he seemed to be finding Ruth quite an education. I have to admit, I always struggled not to giggle when Darren got that expression – brow-ridges drawn together, ears twitching. It just looked so funny. Charlize didn't seem fazed in the slightest, though, and took hold of his hand in an absent-minded sort of way. We chatted for another half hour or so, then Ruth announced she was off to look for the 'Cray Twins' (her nickname for them seemed to have stuck). I found myself stuck with Charlize and Darren, feeling more and more like a spare wheel, until eventually, I cobbled together some sort of feeble excuse and headed to the other side of the field where I settled down in the shade of a large spreading chesnut.

Having escaped from being gooseberry-in-chief, I pulled my book out of my pocket. However I didn't manage more than about two pages before I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of Éowyn and Boromir settling themselves down under the next tree, about twenty yards or so away. I didn't mean to eavesdrop but this corner of the field was very quiet, and, being Tolkien's creations, they didn't mumble like most of my contemporaries, but (rather unfortunately as far as I was concerned) had admirably clear diction. I buried my nose in my book and tried not to let on that I was watching their every move. I know I shouldn't have, but I was just about dying of curiosity.

"It's so nice to see you again," Boromir said, then turned slightly pink. Éowyn just smiled back at him. 'Thanwenitis', I thought to myself. He tried a different tack. "My brother's terribly clever, isn't he?"

Oh my goodness. I couldn't believe Boromir could be so daft – drawing attention to his brother's good points. The good points that Éowyn had said she really liked. Boromir's schoolboy error seemed to be confirmed by Éowyn's response.

"Incredibly clever. He knows just about everything there is to know about history, the natural world, literature – he can even quote poetry in Quenya. I can't believe how many languages he speaks. Though his Rohirric accent sucks."

Boromir laughed. "At least I can now recite 'There was a young maid of Ulf Hoo' in Rohirric, thanks to riding beside you on the way to the Battle of Pelennor Fields."

"Yes, you even swear with an Aldburg accent." Éowyn grinned. "I can't think where you picked that up from," she added with a wink.

Boromir toyed with a blade of grass, then said rather shyly, "I never could quote poetry in Quenya. Though Ruth's been teaching me Latin... that's like her world's version of Quenya, spoken by an ancient civilisation. Though not elves. They don't have elves in their world. Or hobbits, or dwarfs, or orcs... just men... and women of course."

He added the last bit very hastily and defensively. Presumably he'd been at Ruth's copy of the Feminine Mystique again. He was still staring at the piece of grass. Éowyn gave him a very penetrating look.

"Why does it matter so much to you? The poetry in Quenya, and in... what was that language again? What's wrong with not being good at remembering poetry? At least the young maid of Ulf Hoo makes people laugh, which, to be honest, is more than can be said of Faramir's poetry."

Boromir turned bright red. I got the sudden feeling that it was now or never, that he was trying to screw up his courage. Suddenly I felt really out of place, but I couldn't move now, or I might distract him and he might never say anything. I tried to think invisible thoughts and fade against the tree trunk behind me.

"Well," said Boromir, taking a deep breath. He finally lifted his face and looked Éowyn straight in the eye. "Do you remember a few versions back, maybe four or five, in all the GDIMEs we've been in recently?"

Éowyn gave a hesitant nod. "There's been so many. I find it hard to keep all of them straight in my head, specially since at least half of them I just want to forget."

"Well, I passed through Edoras on my way to Rivendell, and you beat me at fencing, and out-rode me, and were generally amazing. So I told you you were. And you just laughed, and said you liked your men more intellectual... So..." He looked back at the blade of grass again. It was now twisted into a shredded knot of green mush. "Well, I've been trying to develop some intellectual interests ever since. Though I was very relieved when I realised that at least this time round I wasn't going to be competing with Faramir, because, after all, how could I ever hold my own against him in the brainy stakes?"

It was Éowyn's turn to blush. "You didn't take me seriously, did you? I was just so terrified of ending in another of those 'Éowyn goes with Boromir to Rivendell' fics. They are usually so tedious – written by Muriels who just follow the plot of the book almost page by page – or actually, the movie script, scene by scene - only the Muriels do it in text speak. And sometimes," she blushed an even brighter red, "We do rather more than simply go to Rivendell. But even that's no good – it always reads like it was written by someone who'd never... well, 'done it'."

Boromir winced. The two of them sat side by side in silence for a few moments, before eventually the Rohir spoke once more.

"So," the shieldmaiden said. "This Latin poetry. Can you remember any of it? I'd love to see how it compares with Faramir's Quenya poetry."

Boromir cleared his throat. "Odi concubitus, qui non utrumque resolvunt." He looked down at the floor, turning pink again. "There was another bit, but I didn't like that part, so I've just kept the bit I did like."

"What does it mean?"

Boromir turned even pinker. He leaned over and whispered something in Éowyn's ear, and her eyes opened very, very wide. In a slightly breathy voice, she spoke.

"Really? That's important to you? And you always... try to make sure things work out that way?"

"Well, yes... At least that would be my intention. I don't actually know... erm... for sure... Uh, experience, uh, well, I haven't, um..."

Éowyn's eyebrows almost hit her hairline. Then she gave him a shy smile, still blushing. (I began to wonder if either of them would ever go back to anything even close to their original colour). Then she stood up and offered him her hand, helping him to his feet. As he stood facing her, she reached and put her hands on his shoulders, stood on tiptoe and gave him a very quick, very shy kiss. Boromir stared at her as though all his Christmases had come at once.

"Come on, let's go for a walk," she said, "And talk more about poetry." And with that, the two of them wandered off across the field hand in hand.

Bloody hell... chapters of Thanwenitis, and all it took was a little bit of plain speaking. Admittedly in Latin. But even so. It did the trick after all. Who said dead languages were useless? (Either that or it is a testament to our author's lack of imagination/patience that she just decided arbitrarily that this was the chapter in which Éowyn finally made a recovery. Mind you, we're on chapter 25 which is an all time record. The longest she's ever held out before is chapter 7, and more usually it's about paragraph 7.)

Nope, I'm not going to translate the poetry. This is T rated, I'll have you know. Go and look it up yourselves.

Re. hairy legs – 9 out of 10 GDIMEs I have ever read have their character fretting about the state of her legs at some point... It seems such an odd obsession – I mean, no toilets, no antibiotics, loads of scary creatures with sharp swords, terrifying battles, and you're worried about the hairness of your legs.