Coronation day.
A month may seem a short amount of time, but to Imrahil, it felt like waking up from a long dream. In part, this new life was thanks to Sam and Frodo's bravery, but there was more. Rohan was no longer a land of allies beyond the mountains, it was the savior of Gondor. He shook his head at his prior views of the people of Rohan: as horse lords from the middle men, below the Númenorean heritage of Gondor. And he was ashamed, knowing now the depth of honor and nobility that ran through their veins. Imrahil had fallen in love with Éowyn and Éomer as surely as his kin had. His appointment as ambassador to Rohan had raised a few eyebrows in Gondor. Their prince?
Yes, he thought proudly, Gondor must see Rohan as its kin, as I see them.
He'd watched Lothíriel and Éomer fall in love. He'd watched the shadows under Faramir's eyes fade, replaced with the healthy glow of love for Éowyn. He'd spoken to the Rohirric soldiers that had been taken in as welcome guests of the city. He'd visited Théoden in Rath Dínen to say his thanks to the fallen King. Every story he heard made him more excited for his appointment, a new chapter in his life. And he suspected that he would get to watch his grandchildren grow up in the land of the horse lords. Yet, it was odd. Imrahil could see the love in both of their eyes, and both knew that he would assent with joy in his heart, but the question had not yet reached his ears. And now, they were but a day from saying their goodbyes to the golden siblings (albeit temporarily).
In this state of contemplation Imhrahil stood watching his new King be crowned by his beloved nephew. Then he watched his nephew, a Steward beyond the talents of his father, be crowned Prince of Ithilien by the King, and he felt the affection between the two men so strong it was. He watched as the King, the Steward, and Mithrandir then kneeled to the bewildered and delighted Hobbits, declaring them friends of Gondor who had leave to wander the lands freely and with honor. He cheered with the throngs, declaring Minas Tirith as Minas Anor anew. He looked at his children's faces, and saw that Lothíriel was not the only one with tears in her eyes. He chanced a glance over at Éomer and Éowyn, holding hands, and saw tears also touched both their cheeks. Celebration then burst all around them, the climax of joy after so many generations of despair. Imrahil thought on his beloved wife, praying she was able to see this moment from her place beyond Arda.
When the crowning was over, Imrahil made his way to the great hall to feast. Lothíriel and he had been planning for that feast for at least two weeks. Two weeks of desperate pleas from Faramir for information, but none cracked from even Faramir's most intense interrogations. Lothíriel had been the mastermind, and at last count, there were thirteen in the game. And what a purse they would claim! Amroth oysters from himself, Longbottom leaf from Pippin, Brandywine Sweetfish from Merry, truffles from Éomer, wild strawberries from Éowyn, cured boar from Gimli, a jar of honey from Sam, a salted caramel from Lothíriel, sturgeon caviar from Erchirion, greatfish lox from Amrothos, a bushel of apples from Frodo, 100-year sweet mead from Legolas, and hot chocolate from Aragorn. Imrahil and Lothíriel had decided to wait until the wine and spirits had started flowing, to avoid offending their honorable guests. So after the speeches, and hooting at his betrothed nephew and soon-to-be niece, Imrahil lifted his glass.
"A toast," Imrahil spoke, "To friends and kin. To the new Dawn. To the Hobbits who gave us this day. And to our King."
Then he signaled, touching his index finger to his nose. A clattering of spoons followed, and he saw that it was not thirteen but fourteen wearing spoons. Faramir had not only cracked someone, he had joined in! Imrahil looked around the rest of the room, and though there were whispers, it was clear that they were amused whispers. He and Lothíriel had been right, drink would loosen the room enough that the game would not cause too much of a scandal.
"Add a bottle of Ithilien wine to the purse Ada," Lothíriel grinned under her spoon.
"Bless that shieldmaiden, I never thought I would see the day," Imrahil boomed.
Suddenly, a tentative tap came to Imrahil's shoulder. He knew who it was from the color of red Lothíriel's cheeks turned.
"Éomer!" Imrahil stood to clap him on the back.
"I would like to have a word with you," Éomer was twisting his hands, he was nervous.
"Of course, let's withdraw to the terrace," Imrahil replied, but his stomach had filled with butterflies. Was this it? Was he to have his son-in-law?
They walked close, projecting seriousness so as to avoid getting caught up in other conversations. It worked.
"I needs must ask you for something unconventional," Éomer was red, but hope blazed in his eyes.
"Ask away," Imrahil replied, now taking Éomer's words and nerves in. It was just unexpected enough that Imrahil began to feel fear.
"Well… I would like your permission to marry Lothíriel. But.." Éomer started. (There was a but?) "...not yet. Um. I have asked her to come to Rohan with you. Because… because… I love her but…"
What could possibly have happened in that month to make the King dither so about his daughter… but he did just say that he loved her. Imrahil remained silent. He'd learned to let Éomer find his words.
"But… I don't want her to be tethered to me until... until she knows in her heart that her love extends to Rohan… and its people. I watched my mother fade away when my father died. She had only enough love for him. I won't have any, even one I love with my entire being be bound to me to suffer that fate." Éomer's words became less stunted as he continued, "Lothíriel knows of all of this. I will wait for her. She will come to Rohan and I hope that she will fall in love. And the moment she is ready for me to ask for her hand, so I will…"
"The fate of Finduilas," Imrahil stuttered, "You are making sure my daughter does not fade away as my beloved sister did."
Imrahil often assumed that the children of Rohan were out of surprises, and then they would spring things like this on him. Éomer was thoughtful, honorable, and showed a care so deep for Lothíriel that he was willing to let her go to ensure her happiness.
"And you tell me in secret to remove the expectations that come with a public betrothal," Imrahil smiled.
Éomer nodded, "Lothíriel comes to Rohan because I ask. And because I love her. None will I consider other than her."
Imrahil pulled Éomer in for a hug. He did not let go, even as he felt tears come to his eyes. They were tears of mourning for his sister, but also tears of happiness for this man, his likely future son in law.
"You both have my blessing. As you likely knew," Imrahil said.
"Good. I am honor-bound now to your family. And I hope Lothíriel loves Rohan as much as I," Éomer's eyes were full of hope, the young boy was still inside of him.
"If Rohan's people are anything like you Éomer, Lothíriel will be theirs in a fortnight," Imrahil laughed. Then he caught the glint of silver. He had forgotten that both were wearing their spoons. Neither had yet lost the bet.
"What?" Éomer looked puzzled.
"A serious conversation whilst wearing the most fashionable of silver," Imrahil replied.
At this Éomer also let out an unbridled laugh, nearly knocking the spoon from his nose.
"Shall we head back in?" Imrahil laughed.
"Yes, let's," Éomer replied, light in his eyes.
As they returned to their seats, Lothíriel (spoon still on nose) turned to Imrahil.
"So..?" Lothíriel whispered, her cheeks still slightly red.
"I should like you to join me in Rohan darling daughter," Imrahil beamed, "I should need a cultural attaché to explore the ends of Rohan and its people, as I tend to the business of Gondor. I do believe that the King has offered to act as host."
Lothíriel pulled Imrahil in for a hug. And so swift was her motion that both heard the clinking of a spoon. Imrahil's spoon had fallen from his nose.
Raucous jeering came from all corners of the room, from game-players and revelers alike. He looked and saw he was at least not the first to have lost his spoon. Both Gimli and Pippin sat spoonless. Gimli appeared to be in good humor, though Pippin's face was long.
"Containing drink and containing joy are quick to drop spoons!" Imrahil called, and was met with both laughter and smiles.
"I think it is time to make this game more interesting," Lothíriel's musical voice drew all attention to her, "Come and let us dance to the new Dawn and to the return of the King! And as this is the reveler's dance, the rule is for every number, we drink."
More cheering erupted, and with Lothíriel's nod, musicians stationed in the back of the room began playing.
"It seemed this game could go on forever if it were a battle of wills Ada," Lothíriel whispered, "So it seemed prudent to quicken the game with a battle of grace, agility and stamina!"
Imrahil laughed even harder. His daughter had thought through every detail. Those playing the game had risen from their seats, as had many of the revelers. And the dance started. Imrahil sat to the side, offering to "referee," though mostly he wanted to watch. Éowyn and Faramir danced together, a vision of grace and agility, but the drink was starting to make both wobbly. Legolas danced perfectly, the spoon balanced on his nose without effort, and drink did not appear to affect him. Suddenly, Gimli stormed up to Legolas and pulled the spoon off of his nose.
"Elvenfolk have an unfair advantage!" Gimli exclaimed.
Imrahil tensed, but saw that Legolas had started laughing merrily along with the dwarf.
"Good Gimli, I must be sufficiently drunk not to have noticed the intent of your approach, so my spoon has been effectively felled!" Legolas exclaimed, joy in his voice rivalling any man in the room. An unusual elf indeed.
Imrahil then noticed that Merry (who lost his spoon in the reveler's dance) whispering conspiratorially with Pippin. They were looking at Aragorn, and Imrahil suspected they had been inspired. With a nod, the two Hobbits charged toward the King and jumped upon him, successfully dislodging his spoon. Guards at the door tensed, but at the sound of laughter from King and Hobbit alike, relaxed and joined in the laughter. Erchirion and Amrothos had wrestled their spoons off of each other. And so there were now six: Éowyn and Faramir, Éomer, Frodo, Sam, and Lothíriel.
Lothíriel looked to be planning something; Imrahil recognized that look anywhere.
"Revelers!" whatever scheme she'd come up with, she was putting it to action, "We have seen the chaste holding of hands between my cousin and the beautiful Lady Éowyn. And yet, they have been trothplighted for a month. I fear I am unsatisfied with their declaration of love. So I would like to see a kiss!"
Éowyn and Faramir turned and looked at Lothíriel, who grinned maliciously. It was genius. Neither Éowyn nor Faramir would dare demand a kiss between Lothíriel and Éomer, so she was safe from that revenge. Faramir shook his head, then shrugged. He pulled Éowyn in and kissed her, the clanking of two spoons was their price for their love. The entire room erupted yet again with laughter and cheers. Down to four. Imrahil wondered what Lothíriel had in mind for the rest of them.
Lothíriel looked over then at Sam and Frodo, still dancing (this time with Merry and Pippin), happiness beaming from their faces. Spoons still firmly on their noses. Lothíriel then looked at Éomer, before striding right up to him. So rapid was her approach she nearly caught Éomer off guard. With an intense look at him, she took the spoon off of his nose. Then she took the spoon off of her own.
"Such a game should have but two contenders," Lothíriel turned to Sam and Frodo, and fell to her knee, "As we could not celebrate your bravery in the depths of your despair, so we will cheer for your victory here!"
The room had gone silent. Lothíriel had set the game, at least in part, as an homage to Sam and Frodo. She'd left them to compete together, winners both. They looked puzzled, thoughtful.
"The game is not over yet. Sam! Frodo! Keep dancing and drinking, and we shall cheer you on to your prize!" Lothíriel exclaimed, "Hoo-rah!"
"Hoo-rah!" the room whooped in response, raising their glasses to the Hobbits.
Quickly, what was embarrassment turned back toward competition, and all joined in. Dancing and drinking, drinking and dancing. And still the little Hobbits wore their spoons. Soon the dancing became faster, more complex, and still the Hobbits wore their spoons. Finally, when the Ballad of the Shieldmaiden started playing, Sam tripped, and the game was won. Imrahil was sure that he saw Sam's slightest glance at Frodo before the trip, and wondered if Sam had done so intentionally.
And so the room cheered, and Frodo won the spoils. The congratulations offered to the Hobbits were loaded. So many had wanted to thank the two, and did not know how. Lothíriel, as always, had figured out the way.
Once the game was done, most started filing from the great hall, back to their apartments and quarters, or to continue the celebration. Éowyn and Faramir walked hand in hand. Amrothos and Erchirion headed down into the lower city to continue the party. Éomer looked longingly at Lothíriel, bowed to Imrahil, and was on his way.
"Quite the game," Imrahil threw his arm around his daughter's shoulder, "I've no idea how much of that was choreographed, but it was perfect."
"Little Ada. Honestly? I thought it would come down to Éowyn and me," Lothíriel replied, taking Imrahil's arm, "It just seemed… right."
"It was… right," Imrahil replied, "As is your decision to come with me to Rohan."
"Should I have insisted he ask me?" Lothíriel looked intently into Imrahil's eyes, and he could read her worry in them.
"He loves you so deeply that he's willing to let you go rather than watch you fade in your gilded cage," Imrahil squeezed Lothíriel's hand, "I wish you'd gotten to meet your aunt. She had your wit. Nothing haunts me so much as watching my dear sister wither away in the White City, under the oppression of both shadow and Denethor's love."
"I doubt that will happen to me," Lothíriel replied.
"You have been given the chance to make sure mir tel'ear, a gift not granted to my sister," Imrahil said, "I've no doubt that the moment you know, he will ask."
"Are you worried some will not understand?" Lothíriel asked, and now Imrahil could hear the edge to her voice.
"Does such a thing matter to you so much Loth?" Imrahil asked, he had not considered the courtly ramifications of Lothíriel, unbetrothed, coming to Rohan.
"…A bit, yes." Lothíriel replied.
"Then we will make it clear that both the King and the Steward insisted. And that you and Éowyn have grown extremely close, and that you should like to stay with her, teaching her about Gondor as she teaches you of Rohan," Imrahil replied, there was no question in his mind that all would agree.
"And what of the time I will be spending with the King?" Lothíriel's eyes sparkled.
Imrahil sighed, "You will have six weeks to conspire and plan. I believe that your cousin and new kin will assist you. I as your father would rather not know…"
Lothíriel laughed, "Well… it appears that I needs must begin preparing for my new role as cultural attaché for the ambassador."
"You will make a beautiful queen," Imrahil whispered, and then two were silent as they walked back to his house.
"Thank you Ada," Lothíriel hugged him, "Today was a day for joy, and so tomorrow will be a day for sadness."
"You will see them again Loth, I promise," Imrahil replied, and both went to their rooms to find their sleep, for the first time in their lifetimes, the subjects of Kings.