By DarkRiver (darkriver@cyberdude.com)
Author's Note: The characters herein belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, not me and appear without the author's permission, of course, since he's all dead and stuff. For anyone wondering why Amrothos is living in Rohan, either read "Wicked Games" or (if NC-17 Slash is not your cuppa) then just accept that he is a very dear and close relation to Eomer. Other than that, all the continuity you should need is in the movies. That being said, this is basically book canon, but I filtered in a little of the movie continuity for extra flavor.
Rating: PG
15, 4A
Eldarion woke when an ill-judged shift caused him to fall out of bed.
The Heir of Gondor groaned and shook off the last vestiges of sleep. Looking around, he judged it was not yet dawn, but close. He stood and stretched. Elfwine was still snoring peacefully. But Elboron was not to be found.
He yawned and stood up. It was not uncommon for the Ithilien Prince to wander at night, but usually Eldarion heard him leave. He frowned slightly, not sure if he should be concerned or not. He was, actually, hungry. The kitchens were awake, he was sure, and there could be eggs and porridge for a needy Prince.
He found a tunic that seemed clean (and possibly small enough to fit him without seeming like he was wearing a sheet) and pulled it on. He cinched it with a belt and decided that was enough for this hour. His gaze shifted to Elfwine, but he decided there was no need to wake his friend.
The keep was just beginning to stir when he stepped into the corridor. Meduseld was different in every way from the palace back in Minas Tirith. The home of Gondor's King never slept. Guards patrolled at all times, lanterns remained lit and servants waited and servants were ever ready to see to the Heir's needs.
Eldarion much preferred it here, he decided.
He did miss his parents...sometimes awfully. As much as he and his father fought, there was no one Eldarion loved or respected more. The times they'd spent tramping through the wilds around Minas Tirith, hunting and tracking, had been the best of his life.
But the trappings of royalty, the knowledge that he was always being judged for how good a King he would one day be, it made being home not so pleasant.
Here, he was just a boy...an important boy constantly under the watch of Queen Lothiriel, true. But he had the sort of freedom that he longed for, and good friends to share it with. Somehow, his life had skittered past a dark place and wound up more or less how he wanted it.
The smell of cooking ham wafted up the stairs, causing his stomach to rumble. He eagerly began to make his way down the steps.
Aldurn was making his way up the steps. It took a moment for Eldarion to realize their guard was carrying something. Another moment passed before he saw that it was the limp form of Elboron...and that his friend's body was covered in blood.
"My lord, urgent news!"
Kaeliz looked up from the documents he was studying. It was a particularly sweltering morning and he was already in a foul mood. According to all the reports he had before him, troop musters were not nearly where he needed them to be. Eomer would hit them soon and hit them hard, and he was not ready.
The messenger looked near to dropping dead from exhaustion. He glowered at the ragged young man, as if blaming him for this whole situation. "What is it?"
The messenger bowed deeply. "My lord, word from Master Orthael. He bids you well in your upcoming battle and regretfully informs you he cannot send aid."
Kaeliz felt the cold hand of terror on him. "He will not aid me? This is his fault!"
The messenger cringed, fearing the Warlord's wrath.
"This is his punishment for our failure in Dol Amroth," Kaeliz muttered, shaking his head in fury. He swept the documents from the table and cursed loudly. Orthael...he with his grand schemes and arrogant presumptions...he had brought this ruin down on Kaeliz...or so the Warlord believed.
Well, he was not without his own plans. He could not keep Eomer from besieging his city, and very possibly conquering it. But already he was positioning an agent to see to it that the sons of the leaders of the west were dead before the end of summer.
He just needed to be sure he was alive to take advantage of the ensuing confusion.
Kaeliz saw the messenger still trembling, unable to leave until dismissed. "Go, take your rest," he told him.
Orthael...he would pay for this. He would be made to see that Kaeliz was not some lackey to be used and disposed of at will. And the lesson would be bloody.
Faramir of Ithilien was a descendent of Numenor; son of Denethor, who had been vigorous in his eighties all the way to his demise. Eowyn knew this and had thus expected age to come slow to her husband while she herself faded year by year.
But the wound that had brought him down at the Battle for the Bridge at Osgiliath was yet draining his life from him. His pallor was ghostly and gray was appearing in his fair hair. He could not ride for more than a few minutes without succumbing to pain. He could not even walk around his city without becoming exhausted.
Eowyn had consulted with her fellow matriarchs, Arwen and Lothiriel -- for they were both wise in healing lore -- and with their consultation she was fighting to heal her husband.
What made it worse, though, was knowing that for all the suffering he revealed there was inevitably ten times again more that he concealed. It was a trait inherent to nobility and one that had vexed her all of her life.
Today things were much worse.
Faramir's prophetic dreams had been rare and vague since the war. The last thing he had clearly foreseen was the birth of Elboron. Last night had been different. Disjointed as it was, the dream that had come to haunt her husband had been of their son: covered in blood and fighting, alone, for his life.
Faramir had been barely able to describe it fully, but what little he did say had made her blood run cold in her veins. Elboron was drawn to trouble, it seemed, and she could only imagine what terrible thing he and the other heirs had gotten into.
Against all reason and sense, Faramir had tried to set out for the Mark that very morning. No subtle pleas or rational arguments citing his health had quieted him. In the end, the only thing that swayed him was her pointing out that he was not sure how imminent the danger was. Instead, Bergil, son of Beregond, had been dispatched with fast horses to check on the heir.
Having to send someone on this important mission had forced Faramir to confront how weak he had become, and that was a crushing blow. She knew, because she knew him so well, that succumbing to his frailty brought back to life the denigrating voice of his father and the self-doubt that had dogged him his whole life.
And every time she realized that the specter of Denethor was haunting and belittling her husband, she found the time to hate the old man a little more.
Fortunately, there was more for Faramir to do than sit and brood. Though the repairs to Minas Ithil were long since completed, he had a grander scheme in mind that occupied most of his waking hours; a lifelong dream that he could now bring to fruition.
Faramir had set about building a vast library; the goal being to make Minas Ithil the center of learning for the whole of the west. A daunting ambition, for certain, but one he had dug into with the same pragmatism and determination with which he planned battles.
She was not sure why it was so important to him, only that it had something to do with his brother. It was too private to speak more of it, even to her.
The grand library was only half-complete, but he had scholars and scribes hard at work filling it. Scrolls and tomes from all over Gondor arrived every day, ready to be meticulously copied and then returned to their proper owners. Others, too, were happy to contribute. At the behest of Arwen, Elladan had brought the writings of Elrond from far-off Imladris. Eomer had sent some of his Uncle's most treasured books with the promise of more later. And, much to her husband's glee, they were expecting Merry and Pippin to arrive with a few select works from the Shire -- including the complete written works of Bilbo and Frodo Baggins.
Never a scholar herself, Eowyn was nonetheless in awe of the wheels her husband had set into motion. It would be a legacy he could proudly pass on to Elboron and generations beyond; a rich tradition of wisdom rather than the blood and death that had marked Faramir's life.
It was also poetic, in her mind, that was had once been Minas Morgul -- the launching point for the Dark Lord's assault on Gondor -- would be known henceforth as a place of learning.
"Your ladyship?"
Eowyn turned from the window at which she had been lingering and the thoughts which had been distracting her. One look at the page who stood breathless and pale before her sent a ripple of panic through her.
"What has happened?" she demanded.
"Lord Faramir has collapsed."
And without pause or consideration for what would be considered lady-like, she hitched up her skirts and ran. Fear blossomed in her heart as the worst possible occurrences ran through her mind.
"What happened?" Lothiriel demanded.
Aldurn flinched at the tone, gripping the mug in his hand even tighter. It was an unbelievably awful position he found himself in -- lying was a skill he was still mastering and putting on a performance for the Queen so he could keep his head was making him break out in a sweat.
"I had gone forth for a brief morning walk -- to get the blood going before my duty shift. I noticed what I thought to be a dead animal. I went closer and, well, it was Elboron."
"And you have no idea how he came to be there? You saw no one?"
Feeling himself sinking deeper into the mire, he shook his head. "There was no one about."
Lothiriel touched her fingers to her brow and sighed in frustration. "Well, I thank you for bringing him to us. We'll have to wait until he wakes to hear the tale from him."
Aldurn nodded, trying to disguise how worried that notion made him. It had been very dark in the underground cavern, and Elboron had been knocked unconscious almost as soon as the battle had begun, but there was still the chance that when he woke, he would reveal Aldurn as a spy.
He should have killed the boy and brought the bodies of the orcs back with the story that he had come too late to save the Prince and that his killers were dead. But Aldurn was not yet ready to stain his honor so badly -- a traitor he was, but no child-killer.
He doubted the King would care for the distinction.
"With your permission, I'll return to my duty, then," he told her.
She nodded gracefully. "Thank you, Aldurn."
He bowed slightly and headed off to the boys' room, where he took up his post outside their door. For now, there was nothing to do but wait and hope. Even if Elboron remembered nothing, though, there was still Orthael to worry about. No doubt, he would not be pleased to have two of his orc servants slain, and Aldurn would have to explain that. In his own mind, it was fairly clear he had done the right thing, but the keeper of his fate was not always reasonable.
Elfwine and Eldarion sat on the bed, watching Elboron anxiously. The blood had, in fact, not belonged to the Ithilien Prince. His only injuries were a large lump on the back of his head and a split lip -- much to everyone's relief.
When the boy finally began to stir, both of his friends leaned forward anxiously. "Boro?" Elfwine asked in a hushed voice.
"Wha...? I...oh, my head..."
Elfwine exchanged a relieved look with Eldarion. "How are you feeling? Mother asked me to see if you were sick in your stomach."
"Head hurts too much to feel anything else, really." He squinted his eyes shut against the rays of sunlight that were searing his skull. "What happened...?"
"We were sort of hoping you'd know," Eldarion said seriously. "Since you were, you know, there and everything. Aldurn wouldn't say much."
Elboron struggled to pull his memories together. "It's such a blur. I was in a hallway... No! A tunnel. The secret passage!" His eyes lit up. "I found it, Win. It does exist!"
Elfwine gaped at him. "Boro, you got a nasty bump on the head, how can you be sure...?"
"Because I am," Elboron said seriously. "I was in it. And there were foul folk there. And, then some sort of fight and...I hit my head. But it's there, I swear it."
"Don't agitate, Boro," Eldarion told him worriedly. "You'll make yourself sick. If it's there, it will be found."
Elfwine was looking incredulous, but he nodded. "Just rest. My mother will be by to see you soon."
Elboron sank back to the pillows, yielding to the pain in his head. Elfwine patted his shoulder and Eldarion took his hand. The worst of their fear had been alleviated, but their friend's news brought with it a host of new worries.
Elfwine resolved to speak to his mother about it. This was something they could not keep as a secret.
A thorough search of the keep had revealed no sign of secret doors or hidden passages, much to Elboron's frustration. Days slid by and the Ithilien Prince mended. So much so that he was very quickly fussing about being made to stay in bed.
Four days later, he had had enough. It was a gorgeous spring day out, far too much so for three energetic youths to spend indoors. Lothirel was reluctant to let them go out so soon after the attack on Elboron. An endless barrage of wheedling did eventually wear the harried Queen down.
And so Aldurn led his charges to a nearby pond for an idle day of fishing. He experienced more than a little relief himself at the restful day. The anxiety that had grated on him of late had left him feeling bruised.
"You want to dig further from the water," Elfwine explained to Eldarion sagely. To their surprise, their worldly friend had never been fishing before and therefore knew nothing of the intricate art of obtaining bait. "Better worms."
"No way," Elboron argued. "My father and I have been fishing forever and he always digs close to the water."
"Do you think it matters to the fish?" Eldarion asked, bemused.
"Well, of course it matters," Elboron explained in exasperation. "You want nice fat worms to attract the fish."
Eldarion snickered. "Maybe we should dangle you in the water, then, Win."
Elboron laughed and Elfwine glowered. "At least I know where to dig for worms, dung-breath."
"Wart-face," Eldarion shot back.
"Goat turd!" Elfwine returned and pounced, wrestling with Gondor's heir.
Listening to the boys laugh and play, Aldurn could not help but smile. The resilience of children, their indomitable spirits, were a source of wonder for him. He was a man weighed down by countless flaws and mistakes, poor decisions and poorer facilities to cope with consequences. No matter how he tried, he could not recall a time when he was so carefree.
"Worms?"
Aldurn blinked and looked up. Elboron was smiling and offering a small clay bowl full of squirming bait.
"What...?"
"Are you fishing or are intending to lay about like a wastrel?"
Aldurn relaxed under that bright and friendly grin. "A bit of both, really. Thank you." He took the offered worms.
"Welcome." Elboron looked back at his friends, who were putting their lines in the water, and then back at him. Bonelessly, the youth plopped down beside him. "So, where do you dig for worms?"
Aldurn scratched his stubbled jaw. "Under a big tree, to be honest."
"Really? Well, that makes a certain amount of sense, I suppose. I still say by the water is better." He fretted for a moment, searching for words. "I owe you my life."
Aldurn quickly shook his head. "It was just lucky I found you."
Elboron did not agree or contest that, simply considering it for a moment. "I bet you wish you were off with your King, instead of playing nursemaid to a bunch of children."
"Protecting you three is more of an adventure than any war campaign," Aldurn told him with a wry smile.
Elboron's expression was rueful. "I suppose so. But, still... I wish sometimes I were riding off to war. So, I'd guess you do too. Right?"
"Perhaps sometimes. But we all have choices we make and must live with."
"You sound like my father. He's always talking about choices and the paths we choose and other such things."
"Your father is known for his wisdom," Aldurn conceded, confused. Elboron was not usually this solemn.
Elboron beamed proudly at the compliment of his father. Then he grew serious again. "I miss him."
Aldurn was not sure how to respond to that. He could not even remember his father.
"You didn't find me outside Edoras."
Those six words hit him like a splash of icy rain. "Excuse me?"
Elboron's gaze on him was direct and uncompromising, a hint of what he would be in years to come. "I won't ask what you and the orc were discussing in the secret passage, but I know it was you. You saved me from him, which is why I keep this secret -- even from Win and Dar."
Aldurn knew the color had drained from his face. "What...do you mean to do?" This boy held his life in his hands and his helplessness was maddening.
The preternaturally mature gaze did not falter. "It is up to you, now. I know you're a good man at heart -- otherwise you'd have let that orc kill me to save yourself. I think you've just gotten a little lost. It happens, or so my father tells me. He says that a man can find his way back if he wants to -- he just needs to be given the chance. So, that's what you have to decide. If you want to be on our side, I'll never speak of this to anyone. But if you can't make that choice, then..."
Aldurn gaped at him. "Your highness, you're too gracious..."
"Really?" Elboron was pleased by this. "My father says it's foolish to flog a man who is lost. Save the whip for the ones who led the man astray, or something."
"Your father is a man of...amazing forgiveness." Aldurn looked away. "I may be too far off the path."
"I hope not. I kind of like you. And you did save my life and everything. But, like I said, you have to choose."
And with that, the boy got up and returned to his friends, leaving Aldurn to sit and ponder and be amazed at the mercy and wisdom of Faramir's son.
The world was burning.
Around him all was shadow and haze. His arms and legs were like lead, too heavy to move. He took in air with difficulty.
The world was burning.
The nightmare image of his son, scored with wounds and surrounded by fell enemies would not leave him be. To see and be powerless to intervene was a brutal torture.
The world was burning, and from out of the shadows and flame stepped a familiar figure.
Faramir had longed to look on his brother's face for many years. Capricious as his dreams and visions were, though, he was never granted that simple mercy. He had only fading memories to hold on to.
And this was yet another trick of light. It was not his beloved brother who came to his bedside. Shadows yielded the details of his visitor's face, and though the man bore a strong resemblance to Boromir, it was in fact, Denethor.
Faramir hissed in panic. "Has death sent you here as my guide into the long sleep, father?"
"Nothing quite so dramatic."
"Are you then merely the product of my fevered mind?"
"More than that, I should say. And yet less than the ghoul you seem to fear. Just a weary ghost."
"What purpose then drives you from your rest?" A thousand ancient feelings of anxiety and inadequateness were churning his insides.
"Purpose?" He was clearly condescending. "Your assumption requires that I was at rest to begin with."
Faramir fought back a surge of sympathy. Why should he care if his father's ghost lingered, unable to find peace? But to refuse sympathy was to be other than he was. Moreover, it was to become the cold, ruthless person his father had always sought to make him into. This battle of purpose, this pitting himself against himself was the legacy his father had given to him.
"Why, then, do you come here? To mock me in my weakness?"
Denethor's expression took on a familiar edge. "Why should I trouble myself to do so?"
Faramir held his throbbing skull. "You never neglected an opportunity in life..."
"And should I be moved by your self-pity? You have risen much higher in life than I had ever hoped for you, won much honor for yourself, made yourself friend to the...King." He said the last word with distaste. "Do not reduce yourself now to a simpering child."
Such as it was, it was high praise from his father. "Apologies, father."
Denethor nodded graciously. "Tell me of your dream."
Faramir shuddered at his father's choice of words. He had grown up being used as some sort of medium, one of many tools his father utilized to try and pierce the veil of the future. It had started after his tenth birthday, after a terrible incident one chilly winter's night...
"Why does he hate me, Mama?"
"He doesn't hate you, my galad. He just doesn't know how to show his love for you."
Faramir shook his head to banish the memory. Mama's dead, stupid. And she was wrong, He does hate me. And I hate him.
Even in his sulking temper, Faramir knew he was lying to himself about his feelings. He worshipped his father and felt certain that if he could become half as wise and strong, he would be counted among the great of Gondor. But it was beyond him. Boromir was the strong one. Boromir was the fast one. Boromir was the one the people loved...the one their father loved...
Faramir wiped angrily at the tears welling in his eyes as he stomped up a flight of stairs. His father would trash him good if he caught him crying. And Boro would be furious with father for it, and there would be a fight and it would be his stupid fault in the first place for crying. It would be awful.
All he wanted to do was sneak into his mother's room -- which had remained untouched by all but him since her passing -- and curl up in her blue cloak and try to forget about the latest catastrophe.
"Pick up the sword."
"It's too heavy!"
"Pick it up!"
"Ican't!"
But he had tried. He'd tried...tried so hard to bring the huge weapon into a ready position that he has sprained both his wrists.
Why, he wondered, could he never pass any challenge his father put before him?
Faramir slowly came to realize that his misery had distracted him to the point that he had no idea where he actually was. He knew the palace fairly well by now, enough so that he had selected a circumspect route that would take him around the servants and guards who might inform the Steward they had seen the younger son crying in the hallways. The trouble was, though, that the corridors had not taken him to where he had expected and now...he had no idea where he was.
The palace was vast and there were entire sections that no one ever went into. He could be lost for some time. Panic threatened to consume him, but he stifled the cry for help that began to form in his throat. Sulkily, he resolved to die of starvation before he so much as asked for directions.
Bringing his sole asset to bear -- his uncanny mind -- he started choosing turns more carefully. There were no windows to help him get his bearings, so he had to rely solely on his instincts.
His hesitant steps led him to a tower, one which he had never been in before. But a tower meant windows and windows meant a chance to figure out where he was. He ascended the stairs to the highest level and passed through a heavy wooden door.
Inside, the room was impossibly dark. Only by feeling along the wall did he find a window, and then he discovered it was cloaked in a heavy drape and the shutter was nailed closed.
"Someone didn't want sunlight in here," he muttered and considered his options. More wandering was not something he was really eager for. So, he was left with finding some way to pry open the shutters.
There was a soft pulse of light behind him. Faramir turned, but the light was gone. He frowned worriedly, wondering what sort of room he had stepped into. The palace was very old and there was no telling what ancient secrets he might have stumbled into.
The pulse of light came again, but this time it sustained itself for a bit. He could make out a swirl of purple energy beneath a heavy gauze. Curious, the boy moved closer. Perhaps this was some great treasure, and his discovery of it would please his father.
He licked his lips and paused at a raised step in the floor. His small hands reached out and touched the dark cloth covering...whatever treasure he had found. The veil fell away and he stared fully into a dazzling array of colors and light. It caught him, mesmerized him and drew him in.
His fingers came to rest on the polished orb, and for a minute space of time all he knew was the pleasant sensation of the cool, smooth surface. Then, suddenly, something within the orb seized him, reaching into his mind, down into his very soul. It tore away all the layers of his being, left him naked and vulnerable to the awful presence lurking within the orb.
Faramir screamed shrilly as the Dark Lord took hold of him, finding there was no escape and no shelter from the terrible and awesome power of the Deceiver...
Faramir snapped back to the present, wiping sweat from his forehead. His father's shade sat, looking at him with something that might be called sympathy. Faramir sank back down to his pillows.
"What do you care of my dreams now, father? They are of no further use to you."
"No further use to me, no. But I was always a bit better at gleaning the message in your dreams than you. My question was, actually, an offer of help."
Faramir was clearly dubious, but he could not deny his father's wisdom in these matters. He muttered out a description of the dream, his eyes going glassy as he described the image of his son, blood-spattered and surrounded by enemies.
"How old did he look in the dream?" Denethor seemed, in his ghostly way, truly concerned.
"Older than when I last left him, but not yet bearded," was all that Faramir could reply.
"So, it was not a portent of immediacy, but a hint of the near future." Denethor considered this for a moment. "And there is nothing unusual in that. Your son will go to war, that much is inevitable." He did appear regretful of that. "So, what was the purpose of this dream? What were you supposed to learn?"
Faramir tried to find the answer, but his head was throbbing and the fever was cooking him alive. "I don't know."
"Think. Look at the dream. Examine every detail. The answer is there, my son. It is always there, if you look."
Faramir squeezed his eyes shut, almost whimpering from the pain. He took a moment to regain his composure. "Do you know something of this?" He frowned when no answer came. "Father?"
But when Faramir opened his eyes, his father was gone and instead his beloved wife, Eowyn sat beside. Her bearing was strong and confident, but her eyes glistened with the tears she held back.
"You mutter much in your restless sleep, my lord," she told him softly.
He took her hand and brought it to his lips. His wan smile brought a loving one from her in response. Then he slipped back into the darkness of his fevered sleep.
Elfwine approached his mother, flanked by his friends and consumed by trepidation. The setting could not be less threatening; this was his mother's sitting room. The wolf-skin rug beside her had often been his place as a small child -- laying there reading quietly while his mother embroidered. The hearth was the same where he had singed his socks trying to warm his toes on a chilly winter night.
And this was his mother, who had never paralyzed him with awe as his father's mere presence ever seemed to do to him. Up until his excursion to Dol Amroth, she had never so much as raised her voice to him.
But today he had something to request that might well move her to ire.
She looked up from her needlework and graced him with a loving smile. "Good morning."
"Good morning," the three chorused.
"And what adventure have you come to ask permission for today?" Her look was direct, but the smile on her face did not lose any of its warmth.
Elfwine went crimson and looked down at his feet. His mother knew him entirely too well. "Mother...we want to visit our Dunlending friends."
She gave him a shocked look and then touched her fingers to her brow in a ladylike gesture of boundless exasperation. "Win...are you actively trying to give your father apoplexy?"
Elfwine shook his head, thoroughly uncomfortable with the idea of displeasing his parents. "Mother, they're our friends. Isn't it better to make friends than enemies?"
"It's not that simple, Win, and you know it." She considered it for a moment as they watched, anxiously. "Here are my terms, then. If Chief Educh comes here to give you an escort and his oath on your safety...and insofar as Aldurn accompanies you...you may go. Though how I will explain this to your father, I can't imagine."
The boys let out an excited holler, eyes bright. "Thank you," they each said in turn.
"Now, to your lessons. Rotho will be checking to see if you've kept up with your studies and if he is not satisfied, I shall not hear the end of it."
They looked longingly out at the window and the shining sun, their expressions pitiful.
"But..." Elboron protested.
"We can do them later!" Eldarion reasoned.
"Mother..."
She laughed and shook her head. "Spoiled, the lot of you. Spend an hour at your books and then you may go outside. Now, I suggest you get going before I come to my senses."
The three scampered out, grinning and flush with victory. Tomorrow would be a fine day indeed.
Educh arrived at dawn with a small honor guard, evincing surprise at the polite (if abrupt) invitation to Meduseld. He breakfasted with the Queen in private, and by the end of it she had made it so clear what would happen if harm befell the three princes that even the powerful chief was shaken to his core.
None of this concerned the three heirs. In the saddle, with the new morning sun shining merrily down upon them, they felt only contentment. Aldurn was clearly less at ease; being their sole bodyguard left him no choice but to accompany them. Riding willingly into a Dunlending village, however, was not a source of joy for him.
It took less time, with their escort, to arrive at the Elk village. Magda was waiting for them, and the excitement they felt was mirrored in her eyes.
"Umtu, Magda," Elfwine greeted her with a huge smile.
"Umtu," she replied with an equally bright smile. "You have been practicing."
He blushed at the compliment. "And you have with your Westron."
She nodded, holding his gaze for a moment before turning to the other two princes. "Umtu Eldarion, Elboron."
"Er..." Elboron was not even going to attempt Dunlending.
"Hello," Eldarion murmured.
"You will stay until tomorrow?" she asked hopefully.
They all grinned and nodded to her. Their other Dunlending friends came out to join them, then, more bashful and uncertain.
Her eyes drifted to their swords, which hung on their saddles. Seeing her frown in concern, Elfwine reassured her with a smile. "There are many dangers in the Mark. My father insists we be armed when we leave Edoras."
She still seemed a little unnerved, but she did not press it.
"Kaparo?" Elboron asked, eyes lit anxiously.
The children grinned with equal enthusiasm and nodded. Very soon, the small gang of youths were out in the field running, chasing and laughing together and whatever differences they had from birth were forgotten.
After a simple dinner, the Bahna and challenged Elboron to a wrestling match, which everyone thought of as great sport. Kala loudly proclaimed she would challenge the winner, looking eager for the prospect.
Elfwine grinned but did not volunteer. He had spent the whole day shoring up his courage and, finally, pushed himself to lean in close to Magda and whisper, "Can I walk with you?"
She ducked her head, smiling and blushing all at once. With the others paying rapt attention to Elboron and Bahna squaring off, the two were able to sneak off without being noticed.
Elfwine had to take a moment to untangle his tongue, which was painfully awkward. But Magda seemed equally uncertain what to say, so he did not feel like a complete fool.
"I like, um, well... I like your...village," Elfwine hedged. He cringed at his utter lack of courage.
"Thank you," she said sincerely, glancing furtively at him.
"And I...like coming here...to see you." It was a small improvement, at least.
She blushed prettily again. "I like seeing you too."
"More than Dar and Boro?"
She laughed, which startled him so badly he almost bolted like a buck who'd scented a predator in the grasses. "Yes. More than Dar and Boro."
And he was flying, soaring above the mountains and the clouds and reaching for the sun. He wanted to laugh in pure, unfettered joy. "That makes me happy. I want to come and see you as often as I may."
"Does it not make your father temper?"
He frowned. "Temper...? Do you mean angry?" He made an exaggeratedly angry face and she giggled. It was like the sound of a dozen little bells.
"Yes, angry. Sorry."
"No, it's fine. We both have a lot to learn." He smiled. "He does not understand your people as I do. He thinks...bad things of you."
"For some of my people, he has the correct feeling." She seemed sad for a moment. "But my father perc...percify? Pac... Er, is hopeful that we can have friendship."
"I hope for that too." They walked along slowly as the sun began to set. "Will you teach me some more of your words?" he asked.
She ducked her head again, pleased by the gesture of respect. They sat under a heavily bowed tree and spoke softly for a long time, bridging the gap between them by slowly learning each other's language.
Late that night, as he stood on the precipice of sleep with no help of going over, Elboron nudged him, his teeth flashing in the darkness. "Win? I know you're awake," he whispered. "You were with her, weren't you?"
Elfwine felt himself blush and for the first time since meeting his cousin he did not feel like sharing something. "We talked," he said neutrally.
"You were gone for hours."
"So?"
Elboron giggled hard enough to rouse Eldarion. "Wha...?"
"Win has a doe."
"I do not!" Elfwine hissed.
Eldarion flopped back down. "Good f'him." His subsequent snoring demonstrated his utter lack of interest.
"Go to sleep, Boro."
"Did you kiss her?"
"Boro, I'm going to hit you."
"I'm just asking..." Boro teased.
Elfwine nudged him hard in the ribs. "If I answer, will you leave me alone?"
"My oath on it."
Annoyed, Elfwine glowered at him for a moment first. "No, all right? Now go to sleep."
Elfwine stared up into the darkness, glad he had his cousin checked for the moment. He really did not want to answer questions on this right now. And he really didn't want to admit to Elboron that while he had not kissed Magda...he had wanted to.