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:
The three heirs arrived back home at noon the following day, feeling more than a little relief that they weren't having to sneak in like thieves. They were, of course, starved -- not having eaten since that morning. Though it risked the Queen's wrath, they skipped the required wash and went straight for the kitchens.
They did not make it to their goal, though. Halfway across the great Hall, they were intercepted by Elfwine's eldest sister, Hanild.
"Mother needs to talk to you," she said she said with a haughty air that told them plainly she knew something they did not.
"Why? We aren't in trouble," Elfwine retorted.
"Are we?" Elboron asked, worried. He had been in trouble from birth, so he did not need to know what he had done wrong to believe he was in for a scolding.
"Have to find out, don't you?" she mocked and flounced out with a dramatic twirl of skirts and braids.
The boys exchanged rueful glances. "What could it possibly be?"
"Can't be about our lessons...can it?" Elboron looked mournful at the idea of being locked up with books and scrolls.
"I don't know," Elfwine responded.
"No help for it," said Eldarion. "Just have to go get it over with."
They headed to the Queen's sitting room like men heading to the gallows; stopping nonetheless in the kitchens for some bread and bacon, which they combined into greasy sandwiches. Mouths full and spirits low, the three walked together to face their fate.
"Mother?"
All three boys froze in the doorway of the sitting room, staring agape at the Lady of the Mark. Her customary courtly gowns had been replaced by a practical tunic and breeches, She was pacing and conversing with the other occupant of the room.
"Bergil?" Elboron asked in shock.
They turned to face the boys, neither looking happy. Bergil did, in fact, look exhausted and pensive. Before any of the boys could frame a question, Lothiriel broke into their confusion.
"Elboron, your father is very ill. I must go to him and see if I can help. You are to come with me."
Ithilien's heir paled, a host of sickening worries striking him dumb.
"But what about us?" Elfwine asked, giving his cousin a concerned look.
"Yeah, we stick together," Eldarion said resolutely. He and Elfwine had moved shoulder to shoulder with their shaken friend, lending him wordless support.
"Normally, yes," she told them with a fond smile. "But Faramir needs to see his son. There is healing to be found in the renewed bonds of love. But you, my son," she said to Elfwine, "must remain here. With your father at war and my leaving, the care of the Mark is in your hands. It is your duty."
Elfwine straightened. "Yes, mother. I understand."
She graced him with a proud look and then turned to Eldarion. "I want you with him so he isn't alone and miserable."
"But..." He looked from Elboron to Eldarion, trying to formulate a protest. In the face of their stoic acceptance of their duties, though, he could do nothing less. He nodded mutely, staring at the floor.
"Erkenbrand shall act as regent -- I've already spoken to him. That way we can be sure there won't be any uprisings. And he knows enough about the Mark to help advise you." She looked at her son with great love and pride. "And that, sadly, is all I have time for."
Still stunned, Elboron found his voice. "Is he dying?" he asked fearfully.
"Not so long as we hurry," she replied.
Elboron winced and looked at his friends. "Well..."
"You have to go," Elfwine murmured.
"We'll be waiting for you," Eldarion assured him.
Elboron gave them each a strong embrace in turn. "I'll see you soon."
They nodded, not showing the fear they felt for their friend and his father.
Lothiriel gave her son a kiss on the brow and a fierce hug and then led the way out of the room. Elboron shuffled out last, his bearing huddled and his face a closed-off mask.
"It's a relief to find you well," Bergil told him as they headed for the stables.
"Why wouldn't I be?" Elboron asked sullenly.
"Well, I was actually sent here by your father, you see. He had one of his visions, before this...collapse." Bergil had always been awed by the idea of prophetic dreams.
"And?"
Bergil frowned at his hostile tone but did not challenge him on it. "And it showed you in danger." He smiled wryly. "Though, I must say, highness, it does not take a prophecy to predict that you will find your way into trouble."
Elboron glared at Bergil's back. "Don't start this now."
"I am not trying to cross swords with you, highness. I'm just expressing my sincere hope that your time here has run the wildness out of you. That on your return you will be a tad more mindful of your safety...and others as well."
Bergil had been his sitter as a babe and his guard as a child. These arguments went back a long way. "I was never as bad as you made out."
"You set a room on fire."
"That was an accident."
"I'm only saying that you could spend more time acting like a prince and less time acting like a force of nature."
"You've been 'only saying' that as long as I can remember."
"You'd think I had some sort of motive..."
Elboron let out an exasperated growl. "Why are you starting in on me?"
"I've missed you?'
"Hardly."
Bergil cast a glance over his shoulder, and in his eyes was the same judgment Elboron had always had to deal with from him. "Because you're becoming a man and you should learn to act the part. You have a long, proud heritage--"
"Oh, spare me or flay me with a wooden spoon!"
"A long, proud her--" Bergil tried again with similar results.
"Yes, 'proud' like my grandfather trying to kill my father and then gibbering like a loon before flinging himself off the walls of Minas Tirith."
"He threw himself on the pyre. Honestly, where do you learn your history?"
"Burning, falling, what does it matter?"
"One is historical fact, the other is a false legend," Bergil admonished him. "Denethor was a great man before his disgrace. He held Gondor for years against the forces of Mordor."
"He still died a crazy, stupid man."
"It is not proper for you to say such things."
"Well, you can take proper and--"
"If you two are quite done -- and even if you're not -- shut your mouths. You're giving me a headache," Lothiriel reprimanded them.
Still glaring at each other, the two completed the walk to the stables in simmering silence. It was going to be a long, unpleasant trip, Elboron decided miserably. And it would be the worse because his friends were staying behind.
"How are you feeling?"
"Fine."
"Your color does look a bit better. But then, green never looked good on you."
Faramir sulked at his brother and wiped his running noise. "Very funny."
Boromir pinched his own nose. "Be grateful you can't smell anything brother. The reek of you would make roses wilt."
Faramir stuck his tongue out and folded his arms outside the heavy swath of blankets he was buried in. "Horse's arse."
Boromir snickered and stretched out his long legs. "Language, Farry, language. I'll have the servants scrub out your mouth."
Faramir made a rude gesture. "So...is father terribly angry?" he asked worriedly.
His brother's eyes betrayed a moment of frustration, but his smile remained fixed on his face. Even at twelve, his brother had a remarkable gravity about him. "Father understands you're sick."
Faramir coughed and sniffled. "Really?"
"Really." Boromir pulled out a heavy tome that he had brought with him. "And it was just archery practice today. No real warrior uses a bow anyway."
"Maybe..." Faramir eyed the book with interest.
"I found this old book in the library. Thought you might like it. Nearly choked me with all the dust on it."
Faramir's eyes lit up. "You ventured into the library for me?"
"Well, no danger is too great for me to face for my little brother."
"You're the best." Faramir took the book and caressed the ancient leather of its bindings.
"Well, when I'm steward, I'll let you build a grand library where you and those musty old pages can stay together forever."
Faramir snickered. "Promise?"
"Promise," Boromir said sincerely, though he was still smiling...
Faramir smiled in his fevered delirium, taking solace in the happiness of the memory. It sheltered him from the misery and pain that had taken hold of his body and gave him some measure of peace.
Elboron slid from the saddle and nearly collapsed. They had ridden hard for days, barely resting, changing horses to conserve their mounts' strength. He was not used to such long rides, however, and the toll showed plainly on him.
Bergil made to support him, but he refused the help. He would not have his father seem him be carried to his bedside.
Lothiriel, looked peaked herself, followed Bergil into the stone manor that housed the Prince of Ithilien. For Elboron, it was oddly disquieting. He had not been home for two years, and to some part of him no longer it was home. The huge stone edifices of Minas Ithil, the narrow streets lending a claustrophobic air to the place, the patrols of soldiers keeping a tight rein on security...it was a far cry from the freedom and relative safety of the Mark.
They marched up the stairs, but instead of his parents' room, they headed to the east wing and a room he had not been in before. It was warm, stiflingly so -- the hearth was blazing, adding to the warmness of the late spring day. Eowyn was sitting in a chair, half-dozing, and Faramir was tossing fitfully on the bed, muttering nonsense.
"Mother!" Elboron said excitedly, remembering only at the last second to keep his voice down.
The Lady stirred and her haggard face lit up when she saw her son. "Boro!"
He ran to her and she took him in her arms, holding him like she had no intention of ever letting him go.
"You're growing like a colt," she told him, rocking him in her arms.
"I've missed you," he murmured, voice thick with emotion. "What's wrong with father? What happened? Is this the same sickness that kept you from visiting? How bad is it?"
She laughed and rested her forehead on his. There were tears of exhaustion and relief in her eyes. "Your father was wounded in the last battle and he never fully recovered, Boro. But he'll be fine, won't he Lothiriel?"
The quest for her own assurance was plain. Lothiriel looked into each of Faramir's eyes and then felt his forehead. She "hmm"ed and did not respond, instead looking at the wound for a moment. Finally, she looked mother and son in the eyes with an encouraging stare. "I am sure I can help him. Bergil, have a servant bring my saddlebags, won't you?"
"I'll do it, my Lady," he said and turned to go.
"No, you will have a servant do it. Then you will get a meal and find your bed before you collapse." He started to protest, but she cut him off. "None of that noble-martyr routine, if you please. I don't fancy having to attend two sick beds, and I will, if you don't do as I say. Also, please have the kitchens send something up here for us."
He blinked at her commanding tone, somewhat at a loss. Finally, he nodded crisply and departed.
She came over to Eowyn and clasped her hands warmly. "You are taking care of yourself, aren't you? Eating and sleeping?" "When I have the opportunity," Eowyn hedged. "Thank you so much for coming. I...did not know what else to do."
"You did exactly the right thing."
Elboron slipped out of his mother's arms and went to his father, staring at him in fear and uncertainty. "Can he hear us?"
"He has moments of lucidity, but mostly he is trapped in a world of broken images and ghostly visitations. He rambles in his sleep..."
Elboron looked worriedly into his father's face. "He's thinner."
"Yes, Boro."
"And there's gray in his hair..."
Eowyn rose and placed a hand in his shoulder. "He didn't want you to see him this way."
He looked up at her in perplexity. "Why?"
"Because fathers want to be strong for their sons," she told him gently.
That did not make much sense to Elboron, but he was used to being kept in the dark by his parents. He settled on the edge of the bed and fretted, wishing he could do something to help.
A servant brought up Lothiriel's saddle bags, and the Queen of the Mark quickly set to work. She asked Eowyn a series of questions and started measuring out herbs and compounds.
The food was brought and Elboron immediately tucked in -- it seemed an age since he'd had a proper meal. Then, as Eowyn and Lothiriel conferred on Faramir's treatment, forgetting him for the time, he drifted to a chair and gradually slid into a troubled sleep.
Elfwine sat upon the throne of Rohan, horribly mindful of the weight of the office he was representing, and bent all of his focus on the problems of the Mark. All matters of a non-vital nature had been commuted until either his mother or father returned.
But there were still disputes to settle, reports to take and an endless parade of decisions that someone had to make.
After only three days of this, Elfwine was ready to lock himself in his room. Only his sense of responsibility (and the knowledge that Erkenbrand would break down the door) kept him from taking that desperate course.
Eldarion stayed near, out of sheer loyalty. It was clearly even more agonizing for Gondor's heir to be trapped inside day after day. But his quiet presence and encouraging smiles kept Elfwine from losing his mind.
"Civil complaint," Erkenbrand murmured into his ear, handing him a scroll.
"I thought I wasn't dealing with civil complaints?" the prince whined, uncurling the parchment with a sulky expression.
"There are certain necessary exceptions, sir."
"There are? Why?"
"Because some have a time sensitivity..."
"I don't see how...oh..." He read the scroll over and went red to the roots of his hair. "Ah... But...do I have to?"
"I thought you'd take a certain delight in it, highness," Erkenbrand remarked with a wink.
"You have a sick sense of humor, then." He squirmed in his seat.
"Straighten up, highness. Shoulders to the back of the throne. "
"When do I get to have you chop off peoples' heads, anyway?" Elfwine asked sarcastically.
"Oh, you know you can ask that of me anytime, highness."
"That's good. I think." He straightened and assumed his regal expression -- at least, that was the expression he was struggling for. "Show them in, then."
His guards opened the doors to the hall and in walked two people. One was Huflisk, a man yet in his prime and one of the more prominent tanners in Edoras. His dark blond hair was in a hopeless tangle and so had been tied back for his auspicious audience. He also wore clothes that were somewhat close to clean.
Slinking in after him was none other than Hama, looking miserable and uncomfortable all at once. He bowed to the Prince, keeping his eyes on the floor...and his distance from Huflisk.
Erkenbrand stepped forward to announce the case in his booming baritone. "Huflisk, son of Geflisk, son of Jorn, highness, coming before you with a civil complaint against Hama, son of Haleth, son of Hama, regarding the--"
"Er, yes," Elfwine cut him off. Though Hama's misery should have been a sweet display for him, it was really not. Watching the boy who had tormented him wilt as the accusation began was sad and pathetic. Either simple pity or some nascent sovereign instinct told him to spare the stableboy as best he could.
Elfwine straightened in his seat again and cleared his throat. "So...Hama Halethson, do you deny the charge?"
There was a very quiet "no" from the boy.
"I'm sorry, but you do need to look at me. And, um, speak up."
Hama gave him a pitiable look. "No, highness, the charge is...um, well, I did do it. I am the father, as best I know."
Elfwine was grateful he would not have to get into a paternity dispute. "Goodman Huflisk, please know that inasmuch as Hama is a part of our house, our house is...partially responsible to you and this debt." He glanced at Erkenbrand, who nodded.
Huflisk bowed. "I will accept your judgment in this, highness."
Elfwine knew a few things about the law. Dishonoring a man's daughter could earn you a flogging. Certainly, it would guarantee you a quick and sudden wedding.
"I will speak to Hama in private, first." He got up and headed for a rear door. Erkenbrand stared, watching him go and not at all sure what he was about. He could not and would not dispute Elfwine in open court.
Hama slunk after him, passing through the door before the prince. Elfwine went in after and closed the door. Once in the secluded antechamber, Elfwine dropped his regal manner.
"Idiot!" he snapped at Hama. "How could you do such a thing?"
Hama blushed and scuffed his feet. "I lost sense." "Obviously." Elfwine paced. "Couldn't you mount another stableboy if you were that anxious? They don't have babies. I hope you know that."
Hama winced and nodded.
"You know what my father would do? He'd marry the both of you right now."
"Yes," Hama agreed miserably.
"But you don't want that, I'm guessing." Hama shook his head mutely. "I should make you marry her just for putting me in this situation." He fretted and considered his options.
"I suppose I'd deserve it, after all I've done to you and your friends."
Elfwine rolled his eyes. "The false humility isn't helping. This has nothing to do with that." He gave Hama a hard look. "I'm going to make this right, get you out of this. I can't say that will save you from the wrath of your fathers. They may want to skin you, but that's your problem, not mine. But if this happens again, I'll flog you myself. Understand?"
"Yes, highness."
Elfwine ushered him through the door and resumed his throne, feeling somewhat pleased that he had found a way to resolve this. "Goodman Huflisk, thank you for your patience." He straightened when Erkenbrand tapped his shoulder. "First, accept our apologies for this embarrassing incident."
"Your highness is too kind."
"Secondly, an award of ten gold crowns will be paid to you for your troubles. Your daughter will receive the best care from my mother's own midwife, and she will have the child here. If you wish, the crown will take the child to raise. Or, if your daughter wishes to keep the child, a stipend can be discussed at that time."
Huflisk bowed deeply. "You are very kind, highness."
"Thank you for your understanding."
Huflisk departed, looking satisfied. He gave Hama a glare that spoke volumes; Elfwine did not doubt Hama would not be allowed near the man's daughter again.
"What are those?"
"Commonly, they're referred to as clothes."
Sopping wet from a bath Bergil had forced him to take, Ithilien's prince was not in a good humor. Any moment he was not by his father's bedside, Bergil was pestering him; lessons, etiquette, manners, posture, washing and now, apparently, clothes.
"I already have clothes."
"They're a tad small, highness."
"The tunics fit fine."
"Running around half-dressed may serve in...Rohan..." Bergil did not hide his distaste. "But not here."
"It's warm and a tunic is perfectly decent," Elboron told him waspishly. "And the next time you wrinkle your nose at the mention of my mother's people, I swear I'll hit you."
Bergil was unmoved by the threat. In fact, he seemed inclined to pretend Elboron had not spoken at all. "I had this made based on something already in your wardrobe."
"On what? Something I wore when I was five?"
It wasn't the breeches he was objecting to specifically -- they were made of the same coarse wool he was accustomed to and they were dyed to a tolerable shade of blue. It was entirely too warm for them, however -- and the same was true for the doublet. All truly fine, courtly wear that he was simply in no mood to put on.
It was the shirt that had his jaw hanging open and an outraged fire burning in his eyes. A pale blue in color, every inch of it had been painstakingly embroidered with a mixture of half, quarter and crescent moons.
"No," the prince said emphatically.
"Highness, while you are in my charge, you will do your best to not embarrass yourself or your family. Your mother does not need the added frustration of whispers about her wild son being bandied about. "
"I would lay odds my mother would think you're being as much of a horse's ass as I do. And don't try to use my father's illness against me." He considered once more the atrocious thing Bergil had brought him and shook his head again. "No."
"Well, then, highness, please at least take the braids out of your hair."
"They are a custom among my mother's people -- and before you make that face remember what I said about hitting you."
"What face, highness?"
"The one when where you look like you just found half a worm in your apple."
Bergil tossed the clothes on the bed, admitting defeat on that front. "If they are not to your liking, we'll find others that you do like. It's time you had a valet anyway."
"Valet?"
"And a secretary."
"Why?"
"To keep track of where you need to be, of course." Bergil considered it. "And tutors, of course."
"I have tutors," Elboron retorted.
"Had, highness."
"Bergil, are you actually thinking I'm staying here?"
"Why...wouldn't you, highness?" He seemed a bit alarmed by this idea.
"Because my father will be well soon and once he is, I'm going to return to my friends."
Bergil was positively despondent at the notion. "Well, we'll see..."
"No, we won't see. I've decided and my parents will agree and you, thankfully, don't have any say in the matter."
Bergil shook his head. "I'm not your enemy, highness. But I do have a few years on you. I'm just trying to prepare you for your responsibilities."
"Bergil, I'm twelve! I don't have to worry about that for a long time."
Bergil's reply was a noncommittal shrug.
"What?" the prince demanded.
"No one knows the future for certain, highness."
Elboron's eyes narrowed. "My father is going to recover."
Bergil shrugged again.
"He is," Elboron insisted.
"I hope so, highness -- sincerely, But if he does or does not, this should show you that you're one illness or sword-stroke away from ruling Ithilien. You can't hide in childhood anymore, highness."
Elboron stared hard at him for a long moment and then turned sullenly away. "I'll deal with that when it happens. For now...just leave me alone."
"Yes, highness." Bergil bowed stiffly and departed.
Elboron finished drying off and set about finding a comfortable tunic. He supposed that Bergil was right, in his own infuriating way, and that he should dress more Ithilien and less Rohan. But in a way he could not really explain, dressing like he had in the Mark made him feel less distant from his friends.
"That's it, Dar, I've had it," Elfwine said as he stalked into the room they shared. "Let's skin out the window and ride as far and fast from here as horses will carry us."
Eldarion was flopped on the bed amidst a scattering of parchment. The window was open, which did little good save to allow the midges in. The air outside was not moving at all. "I thought you'd never ask. If it gets any hotter my hair will catch on fire."
Elfwine mumbled his agreement and started wrestling out of his courtly attire. It was no easy task, as every inch was stuck to him by sweat. "Maybe we could at least go for a swim?"
The heir of Gondor looked disappointed. "I thought your first idea was better."
"Yes, well, we wouldn't get very far. Erkenbrand would drag us back by our ears."
Eldarion sulked for a moment and then rolled onto his back. "Well, a swim sounds like a decent second choice."
"Anything new on Uthamar's line?"
"No." He frowned deeply. "I'm sorry to say, Win, I think it's futile. We've got letters back from minstrels in and around Stovall, several histories and even a census. We can't find this person."
Elfwine threw a tunic at him and slipped on one of his own. Together, they padded out of the room. Aldurn stepped from the shadows, looking aggrieved that they had decided to go abroad.
"We're going swimming. And so are you, before the heat drops you like a rotted fruit off a tree."
Aldurn would usually make some duty-related excuse at such a suggestion. However, the heat had him quite subdued. "Yes, highness."
They walked on, letting him follow at his chosen distance. Elfwine dropped his voice a little to avoid being overheard. "It was a wild horse, Dar. We didn't think we'd really be able to run it down."
"I know, but how are we supposed to find out the truth?"
"Well, we don't. Questions don't always have answers. Or, at least, answers you can find."
"That's nonsense," Eldarion said stubbornly. "There has to be somewhere we haven't looked; someplace a book on this would be kept. Does your father have a private library?"
Elfwine laughed, just thinking of his father with a library was absurd. "My father does not have my love for musty pages."
Eldarion made a face that suggested he did not either.
The three escaped the sweltering confines of Meduseld. A brief ride later, they were at their preferred swimming-hole. While Aldurn saw to the animals, the boys stripped off and slid into the cool waters. Eldarion, who had been deep in thought all the while, drew Elfwine to the other side of the pool.
He cast furtive glances at Aldurn and kept his voice low when he spoke. "Your grandfather was raised in Gondor, correct?"
"No, he- Wait, do you mean Eomund or Theoden?"
"Which one was king?"
Elfwine groaned. "You are so hopeless."
Eldarion glowered. "I am not."
"Are too. Honestly, you don't even know who ruled the Mark during the War?"
"I do too," Eldarion protested. "I...just can't remember right now."
Elfwine snickered. "Your father will flay us both when he finds out you're as dense as when you got here."
"Will you just answer the question?" the Gondorian heir growled, slapping at a midge. "Don't make me tie you into a knot."
"I am bigger than you, you know."
"Not all of you."
"What..." Elfwine saw Eldarion's gaze flick to below the water line and he flushed in embarrassment. "You are such a liar."
"Ha! You wish I was lying."
Elfwine's response was to shove his friend over into the water. Eldarion came up, spluttering.
"Don't start," he warned the Prince of the Mark.
"Or what?" Elfwine teased. "Will 'Whisper' throw a tantrum?"
"That's it!" Eldarion howled and pounced.
Elfwine responded with a challenging roar -- or it would have been a roar if his voice had not broken halfway through it.
Eldarion broke away in a fit of giggles. "You sound like...like a half-plucked rooster!"
Cheeks flaming, Elfwine seized his friend and tossed him deeper into the pool. "At least I don't have legs like a rooster!"
Still laughing, Eldarion tackled him again. "Take that back!"
"Chicken legs!"
"Rooster voice!"
Elfwine pushed him away, choking on laughter. "Rooster voice?"
Eldarion folded his arms and shrugged, somewhat embarrassed. "All right, not my best...but still true."
Elfwine knelt, lowering himself to his shoulders in the water. He pinched water from his eyes and eyes the Gondorian heir. "You're a bit older than me. Why aren't you changing yet?"
"I'm not sure," Eldarion replied honestly. "Mother told me my elf blood is really strong and so I'd develop differently."
"What, are you going to grow leaves and roots?"
"Very funny. No, she said it would happen late, but when it did, it would happen quickly."
"Lucky you. Me? I can't wait until I have a full beard."
"Ew. Why?"
"Because that's how folks will know I'm grown up," Elfwine explained as if it should be perfectly obvious.
"But beards are scratchy," Eldarion countered artlessly.
"So?"
The Prince of Gondor shrugged, eyeing him for a moment. Suddenly, he was overcome by a fit of giggles.
"What now?" Elfwine asked with thinning patience.
"I...I just...just...pictured you with a...a beard..." he gasped.
Elfwine splashed him irritably. "I'd smack you if you were worth the bother."
His friend flashed him a toothy grin and dunked his head under the waters. When he emerged, he swept his hair back and rubbed the water from his eyes. The subject suddenly returned to the forefront of his mind and he gave Elfwine a direct look.
"So, who was the King of the Mark before?"
"Oh, Theoden, who was my Uncle. Eomund was my grandfather."
"Theoden, Theodred. Eomer, Eowyn, Eomund...doesn't it get confusing with you all having almost the same name?"
"It's really not that difficult if you don't have butterflies for brains."
"I do not!"
"Besides, Elfwine, Eldarion, Elboron...a lot of people have similar names," the Prince of the Mark pointed out.
"Well, I was first," Gondor's heir retorted hotly.
"Not that anyone would know."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Just that you haven't got a hair on your body below your nose." Elfwine grinned mockingly.
Eldarion leaned in close, posturing and challenging. Faster than the eye could follow, he swiped at Elfwine's chest, making a plucking gesture. Then he slipped out of arm's reach, grinning.
"Neither do you, now."
Elfwine took a belated swing at him, glowering. "Dung breath."
Eldarion splashed him in response. "So, anyway, your granduncle was raised in Gondor..."
"Yes."
"I don't even get a surprised look of admiration for knowing that?"
"You're still on a short tether for not knowing who the last king of the Mark was."
"Fine," Eldarion sulked. "Theoden was schooled in Gondor, where we've been writing things down for ages."
"Are you insulting my people again?"
"It seems so. Anyway, maybe your granduncle kept a private library and it's still there in the royal chambers."
Elfwine considered the idea. "You could be right. But we'd have to ask my father about it..."
"He's not coming back for a few more weeks at least."
Elfwine started to nod and then caught something in his friend's expression. "Oh, roadapples, you're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting...are you?"
"Win, stop sniffing the wind, will you? It's a lot less dangerous than visiting a Dunlending village. We sneak in, have a peek, and sneak out."
"But...it's my father's chambers. I haven't even seen it since I was...a toddler."
"Are you forbidden?"
"Not in the strictest sense of the word. But I doubt he's fancy me snooping around in there..."
"Well, it's not like he needs to know..."
"Somehow, it never seems to work out that way..."
"Are you balking?"
"No, I'm fretting."
"But if we found Helm's Hammer..."
"Shhh!" Elfwine warned, casting furtive glances at Aldurn.
Their unobtrusive guard was lounging in the water, appearing immensely relieved and almost utterly unaware of them.
"He can't hear us," Eldarion argued. "And even if he could, he would think we're making up stories. He doesn't know the thing is real."
"I'd rather not risk it. Everything we know about that thing says it's wicked and dangerous, so the fewer people who know about it the better."
"Fine," Eldarion said testily. "All I'm saying is, if we find it, we'll be heroes."
"I'm not really interested in finding it. I just don't want anyone else...like this mysterious enemy of the west...to get his hands on it."
"But it's supposed to destroy walls!"
"So? You have any walls you're mad at?"
"Why are you being like this?"
Elfwine trailed a finger through the water, looking thoughtful. "There are no happy stories that involve magic. Even among your people...their greatness faded with the destruction of Isildur's Bane."
"You believe the Hammer is cursed."
"I only know that Helm's entire house was wiped out and the Mark nearly destroyed. So, I think we should be careful."
Eldarion shrugged carelessly. "As you say... So, when so we sneak into your father's chambers?"
Elfwine groaned and looks up at the dusky sky. "Tonight. Most no one will be about, with the heat. But this really has to be the last bit of mischief you get me into."
"Me?" Eldarion laughed. "This is your mystery. I'm just helping. And if Boro were here..."
He trailed off, thinking of their friend so far away now. They did not speak for a time, quietly considering the Prince of Ithilien and how much they missed his laughing face. Tonight's adventure, they knew, would not be the same without him.