A/N: Yes, here, finally the ending... finally finally finally. Forgot apologies in last chapter for such a delay after a cliffhanger (sorry). Page ruler won't work. Ah well. AS level results reeled in (scraped four As, what a relief) and the summer (where?) draws to a close. I hope this work of mine has entertained. For the most part, I've enjoyed writing it, and let my style develop on its own (possibly explaining the sometimes awkward narrative). Now comes the farewell. Any regrets: the fact it took two bloody years to finish. Time management. Shame they don't teach it.

And so, I bring you the (hopefully long awaited) conclusion. I prefer the second half. Feedback, as always, would be much appreciated. Thanks go to my reviewers, yes you, for your support and helpful comments, and for sticking with this even through the long spaces. Thank you!

-&-

Knotting the Yarn: the Epilogue

Though a King had arrived at the camp of Poros, there was little fuss made. Work was still to be done, debris to be cleared away, people to feed, wounds to bandage...

As the sun rose over the waters of Poros, swollen with the storm of the previous night, the camp was already halfway dissected. The addition of men eased the workload, and, while a king removed his leather gloves to help shift the horses, an elf learned a new song in a language more mysterious and obscure than his own. The fallen were buried peacefully, a small row of graves, all marked save one, and songs sung to honour the dead, for the dead must have their honour.

And, secluded away from the rest of the camp, a husband and wife that had found each other once more, now found themselves stretched apart by the necessities of time. Yet between them, between the explanations and joyful tears and frantic love, lay an unspoken understanding, of how, and why, and how: in a few years time, between a child's birthday presents and the making of new drapes, a husband's words would break Eowyn from her deja vu, and make her smile to herself.

As the sun peaked in the domed yellow sky, much of the work was done, and as the carts and horses were fixed under the shades of trees, men slept away the hottest hours under makeshift awnings. Now, as we enter one of the newer tents that escaped the fire of yesterday, and listen...

"Eomer is sleeping, my Lord."

"He is in need of rest. Come, sit with me. What of his leg? I heard he fell off his horse during the fray."

"After the fray, my lord. He slipped while dismounting."

Mild laughter. "I arrived too late then. Yet you seem to have coped quite reasonably."

"My men sire, shall be rewarded with a raise."

More laughter. "I must commend their tactic of taking prisoners."

Concern on Faramir's face, "The numbers are worrying. Can we take all of them to Dhakar?"

"There is no need to fear. Their plans of anarchy are crushed beyond repair. From what I have heard, this desperate scene was orchestrated on the will of Noraliwi alone. Fatalities are small in number, and they know we will not execute them. If we are to face rebellion, this shattered group will play no part in it."

"Some have still had to be constrained..."

"I am aware, but I hope little by little, with kindness, they will understand the true nature of this kingdom that they feared for so long. I think many are happy enough to be fed. I admit to be taken aback to see how young some were! By and by, they will begin to see the benefits in cooperation. And is that not a great sight to take into the capital of the south? No, I have brought supplies enough with me, and a messenger has already been sent to Dhakar to alert them of this, ah, interruption in our route. Khalifah will send a proper welcome party when we arrive, and more food and drink. I think drink is something we can all do with."

"That remark I toast." Pause. Sighs. Mugs put down.

"And Legolas is leaving?"

"Aye, sir. He will take Eowyn north, and then he goes to meet Gimli."

A sigh from the King of Gondor.

"I remember when we were the Three Hunters. I doubt if I am fit enough to run the breadth of Rohan twice..." he rubs the green gem on his ring pensively, "there never seem to be adventures anymore."

Faramir smiles, "You would not count fatherhood, marriage, and kingship as an adventure?"

A conceding smile, "Perhaps, but the risk of fatality, strangely, has not diminished. Assassinations are unnecessary when I seem to provoke Arwen on a daily basis."

"She is a fine lady, my lord."

"I could not agree more. And yet you speak no praises of your own wife?"

A relieved laugh, "I have been sickened, and for a night, beyond grief. Then I was rescued, and the medic has said she is perfectly well. She, and child, seem unaffected... I dare not call it miraculous, for it seems almost beyond the realm of miracles... but it has made me unimaginably joyful. I shall be sorry to have to leave her twice." Here, an almost reproachful look towards the king.

"I am sorry to make you perform that ritual once more."

"It has been dealt with already, and I cannot hope for a more understanding woman. She will be the finest mother."

"I believe she is already. Eomer has told me of events in Emyn Arnen, but there are he things he did not, could not explain..."

A frown upon Faramir's brow, "She has told me. She has told me of some things that I dare not comprehend, of dreams and visions that I cannot believe, and yet it feels like I must. I must, for how could I choose to ignore the truth? I watched Noraliwi, chained by something, a guilt beyond his own mind... and his manner of death was grotesque enough. One could call it the work of the Valar," –an abrupt laugh- "but that would not be true."

"I too, have heard a strange version of events." An uneasy pause, "Eomer seemed to believe that Eowyn had used magic upon... he said she did something to- or she found some of the drug? Powdered incense, perhaps?"

"It was dirt."

"Dirt?"

"Dirt. The dry earth that she had knelt upon and placed her hands. This was the powder she blew upon him as 'magic'."

"Then what does that mean?"

"I... I admit, I never knew she was such an actress. Her ruse was so convincing, perhaps something within his fragile mind finally snapped? Or something else just pushed him a little further. My lord, I do not wish to name it. I do not wish to... In time, I will understand, but now, it is too much."

"You do not need to say it."

"When she told me... I despised my first reaction, but, at first, I thought she was truly delusional. For so long, I have bordered on detesting for- it was impossible to believe that this was how we were saved; sire, that this could be the work of my father..." he gives a final sigh, "Once again I am rescued from flames."

The King is silent, his expression inscrutable. But he places a warm hand on his steward, his comrade, his friend's shoulder, "And now...?"

"In time I will honour his memory. For now, I will wait."

"For the birth."

"For the first day of the rest of my life."

Mugs are raised. A clunk. The sound of good natured laughter, fading, as we draw away from the dialogue.

And tomorrow, the soldiers will embark upon their road once more. Brothers-in-arms set foot into the southern unknown, shoulder to shoulder. There will be victories, and simultaneous defeats, and socks-as-bandages as well as athelas may come into use; and every footstep enters history. Yet here a fact unrecorded: there is one, who will in time realise how to forgive a loved one long-gone; and the love of a parent never withers, no matter how old the child.

With stories it begins, and with stories, it ends. Or perhaps, never quite ends. Such is the cyclic way of life. From stories, the young learn, and the old wives teach, but as the wheel turns, so can the tale. And a new child may hear a new story. Or perhaps, a slightly different version of the same story. A circle never changes shape, yet every listener repeats a different tale...

&

For Eowyn

It is Autumn and six years have passed. Harvests have been reaped, trade routes drawn, alliances forged, cities expanded, and above all, children born.

In the city of Minas Tirith there are celebrations for the birth of a princess, a second child to the Queen, and Aragorn Elessar mighty pleased himself, and no mistake (so the common folk spake). Parades and street banquets have been organised; the world is coloured with paper bunting, and the people rejoice in this public holiday.

It is at this close celebration that various dignitaries congregate. The honoured pair, Legolas and Gimli, arrive together. Faramir of Ithilien comes bearing gifts and praise (though his wife remains homebound, for she is heavy once more, he excuses). From Rohan, come King Eomer and his wife, the renowned beauty Lothiriel, and though the Thain and Mayor of the Shire cannot attend, gifts and ambassadors have still travelled the North-South road to this happy city. Even Khalifah, guardian of the Southern lands, sends tribute in the forms of spices, bolts of fine fabric, various mules, exotic preserved fruits and, of course, a precious gift for the precious elfin child. A doll, handmade by a master artist from the most exquisite silk, with silken threads for hair and eyes of semi-precious gems: a porcelain princess and a veritable masterpiece.

Few would realise at this moment though, that the baby girl, here sleeping in the Queen's arms, would one day grow to an enchanting beauty surpassing aught any master craftsman, dollmaker or artist could create. Beloved of princes, a world of suitors would seek her hand:- her heart lay beyond the sea... a heroine, but not of this tale.

&

Autumn strews the city of Emyn Arnen with fallen leaves, whirled through the cobbled walkways by the fading summer winds.

Eowyn sits in her chambers, stiffly, for no sedentary position is comfortable long in her present bulky shape. For once, she is devoid of unfinished tasks or other work, and is consequently idle. Thus, she amuses herself in temporary embroidery, relying on a few known certainties, such as the sounds of the next accident, to remove her from this ungratifying task.

She does not wait long: a smashing sound echoes from the other room. Eowyn makes no exclamation: she has already dropped her sewing and pushed through the door.

"Lirwen! You have let him near the plate again!" she admonishes, entering the parlour-cum-playroom. The new drapes have already been put up, according to Eowyn's specifications, and she admires it for a moment. It is a small room, cosy, used most often as a playroom, however unfit to the task it may be, as the pearly debris on the floor show.

"Apologies, my lady. He ran out of my hands." The girl picks up the smashed china quickly and begins to sweep up the fragments. Eowyn sighs.

"Elboron." She says, and her voice is grim. Save for the two women, the room is perfectly still.

"Elboron." She says again, added severity.

There is a short pause, and then, with small scuffling sounds, a head, topped with a floppy mass of reddish curls, emerges slowly from under the window seat, followed by a small, wiry body. His eyes are oaken-green, and a permanent mischievous grin seems to perpetually adorn what would be a pale, angelic face. Eowyn knows better however, and, pulling one of his arms forward, slaps the wrist sharply with her other hand.

"You little goblin!" she cries hotly, and the boy flinches, but the same mischievous look returns and can never be altogether erased.

"Ma'am, you must not be too harsh on him," says Lirwen softly, sweeping up the remainder of the former vase, "He'll run into a door rather than through it. He is reached that age."

"To your misfortune as his nurse, I fear, Lirwen. Your workload is heavy; I shall talk to the housekeeper over the pay."

Lirwen laughs, "The pay is quite sufficient, my lady, and I enjoy the work." Eowyn smiles, her hand still gripped around the boy's struggling arm.

"If you do not mind, dear Lirwen, the schoolmaster is not coming today, so I shall keep him for the rest of the afternoon. You may return to your other duties, if you wish."

"Very well, Ma'am." The nurse nods and leaves.

Eowyn bends her awkward knees so her face is level with that of the boy's, opens her mouth for another hail of remonstrating words, and reconsiders. The child stares back innocently. He is small for his age, but makes up for it in his (almost Elvish) ferocious speed. He is not yet of age or size to be placed on a horse, but the only restraint to stop him mounting one is Eowyn's forceful grip and the futile threat of a leather belt.

He listened to his father though. Faramir is a gentle man, but when he scolded, Elboron listened. Eowyn knows how distasteful it is to Faramir, and indulges him the role of the rewarding parent. It suited him better.

He looked like Faramir more than her, though the hair colour was hers (Eomer's had been almost identical as a child), but the eyes, the mouth, the slight speckling of freckles... she had never met Boromir, but sometimes she fancied that one day, in an indirect form, she would.

She remembered the painful birth, and the joy that went with it. She remembered Faramir's relief, and his smile when they told him he had a fine, healthy son, and how she herself had laughed, in loud convulsive sobs, having been tormented so long by the image of a green eyed girl-child who she could not save.

So now she stares at this little stranger, so close to her heart, and he stares back, his green eyes wide; and instead of reprimands, from her mouth comes the words:

"I love you so much."

The boy's expression does not change, perhaps from being too accustomed to his mother's queer moods in these recent months as her belly grew, but he leans forward a little, and gives her a shy, obliging kiss on the cheek. A small gesture, but it causes an ecstatic feeling to rise up in Eowyn that she has to restrain herself from embracing the child to death.

She tightens her smile with difficulty and, straightening up, says gravely, "What will your father say when he gets home?" No answer, so she sighs.

"Elboron, you will come into my room to do your lessons and stay there while I do my sewing. You may play, quietly, and if you are good, I will tell you a story." she looks into those piercingly expressive eyes that are not her eyes, "...about your grandfather."

"King Theoden?" the boys asks. Eowyn tells so many stories of him, the war-hero of the Mark may as well be a forefather to the child.

"No. I shall tell you of you father's father. The Steward Denethor of Gondor."

The boy shakes his head.

"Ada never talks much about him."

"That is because your father isn't very good at telling stories, though he knows it better than I do." Eowyn holds out a hand, "Come, would you like to hear of Denethor, son of Ecthelion? A proud man, valiant. He ruled Gondor before the Return of the King, and with his sons, kept it safe from enemies for a long while. A powerful, flawed man... a good man. And he loved your father very much, just as he loves you now."

The boy nods solemnly at this unspoken truth.

"Alright." He says, with the serious self-consciousness of one many times his age.

Eowyn buries her smile at this. Bending, she gives him a rushed, tender kiss on the forehead which he tolerates stoically, and then, still holding his hand, leads him through the door.

-&-

End