Hello all! Thank you to those who reviewed the last chapter. We're back on time again, and I hope you enjoy this chapter, and forgive any of my inevitable typos!

Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen: The Coronation

When she was a child, Nelly could have never imagined that a clean dress could be so much of a luxury, but after so long in the same, filthy clothes it felt nothing short of glorious to wear something else. What was more, wearing a dress after a long journey always felt like a symbol of safety, a sign she could relax.

She was pretty sure that the dress she had been given had been made for a child, but it was comfortable, and she could move in it, so she saw no reason to complain. Especially since it had very decent sized pockets.

Once, maybe she would have felt awkward to be sitting propped up several pillows, wearing the dress of a child, and addressing the warrior princess of a kingdom of Men. Now, though, she could not care less, and it was not exactly like Éowyn seemed to mind.

They were sitting at a marble table in a small, private garden in the citadel, surrounded by trellises crawling with vines of rose and clematis, though it was far too early for even the bud of a flower to appear. Deep, stone troughs circled the table, working outward through the garden almost like a maze, each engraved with beautiful detailing of flowers and trees and stars. Though a few were overflowing with snowdrops and crocus and cyclamen, most of the troughs bore only soil, or the smallest starting of green roots. It was only February after all.

Somehow, it already felt like Spring.

As the young man who had escorted Nelly to the garden left, a serving woman arrived with a large tray, laden with an ornate teapot twice the size of Nelly's head, a delicately spun glass jar filled with milk, two delicate teacups on hand-painted saucers, and a sugar-pot that looked fancy enough to fit on Dori's fanciest shelf.

The woman put the tray gently on the table and bowed. "Would you like me to pour my lady, my lady?"

"Please," said Éowyn, and Nelly nodded eagerly, her toes curling up in anticipation.

"Thank you," she said, grinning as the woman began to pour. "Oh, it's been months since I've had a tea…"

The serving woman filled the cups and bowed once more, looking from Éowyn to Nelly. "Is there anything else I can do to be of service my lady, my lady?"

"I don't think so, thank you," said Éowyn, smiling at the lady. "You are free to leave."

"Thank you," Nelly added, reaching out towards her cup and barely managing to restrain herself from adding the milk before Éowyn could. As soon as the woman was adding sugar to her tea, Nelly poured a dash of milk into her own and lifted it from the saucer, breathing in the wonderfully familiar scent. They were good leaves, she could tell, and she smiled, savouring the smell for a moment, before taking a reverent sip.

Éowyn watched her careful, curiosity twinkling in her eyes. "Forgive me, Miss Took, but may I ask you something?"

"Of course! And please, call me Nelly. Everyone does."

"Very well, Nelly… Is it a great custom among your people, drinking tea?"

Nelly blinked, glancing down at her cup for a moment, before looking back at the lady. "Well… yes, I suppose it is. I've never really thought about the Shire having customs before, to be honest. Traditions yes, but they all seem such unimportant little things besides the customs and rituals of other folk. Even our weddings and our funerals seem quaint compared to other peoples' – hobbits don't even tend to pray the way others do. But if you were to call anything a custom of the Shire, drinking tea would not be a bad place to start. That and the smoking of pipe-weed, of course. Why do you ask?"

Éowyn smiled. "Merry was brewing tea at camp, on the way from Dunharrow. I must admit, I thought it a strange place for tea – a military camp, en-route to battle, but it was a comfort. He spoke of a Grandmother, I believe, and how disappointed she would be that he was brewing his tea in a saucepan rather than a pot. He said she would clout him around the ears about the lack of a tea strainer, too."

Nelly snickered. "That'd be about right. His Grandmother Menegilda is a stickler for manners, and likes things done properly, too."

A gentle silence settled over them, and they sipped at their tea. It was almost awkward, but something about Éowyn seemed almost familiar to Nelly, and she waited without too much discomfort until the woman spoke again.

"May I ask you another question?" When Nelly nodded, Éowyn continued. "Would she think what you have done proper? Travelling the world, undertaking dangerous quests?"

"No!" Nelly laughed. "Not at all, my goodness… I'd never hear the end of it, and I'm not even related to her! Miss Menegilda's Merry's father's mother – his mother is my father's sister."

"I see. So, it is not usual for a hobbit woman to take the same road as her brothers might?"

"No, it's not usual," Nelly said, smiling wryly. "Women and men have roles to play, and those who wish to cross them are seen as a little… odd. But we're luckier than some folk. It's an oddity, and you might encounter a little mockery if you did something drastic… such as cutting your hair short, say, or wearing trousers with braces, but there'd never be any real scorn, not really. And you would certainly never be in danger for choosing a path that was less traditional. Auntie Esme shoots better than her husband and her brother, and she spent more time running around with the boys as a girl than she did baking. But then what we have done is not usual for any hobbit, male or female. Our people do not look too kindly on adventures, for the most part. My wielding a sword with any given skill is little more scandalous than Pippin's doing it."

"That sounds… refreshing," Éowyn said, and Nelly laughed again.

"I rarely hear hobbits described as 'refreshing,' but I'm glad you think so! Of course, we grew up in the mountain, too, and there things are different still. Dwarves have the strong opinion that it is not their place to tell another what path to chose in their life, be they man or woman. All dwarves are taught how to defend themselves, and how to fight, but once they come of age, they can choose any profession they wish, for the most part. At least that's the way it is in Erebor. Apparently in further kingdoms and in days gone by there was more of a divide based upon class, but never on the basis of your gender."

Éowyn glanced down at her cup. "That is a luxury indeed."

Nelly sighed. "Yes. Yes, it is. Make no mistake of it, I know how lucky I am."

"I too am not unlucky," Éowyn said, glancing towards the flowers. "I was trained with a blade, and allowed to spar alongside my brother and cousin from time to time. And to be a shield-maiden was no cause for shame in Rohan, not in the days of old. But it is rare, now, very rare, and Éomer would not hear of my donning armour for a real fight. In truth, I think that encouraged me more. I love him dearly, but I would not have my life dictated by any man."

"Neither would I," said Nelly vehemently, but she noticed something in Éowyn's eyes – a flicker of uncertainty that looked almost alien on the woman's face. "What is it?"

Éowyn sighed, lowering her voice. "In truth, now… Now I wonder if perhaps my brother was right. I have fought but one battle, and I – I have no wish to fight another. I longed for so many years for a chance to prove myself on the battlefield, but now… now it seems such an awful thing to even imagine. I love to spar, and I can run drills with a sword better than most men in the court, but if I have not the stomach for battle what am I?"

Nelly paused. "I wouldn't say you haven't the stomach for battle, and I wouldn't say that you haven't proven yourself, either. You defeated the Witch-King, my lady, that's no small feat – and you didn't flee. You fought until you couldn't fight anymore, and if you had no stomach for battle you couldn't've done that. I love to fight, the same way I love to dance, and excitement seems as important as breathing to me, but I don't think I'd like to find myself in a real battle. I wouldn't run from one, but… I think it's a place that you'd be mad to want to be, especially if you've already been in one."

Éowyn stared at her, shaking her head slightly. "Do you truly think so?"

"I do," said Nelly solemnly. "I really do."

Éowyn sighed, ducking her gaze. "Well, I appreciate that. But in my heart, I always thought of myself as a warrior… If I'm not… What am I?"

"Still a warrior," Nelly insisted. "A warrior who fought, and who will fight if she must – but is determined instead to follow a path of peace, where she can."

A smile spread slowly over Éowyn's face, small at first, but it soon grew stronger, and she shook her head slightly. "That – that is a wonderful way of looking at things…"

"It's just logical," Nelly said, smiling back. "Big folk do have a habit of complicating things like this. Of course, dwarves are no better." She paused, her smile softening. "Dwarves are very good at complicating things. To be perfectly honest, if Kíli had never lived in the Shire I don't think I would be here. I doubt Esme would've got so good at archery, or that I would've learnt from her – I doubt I'd've spent as much time running around playing warrior… I'd certainly never have learnt how to wield a sword, or fight with my fists. I probably wouldn't've ever left the Shire."

"Then the world has much reason to be grateful to Kíli Baggins," said Éowyn sincerely.

Nelly smiled, memories bringing tears to the backs of her eyes. "He… he was like a third parent to us, when we were little. Officially, he's only Merry's Guardian, but… he loved us and looked after us, and – and even before any other dwarf arrived in the Shire, he'd changed out lives. Well, my parents' lives. He didn't change ours. He made them."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, each lost to their own thoughts. Then, Nelly refilled her tea-cup, and glanced over at the woman.

"Speaking of Merry, I heard that you've all but adopted him," she said, and Éowyn raised her eyebrows.

"Well, given that among my people adoption means taking a child into your family and claiming them as your kin, no, not quite. But it's true that I am very fond of him. He is one of the bravest people I've ever known."

Nelly smirked. "Well, he has his moments now, I suppose. When we were children, he was deathly afraid of butterflies."

Éowyn's eyebrows rose. "Really?" she said, playful disbelief lacing her tone.

"Well, in fairness of all flying insects. He got stung on the nose by a bee when we were seven, and ever since he would squeal and flee from any bug with wings." She smiled fondly. "He's got over it now, for the most part, though he won't go anywhere near the Beornings' beehives."

"You have seen them? The beehives of the Beornings?"

Nelly nodded. "We stop to see Beorn most times we go to the Shire, and on the way back, too. Nori, Bróin and I used to go out and see how much honey we could grab before anyone chased us away… As long as you were gentle and didn't disturb them too much the bees didn't mind."

Éowyn smiled, and they fell into a cheerful conversation, sharing memories and stories as the teapot slowly emptied. And the two healing warriors wiled away the hours together, forging a friendship as strong as mithril in a garden of winter flowers.

In the week after they arrived in Minas Tirith, thousands of people flooded into the city from all reaches of Gondor. Some were returning home, either having left to do battle or to flee it, but most were drawn to their capital for an event that few had ever believed would be seen again –

The crowning of the King of Gondor.

Frodo watched the preparations with mild interest. It was not, it seemed, to be an event the likes of Thorin's coronation, which had welcomed dwarves, men and even elves from all nearby kingdoms into Erebor, and featured a carnival of celebrations and entertainments. Pippin had been most disappointed when Gandalf informed them that there would be no track-cars, and certainly no fireworks. But the people of Gondor seemed to buzz with an excitement that was contagious, and a glee that snuck through Frodo's lingering guilt and grief to ignite in his heart.

There were flowers all over the city now, blooming in every windowsill and garden, and petals danced through the streets as though it were springtime, or as though Yavanna and Vana themselves had walked through the city. And there was music, everywhere – children sang in the streets, and the men and women hummed ancient songs as they worked, and sat on their doorsteps at dusk, playing flutes and lyres and harps.

When the day of the coronation arrived, the anticipation in the air was so thick Frodo could almost taste it. The sky was so clear it looked almost like blue glass, and though it was still cool, being February and all, the sun shone bright as the light of Eärendil.

It was fortunate, because also unlike Thorin's coronation, the crowning of Aragorn was to take place outside – on the steps of the White Tower, to be exact. The courtyard before it was teeming with people, so many that he could barely see the White Tree in its centre. The trunk was invisible, but the branches stretched up, bearing white blossoms that danced in the gentle breeze. The crowd spilled around it, and back all the way over the walkway that stretched out over the rest of the city. In the lower levels, people stood in the streets, gazing upwards and singing joyfully.

Holding the ornate box that Boromir had handed him, Frodo stood with the other hobbits, Bróin, Gimli and Legolas by the right-hand side of the steps, at an angle to flank the tower – and face the crowd. Behind them stood Elladan and Elrohir, and Red and Rín, who looked like lords of old beneath the bright sunlight. Behind them still were most of the other survivors of Mordor, shielded from the rest of the crowd by a line of Rohirrim – the men who had leant their horses for the journey to Minas Tirith.

Frodo was grateful – as it was he was sure that some of the survivors would be exceedingly uncomfortable in so big a crowd. However, others, like Mari, now stood with their families – he could make out the girl a little way away, her father's arms wrapped snugly around her, and an excited smile on her face.

Opposite Frodo and the others, on the left-hand side of the stairs, stood Boromir and Faramir, tall and proud, and beside them Éowyn and Éomer. They were flanked by many lords and ladies including Boromir's uncle Imrahil, who Frodo had been introduced to a few days ago. Just behind Faramir stood Rion in full armour, save for a helmet, though a pang of sympathy struck Frodo's heart as he saw her. The wounds she had won in the battle had been severe, and it was yet unclear whether she would ever be fully fit for active duty as a soldier again.

But when she caught Frodo's eye, Rion smiled, winking with her one remaining eye, and he smiled back. Beside her was a man Pippin had enthusiastically introduced as Beregond, who also grinned at the hobbits when he saw them looking his way.

The doors of the White Tower opened silently, and a hush swept over the crowd. Clad in armour of silver and black, with his head bowed, stood Aragorn, and he walked outside onto the steps, with Gandalf at his side. The doors closed once more, though Frodo could not see who was moving them, and Aragorn raised his head.

Boromir stepped forward to stand before the steps, beaming as proudly as a father at the birth of their first child. In his hand was a white staff, and he bowed, low, before sinking to one knee and offering the staff up to Aragorn.

"As the last Steward of Gondor, I beg leave to surrender my office," he said, and Aragorn smiled, taking the rod only to give it straight back.

"That office is yet to be ended," he said. "It shall be yours – and your descendants' – for as long as my line shall last. Long may your house advise and assist the kings of Gondor."

Boromir grinned, bowing his head, and then he rose, turning to face the crowd.

"Men of Gondor," he called, his voice ringing clear and loud as a great bell, "hear now the Steward of this Realm! At last, one has come to rightfully claim the throne of our kingdom once more. Here is Aragorn, son of Aragorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, Captain of the Host of the West, bearer of the Star of the North, wielder of the Sword Reforged, vicorious in battle, whose hands bring healing, the Elfstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur's son, Elendil's son of Numenor."

There was a beat, and Sam sidled closer to Frodo, muttering out of the corner of his life. "And just how many names does one man need?"

Frodo shushed his friend with a grin, and Boromir continued to call to his people.

"Shall he now, at last, be king, and lead our people into a new era of peace?"

A tremendous roar ran over the crowd, the word "Yea!" being cried by so many voices that the hair on the back of Frodo's neck stood up.

Then Boromir turned, nodding slowly at Frodo, who took a deep breath, feeling immensely grateful that he no longer needed to use a crutch or cane. Feeling the eyes of hundreds of people burning into his back, he walked to Boromir's side, and then up the steps to Aragorn's side, holding up the box he had been given. Aragorn smiled down at him, bowing his head, and then Gandalf stepped forward, eyes twinkling with the light of a thousand stars. Opening the box, the wizard took out a beautiful crown, gleaming white and silver, wrought with pearl and silver, and looking remarkably like the wings of a sea-bird.

Gandalf raised the crown high, and it glinted in the sun, and Aragorn knelt upon the steps. His eyes met Frodo's, and he smiled, giving just the slightest bow of his head. Goosebumps ran along Frodo's arms as Gandalf lowered the crown onto Aragorn's head.

"Now come the days of the King," said the wizard, smiling at Aragorn. "May they be blessed."

Carefully, Aragorn rose, turning to face the crowd, and Boromir turned too, raising his hand into the air.

"Behold the King!"

An explosion of trumpets and cheers rang out so loudly and suddenly that for a moment Frodo was certain that Gandalf had lied, and let off a series of fireworks. The noise was utterly tremendous, but through it all Frodo could hear Nelly laughing, and the strong call of Bróin whooping. He could hear Pippin's whistle, and Merry's cheer, and Gimli's chuckling.

And for the rest of the day, there was nothing Frodo could do to keep from beaming.

The day after the coronation, the raven arrived. It refused to allow the guards of the citadel to retrieve its message, squawking indignantly at them and flapping at one poor guard so fiercely he almost toppled over the battlements. The bird demanded that he be taken to either Gimli son of Glóin, or the King of the city at once.

According to Beregond, at the point the bird spoke the guard who had almost tumbled off the battlements went quite faint and muttered of witch-craft, at which point Beregond had escorted him for a sit down in the mess hall.

Unfortunately, that very mess hall was where Gimli, Frodo, Nelly and Bróin were chatting with Rion, which meant that it was the same mess hall where the other guards brought the – by now very irritated – raven. When he saw it, the guard let out a strangled cry, at which point the raven scowled, and shouted,

"Boo!"

Then, the guard fainted.

Nelly and the dwarves snickered. Bróin's eyebrows rose so high they disappeared under his fringe, but Frodo stood up, glancing at the guard. Beregond did not look too concerned as he strode forward, checking the other guard's pulse. Shaking his head slightly, Gimli took the letter from the bird, but Frodo's frown deepened.

"Is he alright?"

"He'll be fine," said Beregond, his nose twitching as he pulled the other guard into a corner, propping him up against the wall. "Amroth has been jumpy since the aftermath of the battle, and he has never been too fond of birds."

"Amroth?" Nelly stiffened, her tone instantly cooling. Frodo glanced at her, frowning slightly, but her eyes were fixed on the guard slumped in the corner, groaning slightly.

"Yes," said Beregond, his voice sharp and hard as flint. "That Amroth."

As though someone had tugged a lever in his mind and allowed the memory to come back to him, Frodo realised just where he had heard the name Amroth before. When Pippin had defended Faramir from Denethor and his guards, one of them had threatened to kill him himself, to take his tongue.

A guard called Amroth.

Dark scowls told him that Bróin and Gimli had reached the same conclusion as Nelly took her crutches and stared down at the raven now pecking at Gimli's supper.

"Might I borrow you for a moment, Master Raven?"

The bird looked up at her, tilting his head to the side suspiciously. "What for?"

"A service to the Kingdom of Erebor and it's lords," she said. "I would offer you my arm, but I'm afraid that wouldn't be all that comfortable-" she raised her clutched. "If you wouldn't mind sitting on my head for a moment or two."

"Nelly, what're you-" Frodo began, but the raven squawked, flapping up onto her head.

"You have my curiosity," he cawed, and Nelly hobbled her way towards Amroth.

Beregond raised his eyebrows, but stepped out of Nelly's way, and Rion leant back in her chair, her arms folded across her chest and her nose upturned as though Amroth smelt worse than a troll-hoard. Frodo was not surprised – he knew that Faramir and Rion were as siblings to each other, and had little doubt she was one of the handful to have been told the true story of Denethor's fate.

When she had reached Amroth's stirring side, Nelly bowed at the waist, until the bird was directly facing the guard's face, but Frodo could see her wincing slightly, and he bit his lip. If she hurt herself…

"Amroth!" she yelled, and the guard woke with a yelp –

And then he set eyes on the raven –

And the raven squawked –

And Amroth screamed, throwing himself as far back into the corner as possible and flailing his arms. The raven took off, flying back to the safety of the table, and Nelly glowered down at the quailing guard.

"My name," she said sweetly, "is Pimpernel Took. I am friends with many little birds, and they tell me many things. You best hope they never bring me your name again. I might be inclined to do something about it."

Amroth's eyes grew round, his pupils shrinking into pinpricks of fear, and the colour drained from his face. "My – my lady-"

"This is the last time we'll meet, if you have any sense," she said, in that same, honeyed tone. A shiver ran down Frodo's spine. "Otherwise I will be glad to offer you the same 'hospitality' you offered my baby brother. Right down to the last detail. And don't you think I won't - I was raised by dwarves. I do not make empty threats. Now, go – and change into some clean trousers."

Pale as the stone beneath him, Amroth nodded, scrambling to his feet and darting for the door, whimpering slightly as he passed the bird.

Rion snickered. "He had it coming. I'm surprised he didn't get worse from Boromir, to be honest."

"Boromir tried," said Beregond somberly. "But Gandalf and Faramir argued he was following orders, and shouldn't be maimed for it. He's been demoted, and stripped of all rank."

"Still, he threatened Pippin. He at least should've been shaved. Do you think he really soiled himself?" Bróin asked, and Frodo grimaced.

"I'd rather not know."

"You don't think he deserved it?"

"Oh, he deserved it, but I'd rather not know the details," Frodo said, as Nelly came back to the table. "I'd rather know what's in your letter, Gimli?"

"The answer to that," said Gimli, grinning, "is many letters. There's one for each of us, from the mountain. From home."

A lump grew in Frodo's throat as Gimli passed him a cream envelope, curled from the time it had spent rolled within the leather canister that protected the parchment from the elements. His name was written across the front in a handwriting that was so familiar it hurt.

Bilbo.

His friends' conversation drifted away into the background, and Frodo opened the envelope with trembling fingers. He was not sure, exactly, what it would say, and the guilt that had left his heart over the last week came crushing back. He took a deep breath, and began to read.

My dear, dear Frodo,

I don't know how to start this letter - I only know I must write it, and write quickly, before the others decide I'm taking too long, and send the raven on without me. But Frodo, there will never be enough time to write down just how grateful I am that this letter may find you at all. We thought - well, I'm sure you can imagine what we thought.

I am sorry. I'm so sorry, Frodo, that you have taken this path. Gimli's news did not say much but I know in my heart that you have suffered, and I am so sorry. Please, my boy, know that I would have taken every step and every blow for you, if I could. I am sorry I could not catch you, could not take the burden from you. It should have never been yours, and the guilt I feel for what it must have done to you will haunt me until the day I die. I thought we'd lost you to that damn thing, and it nearly killed me, my dear Frodo, it nearly killed me.

But it did not, and I am so proud, Frodo, so very, very proud. What you have done - I do not know if I could have done it, in the end, but you did. You did that. I could not be prouder of you, Frodo, not ever. I am not, perhaps, so proud of how you began your journey, but I know why you did what you did. And in any case, I have not forgotten that my own official title in Thorin's company was that of 'burglar.' You are the bravest of us all, Frodo.

I know we have much to speak of, more than can be said in any letter, let alone one as rushed as this, but for now I will simply say what matters: I love you, Frodo, more than any words could ever say, and I cannot wait for you to come home. Of course, you mustn't rush things - don't you dare go anywhere before you're all fully healed, but write soon, my dear boy, please write soon.

All my love,

Your Uncle Bilbo.

There were places on the page where the tears of the letter's writer had smudged the ink, and a new tear fell beside Bilbo's name. Frodo blotted it quickly with his sleeve, before it could alter the lettering, glancing down a message scribbled below it, with signatures in two hands.

Frodo – no time to write more – we love you, and we will see you soon, and write all the sooner. Your big brothers, Fíli and Kíli.

PS - turn over!

Wiping at his eyes, Frodo flicked the page over.

My darling Frodo,

I agree with all that Bilbo has written, and you may look out for a longer letter from me soon, but there is something that I must add, something that cannot wait. If you think that there is any anger within us, Frodo, you are very wrong. We were only ever afraid for you - we know why you took the Ring, and for that reason we could never be truly angry. You are our son, little one, and nothing you do will ever change that. Especially nothing that you do to save us - nothing that you do to save the world. And you have saved both, my darling boy, you have done it. As it stands, they are yet to make an appearance, but I am near the eighth month now, Frodo, and the babies are still kicking.

All the love in the world,

Dís

Frodo let the letter drop to the table, rubbing his sleeve across his face as quickly as he could. He did not want to blur another word, did not want his tears to ruin another thing. They were alive - they were alive, and they were well, and they did not hate him. They had forgiven him.

They had forgiven him.

And Dís was still pregnant. She had never made it this far carrying Bilbo's child, never, and -

Frodo froze, a strangled choke of shock breaking from his throat.

"What?" the others demanded, a sudden fear in their voices, and Frodo flicked his eyes back down to Dís' letter again, and then again, reading it four times to make sure.

"Frodo!"

Slowly, very slowly, Frodo looked up at the others, disbelief stealing the volume from his voice.

"Babies?"

I hope you enjoyed that chapter! I found the coronation a little tricky to write, but I think I'm pleased enough with the results. Please let me know what you think if you have a chance, I would really appreciate it.

Until next time, please take care of yourselves, and stay safe.