The Twelve Days of Yuletide

by annafan

It's time for my annual piece of Christmas fluff. What happens when the newly betrothed Éowyn realises that Yuletide and Mettarë are twelve days adrift from each other? Dernhelm rides again, that's what, leaving chaos in her wake.

2. The sign of the Partridge and Pear Tree

By the Valar, these Rohirrim could drink. The errand rider from Gondor watched as the youth he'd been trying to match, tankard for tankard, weaved his way to the bar. Where the hell was the boy putting it all? Did he have hollow legs?

Two more tankards appeared before the youth. He shifted his stance slightly, making sure he stood blocking the Gondorian's view. Then, with a quick glance to check that barman was occupied with other customers, and a whispered prayer of apology to the Mother of the Harvest, he slipped a generous measure of spirits from his flask into one of the tankards.

The boy returned.

"Skol." Two tankards clashed, with only a minimum of spillage.

The Gondorian nodded in response to the toast, holding the other's gaze. Or attempting to. The room swam alarmingly. Down went the beer. The Gondorian staggered to his feet, pulling out his purse, and lurched towards the bar. He might be drunk, but he'd stand his round, even if he could barely stand himself.

While he was gone, the blonde youth gestured to one of the women of ill repute who frequented this particular dive. She smiled saucily and approached, the smile turning to suspicion as she got nearer. A placatory gesture from the youth, plus the emergence of a bag of coins, seemed to allay her suspicions. There followed a few whispered words, and the exchange of a generous handful of coins from the bag, and she retreated to a stool near the fire. From there, she watched as the Gondorian returned, in the manner of a carrion bird assessing a dying rabbit.

~o~O~o~

Three things hit the Gondorian like a sledgehammer the next morning.

The first was the almost literal hammer blow of the worst hangover he had ever suffered.

The second was the realisation that he was not alone; limbs tangled with his, the blousy trull of the night before lay snoring fit to wake the dead, a trickle of drool dangling from the corner of her mouth and making its way towards the pillow, there to add to the vast collection of nameless stains already marking the coarse linen.

The third was that his leather satchel, with its dispatches, messages and, most importantly, the pass-partout that allowed him to cross checkpoints and borders and to swap horses at the staging posts along the journey, was missing.