Mettarë Morning

The next morning, the party of riders made good time to the Rammas Echor and across the Pelennor to Minas Tirith. Having announced themselves at the gate, they were led, accompanied by a small guard of soldiers of the city, through the gates and into the city itself. The city's preparations for the coming holiday were in full swing, and Éothain was fascinated to see groups of drummers and dancers on many of the street corners. They weren't military drums, nor the beating out of rhythms to accompany a bard and harpist sing tales of old legends. No, these were joyful, light-footed, ever shifting rhythms that cried out to be danced to. The drummers and dancers were clad in brightly coloured vestments that seemed unusual, used as he was to the grey grimness of Minas Tirith in war. He quizzed the lieutenant leading their party.

"They are folk who have moved here from southern Gondor and the debatable lands. I'm not sure when exactly this drumming became such a feature of Mettarë but it has been so for centuries."

Éothain smiled – it was impossible not to warm to the irrepressible beat. Before long he found himself tapping out the rhythms (inexpertly) against the pommel of his sword.

The group continued their upward progress through the city, into the inner circles, and finally to the innermost, seventh circle, where they passed through an archway and into the courtyard before the Palace of the Stewards. There, a soldier in the livery of the guard of Ithilien, with tree and stars upon his doublet, hastened to meet them. He led Éothain and Elfhelm inside the building, through the Steward's receiving rooms and into his private study.

"Lord Elfhelm, Lord Éothain, I was expecting you." The Steward rose from the chair by the desk where he had been reading a book, and advanced towards them, holding out his hand. He was, the men of the Mark noted, clad in a dressing gown and slippers, and seemingly oblivious to his bare shins and messy hair.

Faramir took a firm grip of Elfhelm's forearm and the two men exchanged a warriors' salute.

"The Lady Éowyn?" asked Elfhelm.

"Arrived safely yesterday afternoon. I think she is still sleeping off the journey."

Éothain took in the man's relaxed demeanour and broad, happy smile. Now that, he thought suspiciously, is a shit eating grin if ever I saw one.

"Now, Éowyn gave me some account of her journey, but I wasn't altogether clear on the details," Faramir continued with a chuckle. He gestured to a couple of comfortably upholstered armchairs, then sat back down at his desk, having instructed the lieutenant to bring them a flagon of wine and some goblets, together with some pastries.

Elfhelm and Éothain looked at one another, wondering how (and whether) they could give a diplomatic account of Éowyn's madcap progress. Elfhelm set to, with frequent interruptions from Éothain. As military men used to giving accounts of action on the battlefield, their account was anything but garbled, but even so, in places, they felt that the events described were so ridiculous that the tale must seem unbelievable. Faramir steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair, a smile still playing about his lips. Some of the madder bits of the tale elicited deep, rumbling laughter. When the story had finally ended, he paused in thought for a moment, then delivered his summing up.

"So, we have two instances of poultry theft, albeit the second with compensation, drawing a weapon within a public house, poaching, slander in the form of implying that the Steward of Gondor had fathered a bastard (though I suppose since the person whose reputation was being slandered was me, I can let that one slide), more poultry theft (though possibly not, since swans are arguably wild fowl, though there may well be a breach of the countryside code in leaving the gate to the enclosure unfastened), breach of promise, bigamy (now there's an interesting one – is it strictly bigamy if we are merely betrothed, not actually married, and furthermore where the two parties allegedly engaging in the bigamous marriage in fact would not be allowed to marry, being of the same sex?), aiding and abetting the breach of a contract of employment, theft of chattels, with a counter-suit that the chattels weren't actually chattels, being human, and therefore that the complainant was himself guilty of slaving, arson, vandalism, resisting arrest, card-sharping, brawling in public, and fomenting a riot." Another cheerful and broad smile graced the Steward's face.

Elfhelm was about to speak, when the door at the far end of the room opened. The two Rohirrim turned in their chairs, then gaped.

There, also clad in a dressing gown, but- barefoot, stood Éowyn. Pink faced and muzzy with sleep, her hair in a bird's nest of golden filaments, looking blissfully happy and a little shy, not to mention apparently somewhat dazed with delight, she drifted into the room.

Faramir extended his hand, and she took it, allowing him to pull her onto his knee. He put his arms around her and kissed her soundly, then let her snuggle into the chair with him, his left hand resting on her shoulder.

"Oh what a wonderful Mettarë you have brought me. Not just your own self, bold and beautiful and truly magnificent, but also the most entertaining set of legal conundrums I have come across since I became Steward. Truly I am blessed by the Valar, the happiest man in Middle Earth."

~o~O~o~

AN: Thanks to what-katy-did-1234 on AO3 for allowing me to steal Faramir in a dressing gown dealing with serious matters.

As for the drumming, I had something like this in mind.

Youtube DOT com SLASH watch?v=xAYbvULODh4

Bhangra in Middle Earth? Well, why not? And that corner of Peterborough makes quite a convincing Minas Tirith, I think.

About to post the epilogue – special 12th night bonus, two chapters for the price of one.