'Uncle Faramir! Uncle Faramir!' The Steward turned at the sound of small pounding steps, a smile lighting up his face.

'Ancalimë!' Her nurse hurried along beside her. 'My Lord Steward, I beg your pardon -- '

The heir of Isildur held up her arms. Faramir easily held her, wincing as she tightly flung her arms around his neck.

'I am so glad to see you. It has been so boring. Old Gilwen has been talking on and on about a Steward and a princess of Gondor who wasn't called Míriel but almost and her husband tried to say that made him king which is silly and am I queen now and if I am can I sit on the throne and not be scolded because -- '

Lalwen coughed.

'Oh, Aunt Lalwen, I didn't see you on account of Uncle Faramir being so tall and you so little but it will be all right if I give you a kiss, won't it?' She stretched out and pressed her lips against Lalwen's pale cheek. 'There.'

'What is all this?' Faramir gave her The Look as he led her into her room.

'Alphros said that he heard Aunt Lothíriel talking to Uncle Halmir about it. Aunt Lothíriel says cousin Belegorn doesn't want me to be queen.' She stuck her lower lip out. 'I never liked him anyway. He is so prosy. Nobody is as prosy as he is, not even Eradan or Gilwen. Why shouldn't I be queen? Gilwen says that my papa would have been king if he had lived so then I should be a queen, shouldn't I? Then she started going on about not-Míriel and about Pelder and everyone. But then maybe only old people become kings and queens. My papa was almost as old as yours Aunt Lothíriel says, but I think she didn't like my papa all that much though she likes me and says if we have to have a ruler it might as well be me and I'd be much more sensible than most of those who wore the winged crown, but I've seen the crown and it won't fit on my head and how can I be queen without a crown, Uncle Faramir? Alphros' doesn't fit very well either though and he's Prince of Dol Amroth though he doesn't rule it because Aunt Lothíriel does because he's not old enough--'

'Ancalimë,' Faramir said, sternly, 'be silent a moment and let me speak.' She shut her mouth, opened it, then shut it again. 'Yes, you are the queen.'

Ancalimë cheered. Then she stopped. 'But I don't know how to be queen.'

'Alphros doesn't know how to be prince, either.'

She brightened. 'Oh. He has to go to Dol Amroth sometimes and put on uncomfortable clothes. Is it like that?'

'Just so.'

'But he has Aunt Lothíriel. And Papa didn't have any brothers or sisters, and Uncle Elrohir is always off killing orcs, I don't think he'd make a very good king though he knows an awful lot about everything except dwarves. He doesn't know anything about dwarves so he can't be king.'

Lalwen laughed. 'There is not going to be a king, Ancalimë.'

'Well that's nothing new, is it?' She blinked. 'Who is going to take care of Gondor for me?'

'I am,' said Faramir.

'Oh! that will be nice -- since you've already been doing it so long. You won't have to learn anything.'

'You are not only Queen of Gondor.'

'Really? But where also is there? Except Rohan, but I don't think Queen Éowyn would be very happy about having another queen there.'

'Indeed not,' said Faramir, highly amused. 'I was speaking of Arnor.'

Ancalimë wrinkled her nose. 'Who cares about silly old Arnor? There's hardly anybody there -- just Rangers and halflings, and they can take care of themselves.'

'Ancalimë.'

Ancalimë cringed at the tone. It was the tone that meant sweet gentle Uncle Faramir had been taken over by the strict and severe Steward of Gondor, who was more capable of frightening someone with a single look than anybody she'd ever met, probably because he was so nice the rest of the time.

'I'm sorry, though I don't know what for. But I'll be queen there too, if I have to,' she said graciously.

'Do not forget that your aunt Lalwen is from Arnor.'

'Oh! I'm sorry,' she cried. 'I didn't mean to be rude, Aunt Lalwen. It's not your fault and I'm sure there are some nice people there -- that aren't hobbits, I mean. Why, if you're Arnorian, Uncle Eärnil and Aunt Níniel must be too!'

'So are you,' Lalwen told her, biting back a smile, ruffling her hair. 'Even Rivendell is in Arnor, strictly speaking.'

She paused. 'If I'm queen in Arnor too, does that mean I can order Merry to come and play with me whenever I want?'

'Certainly not.'

'You may only start issuing edicts when you are older,' Lalwen added, with a look at her husband.

'You always say I can do things when I'm older, and I never am.'

'I think you are getting tired,' Faramir said firmly, and sent for the nurse. 'It is time for the queen's nap, Gilwen.'

After the two had trotted off, Lalwen burst out laughing. 'Oh! to see the look on your face! I long for the day when she wears the winged crown, my dear -- can you think of what she will do?'

'Let us hope she learns some subtlety first.' He paused. 'We should expand her education -- if Arwen consents, of course.'

'When does she not?'

'She is Ancalimë's mother.'

'And Aragorn is her father-- yes; but she has had scarcely more to do with her than he. I wonder why she stayed at all when the Lord Elrond left.'

'Her only hope is to receive the Gift,' Faramir said.

'She could give it back, and yet she remains, and she withers, as the King's Men.'

'It is easier said than done. We of all people know that.' He looked out the window. The White Tree was in bloom. The White Sapling, he thought with a smile. Two years after the terrible victory at the Morannon, he had discovered the sapling and quietly borne it to where the dead tree still remained.

The celebrations had reached a feverish, hysterical peak. They had wanted to declare him King. Faramir suppressed a fastidious shudder.

How many hundreds of years needs it to make a steward a king, if the king returns not? Boromir's voice was impatient, eager, only unusual by the sharp edge in it.

And Denethor, as ever calm and steadfast. Few years, maybe, in other places of less royalty. In Gondor, ten thousand years would not suffice.

'Our Ancalimë, Queen of Gondor and Arnor,' Lalwen said, almost reverently.

'Not ours.'

'In all but name.' She laughed shortly. 'And you gave her a name, Faramir.'

'We all believed Arwen would die. Somebody had to do it, and it was . . . fitting.'

She walked to the window, rested her head against his arm. 'Truly, my heart rejoices. Our Ancalimë as queen, and you to rule in her stead until she may do so herself. Do you ever feel caught up in a great epic tale?' Her blue-grey eyes were calm and distant, and he wondered what she saw. They had never spoken of it, but he knew he was not the only one in this family with the blood of Númenor rich in his veins. 'There will be another war.'

'Yes.'

'I detest war.'

'There is always evil in the world, and it does not always take so convenient a form as the Enemy.'

'I have heard it said that Men have more of Morgoth in our hearts than any other of the people of Middle-earth.'

'Perhaps. Certainly the tales of Men do not say so.'

Her laughter rang out. 'That is true. But if there is evil in the hearts of Men-- '

He turned his head to look at her. Someone was singing in merry, broken Westron downstairs. It was the sort of song which simply could not exist in any dialect of Sindarin.

'Then you shall be among the great whose valour will destroy it.' She looked out the window. 'It will be grown by the time Ancalimë is.'

'Yes. Everything falls together properly, in the end.'