Chapter Three
On the bench

News that the heir of Faramir had come home from five years of service in the Kings army spread like wildfire. Elboron was rather popular, and when the Prince announced that there would be a ball to celebrate his son's return, half of Ithilien was in joyous uproar.

Mounted messengers were coming in, bringing letters from many noble families who gladly accepted the invitation to the upcoming Spring festivity. Housemaids and servants were sweeping the marble floors and cleaning the windows even more meticulously that usual; busy hands polished golden candelabras and made the silverware in the crockery chamber shine. The huge double wing doors in the ballroom were opened to let sunshine and fresh air in, the lawn was mown to velvety perfection and pavilions were erected. The palace was humming like a beehive, and the kitchen went into a cooking and baking frenzy.

Twenty-seven years of marriage had taught the Princess of Ithilien to handle those preparations with prudence and aplomb. She organized one week of reeling tohuwabohu as precisely as clockwork, and neither the missing delivery of wine from Lebennin nor the nervous breakdown of the cupbearer (a direct consequence of the mishap with the wine) was able to unsettle her.

Nevertheless Éowyn could be found riding down to the Anduin two days before the ball should take place, the reins slack, her mare leisurely trudging along the path that led to the house of the Healer. Dusk colored the gentle hills with shades of blue and grey, and when she rode into the clearing, the air was heavy and sweet with the scent of cedar and sage. She nearly missed the silent figure sitting on the bench near the entrance of the building; only when a soft voice spoke up, the Princess turned her head, and her face lit up with a smile.

"Bolted from the chaos, Your Highness?" the Healer said, her eyes twinkling.

"Stolen away, more likely," Éowyn replied, swinging out of the saddle. She strolled over to the other woman, her steps still resilient. The Shieldmaiden of Rohan had never lost her natural beauty; the laughter lines around her sharp, grey eyes and the grey streaks in her long, blonde hair spoke of experience and wisdom, not of age. She sat down on the bench beside the healer, watching her with more than a hint of irony. "Will you ever learn not to call me 'Your Highness'?"

"I'm not sure," Noerwen mused, stretching her legs. "I fear I will never get used to proper demeanor. Which has its advantages, of course... I may visit Minas Tirith any time, roam the gardens of the Queen and even stuff the pipe of the King once and again, but I'll rarely be invited to one of those breakfasts with the ladies-in-waiting anymore."

"Which is your fault and yours alone," the Princess retorted dryly. "Insulting the Lady Alassiel of Lamedon was not the best way to gain her liking."

"She insulted me first," Noerwen said, completely unruffled. "Asking loudly why 'winding bandages in the houses of healing and then crawling after herbs in the dirt of Ithilien is seemingly enough to be invited into the presence of the Queen' was certainly the worst way to gain my liking. I wonder how Lord Angbor has been able to survive thirty years of marriage with her so far."

"Aragorn didn't call him 'Angbor the Fearless' for naught." Éowyn grinned.*

"Indeed." Noerwen nodded. "If I were him, I'd prefer facing an army of undead warriors any time. He's a truly courageous man. And most friendly. While she..." She looked down at her hands. "You know, I put on my most harmless face, smiled at her and told her that I'd joyfully wind bandages for the wounded from the battle on the Pelennor fields any time again, instead of wasting my time in the presence of some pompous, foul-mouthed cow."

"I guess she was not amused," Éowyn remarked, her face carefully blank.

"I don't think so." The Healer reached for a jar and a mug in the shadow of the bench. "She looked less than pleased when I rose from my chair, curtseyed to the rest of the ladies and left the garden like a ship under full sail. It was the first time that I really enjoyed a dramatic exit. - You must try my wine; we had not many grapes last year, but plenty of sun." She filled the mug and handed it to the Princess.

Éowyn took a small sip and smiled. "Very good... and a little bit sweeter than I expected."

"I mixed the grapes with blueberries," Noerwen explained, helping herself with the wine. "Makes a fine blend, and if I add some assorted herbs, I even get a very effective strengthening potion."

"Exactly what I need right now." Éowyn took another sip and leaned back against the wall of the house with a contented sigh. "I can easily handle the preparations, and I'm certain I will be able to stand a horde of Gondor's nobility in my home... but the next ostensible bride might be my undoing."

"The next bride?" The Healer shot her a sharp side glance. "Who is expected to marry?"

"Well..." Éowyn emptied the mug with one single gulp. "Elboron, of course."

vvvvv

"Elboron!" The Healer stared at the Princess. "Why on earth... how old is he? Twenty-three?"

"Twenty-five, and finally of age now." Éowyn carefully placed her mug on the bench. "His service in the King's army was obviously consuming enough to keep him from having his eye on any young lady he might have met between Edoras and Minas Tirith."

"And the company of his brothers in arms will have kept him occupied, too", Noerwen stated. "But still – how time flies!"

"It does indeed." The Princess let her gaze wander across the still, fragrant gardens. "I must confess things would be much easier, had he come home with the face of some pretty damsel in mind. In that case, we would be reviewing the ancestry of her family now, make the first arrangements and prepare to introduce her to the court... in case that she's not a member of Gondorean nobility."

"That sounds rather exhausting," the Healer said with a half smile. "And not only for that poor girl, but for Elboron, too."

"He is the only heir of the Prince of Ithilien, descendant of the Royal House of Rohan and thirty generations of Stewards to boot," Éowyn said, a shadow darkening her face. "He has to meet certain... expectations."

"What does that mean?" the Healer asked. "Is there a list of eligible and not so eligible maidens, graded for their virtues or flaws?"

Éowyn stared at her, slightly startled. "No. Of course not." She paused. "But for my son deciding whom to marry can't be a matter of the heart alone."

"Hm." The Healer frowned. "How free is he in his choice, then?"

"As free as we can manage without creating a huge scandal, of course", the Princess said, her lips curling to a mirthless smile. "But I can promise you he won't be paired up with some colorless noble maiden he doesn't care for, just for dynastic reasons."

"Good to hear," the Healer retorted dryly. "Just out of curiosity – how would things be handled if he was not the heir of Ithilien but the future King of Rohan instead?"

"Not very different," the Princess said. "My brother was lucky when the woman he fell in love with after the Ring War was not only a spirited beauty but also the daughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth. The Rohirric ceremonial may not be as complicated, and the noble families not half as fastidious, but certain rules are exactly the same. And I think they will always be... not that I ever put them into question. They were the frame I grew up with."

She smiled at the Healer.

"And don't forget that I was lucky. Living in a house that was mainly populated with men and spending a big part of my time in the stables or on horseback kept me of being locked in a chamber, an embroidery frame in my hand."

"True," Noerwen said, a hint of laughter in her voice. "Which is a shame, of course, considering how many pillows you might have decorated by now."

"Oh, you're obnoxious!" the Princess exclaimed, but she was laughing, too, and the lines of strain Noerwen had clearly seen around her eyes and mouth had vanished almost without a trace.

"I have to leave now, before my chamberlain storms my room with yet another list to be signed and suffers a bout of panic because he's unable to find me there." Éowyn rose from the bench. "Oh – and there was one more reason that brought me down here, even if you made me forget it with the magic of your garden and your wine." She pulled a small, rolled-up parchment out of the pocket of her riding cloak and handed it to the Healer.

Noerwen opened the parchment and skimmed the elegant lines written on it. She took a deep breath and looked up. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, I am," the Princess said off-handedly. "Though I must admit that it was not my idea. The King and Queen will be here, too, to celebrate the return of my son together with us. And Arwen told me she would like to meet your daughter."

"She'll be easily able to meet her if she pays us a visit," Noerwen said, her tone slightly sharp. "Which she has done many times before. Why the ball? Considering the strict rules of Gondorean etiquette, my daughter is no more acceptable at court than I am."

"The Queen's decisions outweigh any rule she decides to ignore," Éowyn said. "Why are you so surprised about the fact that she chooses to invite the daughter of a woman she cherishes as a trustworthy friend? As do I, by the way."

Noerwen blinked. "Erh... thank you. But still..."

Éowyn looked down at the woman sitting on the bench. She didn't miss her straight, tense posture and the narrow, stubborn line of her mouth. A trustworthy friend indeed. Her eyes grew soft.

"Don't fret." She touched the Healer's shoulder. "Your daughter was raised by a woman I hold in high respect. She will be a shining ornament of the ball if you agree to give her the chance. Let Lírulin enjoy herself – and if you need the help of my tailor for a suitable dress, just let me know."

"I will," Noerwen said. "But Ill have to ask Lírulin first, of course."

"Of course." Éowyn replied, walking towards her horse that was grazing on the meadow beside a flower bed with lavender. "Thank you for the wine, and have a good evening!"

Noerwen watched the Princess as she mounted the mare, turned it towards the dark rim of the forest and left, hand raised to a wave of goodbye. Long after horse and rider had vanished between the trees, she still sat on the bench, eyes unseeing, hands fiddling with the parchment that was the reason of her discomfort.

Finally she rose and stretched, giving a sound that was half laughter and half sigh.

"You're a complete fool," she murmured to herself. "Well... at least you should make sure that this particular Cinderella doesn't lose her shoe on the way home."

Author's Note:

Angbor (Ironfist) was the Lord of Lamedon. Aragorn went through his land with his army of ghosts while he fought a desperate battle against Corsairs and Haradrim at the Ford of the river Gilrain. When they saw the ghosts approach, Angbor and his men fled in horror, but then the Lord of Lamedon returned to the battlefield – which is why Aragorn called him "Angbor the Fearless". He later marched to Minas Tirith with an army of 4000 men.