Disclaimer:  The world belongs to Tolkien, the words alone are mine.

A/N: Thanks to Claudia for the beta!

It was a warm summer day in Ithilien.  Faramir had already dealt with all petitioners and complainants, there had been less paperwork than usual and his brother-in-law had left yesterday.  Things were looking up.

Which meant, of course, that some disaster was about to befall him.  Five years of marriage had taught him that the one thing being married to Éowyn was not, was boring.  Peaceful, that was another one.  Definitely not peaceful.

So when he settled down into his favourite chair with a good book and a glass of most excellent wine – being friends with the King of Gondor had its advantages – it was with a certain amount of trepidation that he eyed the door.  Not long now…

There was a most peculiar set of noises echoing up the stairwell.  A series of thumps, a child’s voice raised in protest, the piercing sound that was his dear wife in a temper, and what sounded like some kind of animal.

Which was ridiculous, because there wouldn’t be any animals in the house.  Except for that one time when Éowyn’s favourite mare caught ill in the middle of winter. His uncle still teased him about that farce.  The thumping and wailing grew nearer.  Faramir sighed, and laid his book down.

“Faramir!”

Dear Eru, but his wife was beautiful when she was angry.  “Yes, dear?”

“Faramir, leofost….” Oh, wonderful.  He knew he was in trouble when she started dipping into the Rohirric endearments.  “Talk some sense into your daughter, would you?”

“But Daddy, I want to keep her!  Uncle Legolas told me all about how to take care of her and I’ll feed her and take her hunting and keep her away from the livestock and I promise I wont let her eat my brothers… well, maybe Boromir, but not Éomund, and…”

“Finduilas, honey, we’ve talked about this before and….” Faramir started the Good Father Speech on automatic, and thus it took a few moments before he actually looked at the creature his daughter was hanging off.

He was going to kill that Elf.  Previous visits of ‘Eam Greneleaf’ had resulted in Finduilas falling out of a tree and breaking an arm, almost getting trampled by horses, nearly getting skewered when she decided to run across the archery range, and multiple attempts at running away to find adventure.  She was usually returned by helpful Elves within a few hours.  Éowyn never could stay mad at Legolas for long – Faramir wished the Elf could teach him that trick – and Legolas himself was always the picture of innocent apology after the event.

Faramir deeply suspected that he was being laughed at.

That half of Faramir that had been Gandalf’s pupil and who had an undying interest in the minutiae of biology and the animal kingdom pointed out that it was most certainly a mountain panther, the dark colouring particularly rare, most commonly found within the Ered Luin, and seldom seen outside that area.

That half of Faramir that was a parent panicked, until Legolas came traipsing in through the doorway, at which point it got very, very angry.

“Ah, there you are.  Is she not the loveliest creature you have ever seen?  Your daughter’s taken quite a shine to my Nimcarch.  I must admit I am tempted to let you keep her!”

Éowyn had gone an interesting shade of mulberry.  Before his wife could do any permanent damage to relations between the Men and Elves of Ithilien, Faramir hastily interrupted.

“I don’t know that – ah – Nimcarch, was it? – would be suited to life around here, Legolas.  What with the small children and all.  It was a kind thought, though.”

“Daddy!  No!  Eam Greneleaf, tell him she can stay!”

“Now, now, Finduilas.  You can always come and visit her.  Besides, she would miss her brother.”

“I guess.”

Éowyn looked towards Faramir, and mouthed the word ‘Brother?’  He shrugged.  It was a worrying thought.  “Legolas, please tell me there is not more than one of these overgrown cats hanging around my house.”

The Elf pouted.  “Nimcarch is no more an overgrown cat than I am an overgrown Dwarf!  Besides, like I said, she doesn’t go anywhere without her brother.  Do not worry, though.  I left Gimli to look after him.”

From somewhere downstairs there was the faint echo of what were probably some very creative uses of Khuzdul.

“Finduilas, shall we go see how your Uncle Gimli is doing?”  The young girl nodded, and he swung her up onto his shoulders, ducking slightly as they went through the door.  The cat, after eyeing Faramir as if deciding how he would taste, followed.

Éowyn took a deep breath.  “Faramir…”

“On my way, dear.”  Legolas was going to be the death of him, he knew it.

Elvish way with all good beasts, indeed.

A/N:  I was lazy with the children's names - just swiped a few relatives’ names.  Nimcarch is Sindarin, and means ‘White Fang’, if I got it right.  Leofost is Old English, meaning ‘Dearest’.  Eam Greneleaf is ‘Uncle Greenleaf’, also in Old English.

Faramir headed downstairs apace, worried about both what could happen to his daughter if he did not go, and what his wife would do to him if he dared go back upstairs.

Finduilas was still in the care of Nimcarch, who snarled at Faramir when he tried to reach for her.  His daughter hung onto the animal and giggled.  “Daddy!  She doesn’t like you.  She likes me better.”

He was going to kill that Elf.  “Finduilas, sweetling, where are your Eam Greneleaf and your Eam Gimli?”

“Playing.”

There was a growl and a shout from the Great Hall.  Playing.  Right.  Faramir was briefly torn between leaving his daughter in the care of a wild animal (albeit an Elf-tamed one who seemed more interested in grooming her than eating her), and finding Legolas and explaining, very patiently and very sternly, exactly why This Was Never Going to Happen Again.

Before he could decide, said Elf leaped back into the room.  “Tolo, Bregolas!”

Another great cat, this one dun-coated and dark-muzzled, leapt into the room, almost bowling Legolas over.  “Ai!  You’re glad to see your Ada, aren’t you?  Shall we say hello to your sister?  Yes, lets!”

Faramir froze as Finduilas was suddenly wrapped in a wrestling bundle of two large panthers and an enthusiastic Elf.  He eventually managed to reach a hand in and drag her out, gaining a nice scratch wound in the process.  She was about to pout, when another figure entered the room.  “Eam Gimli!”

“Hello, little gem.  Have you been playing nice?”

She nodded.  “Yes, but I think Bregolas is not.  Look, he made Daddy bleed!  His hand is all red.”

“Thank you for noticing,” Faramir muttered.

Legolas turned quickly, looking concerned.  “What is this, then?”  He came over and examined Faramir’s hand.  “The wound is not deep, my friend, and it bleeds freely enough that I think it will not fester.  I apologise, though.  Clearly such a thing is unacceptable.”

“I am glad you see it that way,” Faramir replied, relieved.  Perhaps now Legolas would understand that large carnivorous animals were not appropriate play-mates for the children of Men.

“Indeed.  Bregolas, say sorry now.”  The Elf’s voice was that of a mother scolding a young child.  The paler of the two animals leapt up, nudged its great head against Faramir’s side (and no, it was not cute.  Absolutely not), and then licked.  Licked the wound from top to bottom while Legolas beamed like a proud parent.  Nimcarch apparently thought this to be a wonderful game, as she decided to join in, leaping up with both paws onto Faramir (claws thankfully withheld), and licking at face and neck, purring all the while.

“Daddy, look!  They do like you after all!”

-----

“Dyslic, ungleaw, awyrgedlic, earmlic æglæca!  Faramir, how could you!  Did we or did we not have this discussion?”

“We did, dear.”

“And did we or did we not decide that having these Elf-bred fiends of animals in the house was a bad idea?”

“We did, dear.  But look!”  Faramir lifted Pigen up with some difficulty.  “How could you say no to that face?”

Éowyn gave the panther-cub a stern look, but had difficulty maintaining it.  “Are you talking about the animal, or Legolas’ sister?” she growled, but there was no real threat behind the comment.

“Just hold her.”

Éowyn sighed, and took the cub into her arms gently.  Little Pigen stirred from sleep, rolled over, licked at her neck gently, and then returned to slumber.  “I suppose she is rather sweet.  Why Pigen?”

“Apparently Finduilas enjoys her Sindarin lessons much more when an Elf is in charge.”

“Hmmph.  You don’t want a silly Elf-name, do you, little one?”  Faramir raised an eyebrow as Éowyn continued to speak to the sleeping cub.  “No, you want a nice Rohirric name.  We’ll call you Lytelwyn.” She raised her gaze to Faramir, as if daring him to challenge her decision.

“That’s a lovely name, dear.”

“Mother, mother!  You’ve had her for ages.  It’s our turn with Pigen now,” cried Finduilas.

“Pigen now!” echoed Boromir, clinging to his sister’s side.

“We’re calling her Lytelwyn now, dears, but all right.  Play nice now.”  She turned back to Faramir as the children dragged Pigen –sorry, Lytelwyn - off towards the fireplace for some rough-and-tumble games.  “Éomund has just been laid down to bed.  He should sleep for several hours yet.”

Faramir smiled.  “So we have some time to ourselves.  What with the, ah, Elf-bred fiend babysitting.”

She raised an eyebrow.  “Indeed.  I’m sure we’ll find some way of occupying that time, though.”

“Any ideas?”

“Well, I might have a few suggestions,” laughed Éowyn, “but you’ll have to catch me first!”

If any of the servants noted that the Princess was running in the general direction of the Master Bedroom, and did not seem overly worried if the Prince caught her, they wisely chose not to comment.

A/N:  Names, names, names.  What fun I have with names. Pigen is ‘Tiny’, and Lytelwyn is ‘Little Joy’.  Eowyn’s first line translates as ‘foolish, ignorant, abominable, wretched wretch.  Bregolas, other than rhyming amusingly with ‘Legolas’, means ‘Fierceness’ in Sindarin.  Translations/sources for other names are given in chapter one.  This is obviously set early-fourth age, and I assume since Faramir was ‘Prince of Ithilien’, then Éowyn’s title would have been ‘Princess’.

Tolo = come!  (imperative)