Timeframe:   During Book VI, Chapter 5 of “The Return of the King,” and Chapter 7 of my “Snowdrops & Bluebells.”

Foreword:  This is a completely unexpected offshoot from the seventh chapter of my story “Snowdrops & Bluebells.”  Rather like what Faramir himself did to Tolkien, some of the characters at that fair I dreamed up appeared out of nowhere and demanded some more attention.  So, what follows is a series of short vignettes of the merchants at the fair, showing both their perceptions of the unlikely trio of Faramir, Eowyn, and Merry, and their feelings about the War of the Ring—the ordinary man’s view of great events.

 * * * * * * *

            I carefully arrange more stock on the table in front of me, blessing the fine weather we are having today; it means I can put out my very best gloves without fearing that a sudden downpour will ruin them.  The embroidered long pair to the front, flaunting dozens of blue and cream flowers on the white leather, is very fine indeed.  They took me more than a month to finish, and I intend to charge accordingly.  I can only hope a lady of the court, recognizing their quality, will walk by and decide to buy them without quibbling about the price.

            Of course, I doubt any lady here in Minas Tirith knows how bad a winter we ordinary folk, the craftsmen and farmers in the neighboring towns, have suffered through.  Last autumn’s harvest was scanty, and we have contended with random raids by the Hill-men, and even orcs, all winter.  Little help the city could give us, for it was under equal threat, and I do not begrudge the withholding of protection.  Without Minas Tirith, the rest of Gondor could hardly be defended against the armies of Mordor.  But it was so hard to cling to what little we possessed, my family and I.  At least it was winter and I was home.  I only travel in the summer, and spend each winter curing the skins from my small herd of cattle and goats, and then crafting my gloves.  Happy my wife was, to have me snug and safe in our cottage instead of braving the dangers around us.

            Since I did not dare venture even the short distance to Minas Tirith this winter to sell a few pairs, though, our monies have dwindled to practically nothing.  I worked feverishly the past two months, hoping against hope that the annual spring fair in the city would be held despite the war.  I really did not believe it would go forward, but a week ago a miracle took place.  The One Ring, I have been told, was destroyed by one of the little people, the Periannath of the North.  How this occurred is something I cannot picture, but it means Gondor and its allies claimed victory.  I am friendly with an apothecary here, and he quickly sent me word by another traveler that the fair was planned after all and that I should hurry to the city.

            I look up after laying down the last pair and recall my mind to the present.  This woolgathering will not make me money.  I catch sight of a fair-haired young woman approaching me as the man and boy with her go to another booth.  I smile and straighten my shoulders, determined to sell her something.

            She returns my smile as she arrives and begins to inspect my offerings.  I study her covertly, intrigued by her appearance.  She is very pretty, with pale skin and blue eyes, and her blond hair flows freely down her back.  She wears a simple white dress with a gold belt, and her equally simple necklace is also made of gold.  The more I look at her, the more sure I am that she is from the North, most likely from Rohan.  Her bearing is that of the highborn, but no highborn woman from Gondor would dress so plainly, or appear in public with unbound hair.

            Her fingers brush the white leather gloves in front, glide over a perfumed blue set, and then stray back to the whites. She picks them up, admiring the embroidery, caressing the flowers.  I try not to look too eager as she holds my most expensive pair.

            “You did this work yourself?”  Her voice is low and pleasing.

            I nod deferentially.  “Yes I did, my lady.  I prepare my own leather and do all of my own stitching, including the embroidery.”  I trace the gloves’ pattern with my fingertip, anxious to show it off to good advantage.  “A most suitable design for spring, with bluebells and snowdrops intertwined with leaves and vines.  I use extra strong silks, which means you can wear them for a hunting party if you wish, as long as you are not carrying hawks.  They would flatter your coloring marvelously, my lady, if I may say so.”

            She chuckles softly.  “You may, for they suit me for more than that reason,” she murmurs, lost in thought.

            “These flowers have a special significance for you, my lady?”

            “They do,” she says, barely audible.  A pack of boys race by, raising a racket; the noise snaps her reverie and she is all briskness again.  She hands me the gloves with a polite expression.  “Can you give me a few moments to decide?”

            “Of course, my lady.”

            She looks at the rest of my stock minutely, a small frown of concentration on her brow as she ponders her choice.  Finally, she lifts her head and smiles widely.  “I would like the white ones, please.  They are definitely the best.”

            I name a figure that is far greater than my usual prices, but I believe it fair.  She reaches into her belt purse and gives me the coins without a murmur.  Gratified, I bow to her; this one sale alone will make my trip profitable.  “Shall I wrap them for you, my lady?  You do not want them to become grubby or stained, for a certainty.”

            “Thank you, that would be kind.”  I begin wrapping them in parchment, and she suddenly says, “Could you please leave a small opening at the bottom, so I can show them to my friends?”

            “I am happy to,” I reply.  I tie up the package with string, the requested gap at one end, and present it to her.  “May my gloves grace your beauty and serve you well, my lady.”

            “I am sure they will.  Thank you very much.”  Her full smile is quite dazzling.

            I contentedly watch as she rejoins her two companions, who are eating the little half-moon pies that are so popular—the boy is getting quite a lot of the filling on his face and hands.  She leans over the boy and shows him the gloves, pulling just enough of them through the opening to display the floral work, while careful not to let him touch them.  I am too far away to hear them, but I can see his grin of delight when he turns his face up to the woman.  They seem to be laughing together; I am glad they take such joy in her purchase.

            The three of them start to walk further along the street.  As they do, I glance down at the boy’s feet when the crowd in front of him thins.  A wave of shock passes through me.  Large and hairy, they resemble nothing that I have ever seen.  I remember the stories I heard recently, and I realize in utter surprise that I have just spotted one of the Periannath!  My mouth drops open in amazement.  I immediately resolve to go to the apothecary’s booth when I have time and ask him if he knows the names of both the woman and the perian.  But even if I do not learn who they are, this will be a fine tale for my wife and babes!

Beruthiel leans towards me, away from the gaggle of giggling ladies she has come with, as I bundle up the bottles of perfume she has just bought.  “Have you heard?  About who Lord Faramir is courting?  It is the Lady of Rohan, Eowyn.  I have become her attendant while she recovers.”

“And what do you think of her?” I ask, reminding myself not to be impatient with gossip.  These women, however light-minded they may be, represent my life’s blood.  Compared with most of the other merchants here at the fair today, like my friend the glovemaker, I have not struggled to keep food on the table this winter.  Between my medicines for the Houses of Healing and the luxuries I concoct for the court, I kept my coffers full.  It will not do to give unnecessary offence to a frequent buyer.  So I steel myself for a round of fresh cattiness. 

“She is fair enough, and her temper has improved since her arm healed, but I cannot imagine what Lord Faramir is thinking of!”  A twitter of laughter rises from the others.  “Lady Eowyn is a shieldmaiden, after all, and I suspect she keeps her sword under her pillow.  My Lord Steward might find himself skewered if he goes to her chamber at night!”  Her green eyes radiate jealousy as she speaks.

I am sorely tempted to point out that Beruthiel’s red hair and rabbity chin hardly would charm Lord Faramir even if there were no Lady Eowyn.  I restrict myself to a tight smile and a neutral comment.  “Perhaps he enjoys a challenge, Beruthiel.  Just watch your tongue—there are ears everywhere.  Here are your things.”  I give her the small quilted bag.

With a careless wave, she and her squadron of friends move on.  Silly fools, I think, gritting my teeth.  Do they not understand we have been at war?  I am all too aware of that now, since the Warden hired me three weeks ago to provide extra medicines to the Houses.  Such are the numbers of wounded that the healers have no time to brew the complex tinctures they desperately need.

The work earns me much, but I value it more for the opportunity it gives me to gather news of the war.  I speak to Ioreth often when I make my deliveries, and she has told me no one paid a higher price for their battlefield valor than the Lady Eowyn and her halfling squire.  Ioreth is a trustworthy source, so I therefore respect the Lady without having seen her.  That wench Beruthiel should have a better bridle on her tongue, indeed.

My attention fastens on a young woman standing nearby who keeps turning around to look at my goods.  The man and boy with her busily argue about what pastries to eat, and pay her no heed.  I get a good view of her, and am struck by her pale beauty, like that of a lily kissed by spring’s first sun.  Her hair, a cornsilk waterfall, requires no additional artistry, but old habit asserts itself when I see her bare face.  I mentally paint her features—a whisper of black kohl on the lashes, dark rose paste to enhance the full lips, and a lighter rose pink rubbed on the cheekbones . . .

As if drawn by my thoughts, she bolts towards me just as the boy distracts his sparring partner by stuffing a fritter in his mouth.  I glimpse the man’s face and recognize Lord Faramir, and the whole puzzle falls into place.  The beautiful woman is undoubtedly Lady Eowyn, and the “boy” is no boy, but the halfling who fought with her—Meriadoc, I think Ioreth said his name was.

Lady Eowyn fidgets for a second, and then speaks hesitantly.  “I wish to purchase some perfumes and paints, but have no knowledge.  What would you recommend?”

I seize my chance to both do Lady Eowyn a good turn and put an end to Beruthiel’s pretensions.  “Over here, my Lady Eowyn, are my rarest perfumes, distilled to absolute purity.”  Her startlement tells me she did not expect me to call her by name.  “Light floral waters would be best if you are not used to scent, like these violet and bluebell ones—they’re quite delicate—”

“Bluebell water?” she says wryly.  “Another sign?”

I ignore her random comment and plunge on.  “If you desire something stronger, here is a special blend of rose attar with musk, very rich but not cloying.”  She sniffs the flagons cautiously as I pull a tray from under the table.  “And here are my finest paints, ground with the purest pigments and gentle on the skin.” 

“How are they applied, Master Apothecary?’  Lady Eowyn flicks an uneasy glance at Lord Faramir’s back, and I divine she does not want him to see her buying such fripperies, especially ones that imply such a clear interest in courtship.

I rush through my standard tutorial on painting the face flatteringly; she nods and asks few questions while listening closely.  I help pick out a clutch of pastel colors, good on her fair complexion, and I quickly wrap them up, fixing Lord Faramir with a wary eye as he strolls farther down the twisting street, past the two of us.

“May I have a flask of the rose perfume, and two of the bluebell water?”  She smiles as though savoring a private joke.  “I do believe in signs, after all.”

I tuck the flasks and some small squirrel-hair brushes for the paints into another quilted bag, and quote her a far lower price than I normally charge.  We exchange bag and coins; Lady Eowyn no sooner has her things in hand but that the halfling appears at her elbow.

“What did you get, Eowyn, can I see?”  Afire with mischief, he tries to snatch the bag.  She jerks it away and puts a finger to her lips.

“Hush, Merry!  I’ll tell you later.”  She turns back to me, a becoming flush on her cheeks.  “Thank you for your time, my good master.  I hope my experiment works—I shall inform you later.”

“I am honored, Lady Eowyn, and look forward to seeing you again.”

She gives Merry a little push, and they hasten to join Lord Faramir, deep in conversation with a neighboring bookseller.  I silently congratulate myself.  It will not be my fault if an improved Lady Eowyn fails to permanently capture Lord Faramir’s heart.

“Master Mardilin!”

I lift my head and peer around me, trying to see who calls for me.  These rheumy eyes grow dimmer day by day.  I cannot help but wonder how long I can continue to ply my trade; soon I shall not be able to read a single word in any book or manuscript.

“Over here, my old friend.”  The young man hovers into focus, and my mouth stretches into a wide grin.  He embraces me, thumps my back, and steps away with a smile.

“Lord Faramir!  It’s wonderful to see you again, my boy.  I bestirred my aching bones from my daughter’s sunny fireside in Linhir because I wanted to speak to you once more.”

“Come, Mardilin, you sound as if you already have a foot in the grave—you appear hale and hearty still to me.” 

“Seventy-four is a great age, made greater by the years the journey to Minas Tirith added.  The caravan I traveled with arrived safely, but ‘twas a nerve-wracking road.  My apologies for not paying an immediate call on you at the Steward’s House, but we arrived with little time to prepare our booths, I fear.”  I wave my hand along the group of my fellow caravaners spread out in this section of the Rath Celerdain.

“No apology is needed, Mardilin—duty always comes first, for us both.  Now, do tell me—what did you bring that might beguile an eternal student like me?” 

“Here you are, my dear Faramir—a boxful of my most uncommon books and maps.  I daresay even you will find unknown gems of knowledge in its depths.”  He grins happily as I give him the crate.

  While he rummages enthusiastically, pride swells in my breast at how the young boy I sold books to constantly transformed himself into the noblest of men, a fitting leader of the White City and of Gondor.  I have heard high praise of the new King, but he must be a paragon to surpass Faramir; I regret the Steward will not reach the pinnacle of power his father enjoyed, for he would wield it wisely, far more than Denethor chose to.  I ought not to speak ill of the dead, but I gained far too much knowledge, during the years I kept my small shop here, of Denethor’s cruel treatment of his younger son to view him with favor, or even respect.

Faramir first began visiting me when he was a stripling and recently motherless.  He would race in, dragging a reluctant Boromir behind him, demanding to see the newest manuscripts and maps.  Our friendship flourished as he grew up, for Faramir cared nothing for the difference in our stations and I fed his diamond-bright mind with a stream of books while we conversed endlessly.  Once, when he was still quite young, Lord Denethor accompanied him and cross-questioned me in detail, his eyes glittering with disdain.  His disapproval was obvious, and I doubted I would see Faramir again.  

I underestimated Faramir’s strong will, however, for he continued to patronize my shop as he reached adulthood.  He sometimes brought Mithrandir with him; many an hour I spent discussing the history and lore of Middle Earth with them both as we sipped wine.  My life became emptier when Faramir departed to Ithilien to command the Rangers and Mithrandir ceased to come to Minas Tirith, unwilling to further confront Denethor’s enmity. 

My disappointment that my only son chose not to follow my trade was softened by his decision to become a Ranger.  He served Faramir and Gondor bravely and well, falling two years ago to a stray arrow when orcs ambushed his patrol before they reached Henneth Annun.  Crushed, I closed my shutters upon receiving the news, for it happened too soon after my wife’s death.  I resolved to turn my back on Minas Tirith and join my married daughter on the coast in Linhir.  The one comfort in those dark days was the letter of condolence Faramir sent me before I moved.  He spoke of my son’s courage and his faithfulness to his sword brothers; I reread it over and over, until it was too fragile to handle.

I slowly picked up the broken threads of my life, and began to work once more, but my joins stiffened and my eyes clouded, so I no longer traveled to the White City for the spring and autumn fairs.  I watched with horror as the Shadow thickened over the land, despairing for Gondor’s fate.  When scattered reports reached me a month ago that the spring fair was still planned, even in the teeth of the war swirling around us, I disregarded my age and infirm health and persuaded some of the other merchants in Linhir to form a caravan and journey to Minas Tirith.  When my daughter objected, I told her calmly that if the Dark Lord won, the blackness would find us all no matter where we lived, so it was all of a piece to me.  I did not admit how much I wanted to see Faramir, for my daughter foolishly blamed him still for her brother’s death.

“You are in quite a brown study, Mardilin,” says Faramir gently.

“Yes, I am,” I reply, blinking at him.  “A great joy it is to find you recovered from your wounds, and raised to your rightful standing in the world, though I regret you gained it by your brother’s demise.  Boromir was a noble man, and I know how much you miss him.”

Sadness invades Faramir’s expression, but before he can speak, a voice calls his name. 

“Faramir, Faramir!  We’re here—I found Eowyn.”

I stare in amazement.  Long have I read about the halflings, their customs and country, but never did I imagine I would meet one.  His round face radiates good humor, and two finely pointed ears protrude from his curly brown hair.  A willowy human woman stands behind the halfling, her cool blond beauty glistening in the sunlight.

“Mardilin, let me introduce you to my friends.  This is Master Meriadoc Brandybuck, of the Shire.” 

“Just Merry, Master Mardilin, if you please,” says the halfling—no, I remind myself, hobbit—as he shakes my hand cheerfully. 

“And the Lady Eowyn of Rohan,” Faramir adds warmly.  I bow to her, ignoring the twinges in my back, and she returns my salute with a graceful curtsey, gravely inclining her head. 

“I am honored, Master Mardilin.  Please, do not let Merry and I interrupt your conversation.”

“You do not, my lady.  Here is a book that may interest you, of the history of the Mark.  The calligraphy and illuminations are by one of the best scriveners in the city.”  She takes it and opens it carefully, a nostalgic look on her face.  I suspect she is homesick.

“Do you have any volumes of herb-lore, good Master Mardilin?  I want one on pipeweed in particular.”

“You are in luck, my obsessed puffer—I think there’s a herbal in this crate that mentions the Shire’s chief vice,” says Faramir, slyly taunting.  The small hobbit rises to the bait like a fish to a hook.

“It is not a vice, it’s an art, I tell you.  See, read this—”

Faramir, Merry and I spend the next twenty minutes absorbed in talk, as the pile of books in the crate grows larger and I soak up the news of the war.  I can see Merry is a good friend for the Steward, for the hobbit’s book hunger matches Faramir’s.  But I am not so preoccupied that I cannot spare an occasional glance for the Lady Eowyn.

I am impressed by her aura of quiet strength as much as by her loveliness.  I heard the rumors regarding her and Faramir soon after I arrived in Minas Tirith, but find they did not do her justice.  She is no mannish warrior; rather, she possesses a watchful self-containment that suggests a deeply buried sorrow silently endured.  I note the small smile she bestows upon Faramir when she looks at him—a smile full of affectionate understanding as he gives his passion for learning full rein.  That smile speaks of love, but a love not yet ready to reveal itself—I am sure of it.  She reminds me vividly of a small child who dares not touch an expensive toy for fear of breaking it.

At last, Faramir places his last selection on top of the wobbly stack and says regretfully, “We must move on, Mardilin, loath as I am to say it.  You have other customers to tend and we have other sights to see, though none as welcoming as your countenance, my friend.”  He clasps my hand, his eyes shining.

“And I feel the same, my dear lord and friend.”  I survey the crate.  “Shall I deliver these to you later this evening at the Steward’s House?  There is too much to carry.”

“Can you manage it, Mardilin?” asks Faramir in concern.

“Oh yes—one of the boys hereabouts will lend me a hand, I daresay.  And then we shall converse more, if you wish.”

“I do wish.  Thank you, and take care of yourself.”

“Have no fear of that.”  I turn to Merry and the Lady Eowyn.  “It has been a true honor to meet you both.  Perhaps we too shall speak again tonight, and I will learn of your deeds from your own lips.”

“That would be wonderful,” enthused Merry, while Lady Eowyn finally permits herself a complete smile.

“Yes, I would like that very much.  Merry and I shall attend you at the Steward’s House, if Lord Faramir does not object.”

  “Not at all.  Goodbye for now, Mardilin.”

They move off through the mass of folk; Faramir waves in farewell, and I wave back.  I watch them as long as I can with my weak eyes, struck by their affection for one another as Faramir and Lady Eowyn bend their heads down to a chattering Merry.  An unlikely trio they may be at first blush, but one that is heartwarming to see.  May the golden lady stay by the side of my lord and friend, and give him the love and support he so richly deserves.  

Why, oh why, did I let that old fool Mardilin persuade me to come to Minas Tirith?

            There I was, safe and sound in Linhir with my gold buried in the yard and a fair number of miles between the war and my small store of wealth.  The next thing I know, Mardilin appears on my doorstep, weaving gauzy fables of the money to be made at the capital’s spring fair, and how I ought to travel here with the caravan he was putting together to brave the road.  Lured by a desire to increase my profits and add to my hoard, I capitulated at the last moment and joined the motley group Mardilin had assembled.  I was careful to keep to myself, since I never like displaying my goods too openly.  We arrived intact yesterday, dodging numerous alarms, and scrambled to set up our booths and prepare for the merrymakers that hopefully were anxious to spend their coin.

            So that it how I came to be sitting here, watching people drift by and only occasionally buying one of my pieces, despite the craftsmanship I lavish on each.  I am careful to smile at my potential customers and appear more approachable than I normally do.  This task is made easier as I look appreciatively at the many beautiful women in attendance today.  They are far more elegant than those of Linhir, with richly textured clothes and a prideful aura that piques my curiosity.  I allow myself to imagine what one of them would be like in my bed, for it has been far too long since I shared it with a woman.  Warm?  Wild?  Soft and yielding?  I ponder if any women in the city are of sufficiently loose virtue to consider keeping me company tonight in exchange for a gold brooch . . .

            I blink as the blond woman stops before me, as though my impure thoughts had conjured her up.  She is ravishingly lovely, with thickly lashed blue-gray eyes and a splendid figure that is slim but ripe.  Her fair coloring and direct gaze are very different from the other ladies here, and make me suspect she is an outlander of some sort.  All I am certain of is that she incarnates every fleshy fantasy I have cultivated over the years.  I must swallow slightly before I trust myself to speak.

            “May I help you, my lady?  Is there something in particular you are searching for?”

            “No, thank you, I am merely looking everything over.”

            She begins picking up different jewelry as I revert to cataloging her numerous and admirable beauties, for that is all I can do; she is clearly far above me.  As she runs a fine chain through her fingers, the links flashing in the sun, a man joins her.  He lays a proprietary hand on her waist briefly, and I recognize he is highborn, even without knowing his name.  His whole bearing, lordly and confident, proclaims his standing; I can see she must be his wife, for his attitude towards her is a mingling of love and respect that only a husband would project.  His glance rakes my table, and he unerringly reaches for my best piece, an intricately decorated brooch in the shape of a running horse.

            “This is the right one for you, horse lady,” he says, his voice warm and full of affection.  “I shall buy it for you, as a token of my high regard for both you and your country.”  She shakes her head vigorously as I realize she is indeed foreign.

            “No, no, you have already been more than generous today, my lord, with both time and money—I cannot accept anything else.”

            “Too late—my mind is made up.”  He grins and she stares back, disconcerted but unable to protest further.  He asks casually, “How much, my good smith?”

            The price I blurt out is far higher than what I originally planned to charge; I suppose I see a good opportunity for a quick profit, or maybe I think any man claiming this woman should pay well for the privilege.  I wait for him to haggle, but he extends payment without a quibble.  I take the brooch, feeling pleased it will enjoy such a fine showcase of its quality with this dream woman.  “Shall I wrap it for you, my lady, or would you prefer to wear it immediately?” I ask.

             She thinks for a second, and a slow smile spreads over her mouth, heating my blood.  “I shall wear it, if you have no objections, my lord . . .” She arches an eyebrow in question.

            “I have none.”  They smile at each other.  Does he know what a fortunate man he is?

            “If you will allow me, my lady, I will pin it on your dress.”

            She leans forward cautiously; I undo the brooch’s clasp and slide it into the fabric with equal care.  For one dizzying, intoxicating moment, I sense her silky soft skin through the cloth as I fasten the clasp, and then the moment is gone, never to return.  She straightens up just as a boy comes racing up to us.  I guess this is their son, for his manner is utterly familiar and his coloring rather similar to the man’s.

            “There’s a fruitseller over here you should see, with a good choice—” His voice and expression are oddly mature for a lad.

            The woman slips a motherly arm about his shoulders.  “We’re coming directly, Merry.”  She bows her head to me.  “Many thanks, kind sir.”

            The man’s arm joins hers around the boy’s shoulders as the three of them walk together to the neighboring fruitseller.  I find myself grinning at their retreating backs like an idiot, feeling only a tiny touch of jealousy amidst the warmth this little family group engenders in me.  Will I even be lucky enough to have that level of love, I wonder?            

“Wynfryd, can you bring me more of the dolls?  There is room for them on the table after all.”

My wife nods as she helps a customer.  “I will in a moment.”  She hands the woman several small silver coins for a large gold piece, and glances at the shy lad clinging to his mother’s skirts.  “That top will last forever if you care for it well—now go have some fun.”  With birdlike quickness, she twirls round, catches up a stack of boxes, and crosses over to me.  “Here you are.  I do wish more of these sell soon, after all the effort we made with them.”  A slight frown of worry appears between her brows.

I give her a light kiss on her cheek.  “They will, never fear—I see more ladies here now, a fair number with little girls.  Do not fuss yet, my dear.”  I smile down at Wynfryd in gratitude she is here, for I count her one of the two great blessings of my life.

The other blessing is my skill at toymaking, the craft I inherited from both my father and grandfather.  In truth, it has shaped my whole destiny, for without it I never would have come south, nor would I have found and married Wynfryd.  An odd outcome, but perhaps I should not be surprised, because men friendly with the dwarves often experience fate’s twists and turns, like my grandfather. 

It was he who first learned the secrets of dwarven toymaking, some seventy years ago in faraway Dale right after King Bard rebuilt the town and claimed the throne.  Grandfather was a young and eager carpenter when he befriended an elderly dwarf named Thrain, one of those who came to the Lonely Mountain after the Battle of Five Armies.  Thrain was distant kin to the great Thorin Oakenshield, and a superb toymaker, perhaps the best in the Kingdom under the Mountain.  He was also childless and determined to teach his craft to someone deserving before he died.  As Grandfather’s friendship with the dwarf deepened, Thrain took him as his apprentice, ignoring the dismay the other dwarves expressed, for they normally hid their knowledge from men’s prying eyes.  Thrain ignored the disapproval; he was an independent sort who cared little for the opinion of others.    

Grandfather learned quickly and well, and soon became as skillful as his master, who died a few years later leaving all his tools to his faithful apprentice.  Grandfather’s business throve, for no other men could craft toys with his dwarf-tutored knowledge.  But even as he made a tidy pile of gold, resentment grew, for many muttered about the dwarf magic he surely used to beguile the unwary into buying his wares.  Grandfather had quite a struggle to persuade Grandmother’s father to allow their marriage, and their happiness together with my father, and later my mother, was tainted by the isolation hemming them round.  Father had little choice but to become Grandfather’s apprentice when the time came, for no one else would take him, nor did any other boys ask to work with Grandfather.

When I was but a lad of five, a bad fever swiftly passed through Dale in the early winter and carried off a small number of victims; but among them were both my mother and grandmother, leaving us three stunned and grieving.  When spring came, Grandfather learned that Balin, another kinsman to Thorin, was gathering a large group of dwarves to journey south and retake the ancient mines of Moria from the orcs.   Upon hearing the news, my grandfather’s long-simmering plans boiled over and he rushed home all ablaze; I can still hear his voice after so many years.

“Come, son,” he cried to Father.  “Let us pack up our goods and tools and travel to the south, to Rohan and Gondor, where we shall find people more deserving of our skills.  There is nothing but grief and loneliness left for us here.”

“But, my dear father,” Father protested as he shot me an anxious look, “how can we make such a long and difficult trip alone?  We would most certainly be attacked by orcs, beasts, or other evils before we reach our destination.”

“We shall go south with Balin and his troop, as far as the Dimrill Dale.  No orcs have defied the axes of Durin’s folk for long!  I already spoke to Balin and he welcomes our company.”

And so we set off a month later, with creaking carts pulled by sturdy ponies, to find a new life.  I liked the dwarves, despite their thick beards and gruff manners; they always had time to share a meal or story with a lonely little boy.  Balin in particular took a great fancy to me; I spent many hours perched in front of him, his pony trotting steadily as he told me about his adventures with Gandalf the wizard and the little thief who helped the dwarves steal back their lost treasure from Smaug the dragon.  His name was Bilbo Baggins, and he was one of the small folk called halflings—or hobbits, to use their own word—who lived in a faraway land known as the Shire, far to the west.  Hobbits were even shorter than dwarves, Balin assured me as I stared wide-eyed, and had curly hair on both their heads and large feet.  I could not picture anyone being shorter than a dwarf, but I loved Balin’s stories and begged for more.  I remember how sad I was when we parted at the Dimrill Gate, as the dwarves armed themselves to enter Moria.  Balin patted me on the head and promised to bring me a fine bag of jewels for my wedding once I was grown.  I waved goodbye as I rode away with Father and Grandfather and hoped I would see the dwarf again some day.

We arrived in the East Emnet of Rohan in late summer, our passage slowed while we carefully skirted the dangerous woods of Lothlorien and Fangorn.  We settled in a small farming village between the River Entwash and the Great West Road, where the Eorlingas were friendly and welcomed any new craftsmen.  My grandfather, rich in years, died two years after we first moved; my father then taught me toymaking in turn as soon as I was old enough to hold the tools, and we began to travel to the fairs in Edoras and the neighboring villages regularly.  It was at the Dunharrow fair that I met Wynfryd the summer I was twenty-eight and she was nineteen, recently orphaned in a raid by hill-men.  I fell in love at first sight, captivated by her strawberry blond hair and sweet face.  She quickly agreed to marry me and cheerfully joined Father and I on the road, and proved the best of helpmeets with her deft sewing and painting. 

It was Wynfryd who proposed, three years ago, that we move to Linhir for the sake of my father’s weak heart and for a greater degree of safety.  We had just met a group of craftsmen and merchants from that city when we came to Minas Tirith for the autumn fair.  Liking their kindness and lured by the prospect of warm weather, we traveled back with them to their seaside city, not so splendid as Dol Amroth but still very pretty, and started our new home with the intent of staying for good.  As Wynfryd and I nursed Father, we watched the mounting darkness laying over our land with horror, and found ourselves secretly glad that Wynfryd had not yet been able to conceive.  Middle-earth was no place to raise a child, we told each other, if everything good might be destroyed.

A month ago, I was surprised by a visit from the old bookseller, Mardilin, who had become a good friend to my father, and had helped us greatly six months before when Father finally slipped away.  He told me that the spring fair in Minas Tirith would be held after all, despite the war raging about the city.  Wynfryn and I did not want to go at first, but Mardilin had a honeyed tongue and finally wore us down.  We were still six days from Minas Tirith when we learned that Gondor and her allies had miraculously won the war, and I was thrilled to hear that the halflings, the little people Balin had so loved, had been the chief agents of that victory.  I wondered if any of them were related to the thief Bilbo, or if they knew anything of Balin’s fate, for I always asked for news of the dwarves.  My questions were soon submerged in the general joy, and our caravan arrived in the White City amidst singing and dancing.  We all looked forward to enjoying, and selling, much, but so far the dolls Wynfryd and I labored over all winter are more admired than purchased . . .

I am tugged back to the present when a woman stops in front of me and examines one of the dolls I just put out on the table.  It is one of our finest, with a delicately carved and painted face that took me many days to perfect.  Her dress is a confection of blue and cream silk, decorated with tiny seed pearls, golden lace, and bits of velvet, all constructed with Wynfryd’s most precise stitching.  I watch curiously as the woman’s finger traces the pattern of the lace; she looks wistful, even sad.  Perhaps she too is lost in childhood memories, or like Wynfryd, thinks of the child she does not yet have.  As I keep watching her, I am struck by her resemblance to my wife, with her blond hair and slender strength, and then I realize this is surely the White Lady of Rohan, whose courage is sung on every street corner.  A man joins her and studies the doll she touches.  This must be Faramir, the Steward of the City, who I have heard so much of from Mardilin.

“They are beautifully done, are they not?  Really not for a child at all, but rather a thing of beauty for a lady’s chamber,” Lord Faramir says.  

            “Yes, you are right.  I am surprised at my interest, for I never played with dolls much as a little girl, but seen in that light, I understand my fascination now.”  Given what I have heard of Lady Eowyn’s prowess in battle, I can well believe she never played with dolls at all, but rather with sword and shield from babyhood.

            “Let me get one for you.”  For a moment, she appears on the verge of arguing, but decides not to bother.  Lord Faramir picks up her favorite, the one in blue and cream silk, and hands it to me with a bonny sum.   Wynfryd is boxing her gift in one of our wooden chests when a voice suddenly pipes up, startling me—I cannot recall seeing anyone else come up to our booth.

            “How much is that one?”

            I crane my head to view the figure on the other side of the table that points at a little beauty in purple and green velvet.  I feel my eyes widen as I behold the small person on the other side.  Curly brown hair on both head and feet, pointed ears, and a stature less than any dwarf’s—this can only be a hobbit, as I recall all of Balin’s tales in a flash.  Never in all my days did I dream I would actually meet one of these legendary folk.  I do not trust myself to speak for a second, but then I manage to gasp out the first thing that comes to mind.  “You are a halfling?”

            “Yes, I am,” he says with pride.  Understandable, with the bravery his people have shown, but now I puzzle over his age, for he looks more like a child than a man to me.

            “Whom do you buy it for?  Surely you are too youthful to already be a father.”

            “It’s for my sweetheart, Stella.  She loves dolls, and has none that are as fine as yours, sir.  Please, how much do you want for it?”

            “Give the poor man a chance to tell you, Merry,” Lady Eowyn says with a smile.  Her hand grazes his shoulder affectionately; he grins up at her, the love between them crystalline clear.  

            I do not need to think about what I should do; the memory of Balin’s respect for these folk pulses up in my breast.  I take the doll the hobbit wants and place it in another box, proffering it with a bow as Wynfryd, recognizing what I am doing, curtsies as well.  “I charge you not one coin, Master Halfling, for the valor of you and your kinfolk is well known to me.  Accept this gift with my humble thanks, and may you have a sweet daughter who shall one day cherish this.” 

The hobbit’s face lights up with pure happiness, and that alone repays me fully.  He takes the box and bows back.  “Thank you, my good master, and I shall tell Stella of your blessing.”

The three of them—woman, man, and hobbit—walk away slowly.  As they move down the street, I feel Wynfryd slide her arm around my waist.  “That was a lovely thing you just did,” she tells me softly.

“No more than what he and his kin deserve,” I reply as I nod in their direction.  “I want to talk to Mardilin, and see if he can help me later seek out the halfling—Merry, I think his name is—and maybe I will finally gain some news of Balin.  I have waited for many years to discover his fate.”

Wynfryd smiles and kisses me on the mouth, disregarding the crowds.  “And perhaps your blessing shall work its magic on us too, and soon we’ll have a little girl to share our toys with at last!”  I hug her tightly, contentment wrapping us round like a warm blanket as we watch the retreating hobbit until we can no longer see him.

“I’ve told you before, girl, rein in that tongue of yours!  You tell folk what they want to hear—that they’ll be rich and happy, or that one of the lasses will find a good husband—not any doom and death!  A fine way to scare off custom and coin!”

I huddle underneath my shawl, trying not to glare up at the man looming over me.  How dare he snap at me for something he knows I can’t control—but I shove the thought away hastily.  As long as I need him for my food and shelter, I must continue to serve him, however disgusted I am by it.  And can I really blame Targil for my oft-wayward foresight, both gift and curse?  He still treats me better in some ways than my own folk did, for if not for their fear and cruelty, I never would have ended up here in the White City.  “Yes, sir,” I say softly. Targil storms out of our sky blue silk tent, brightly painted with moons and stars, and I fight down the bile in my throat while I recall the past.

I was born and bred in the nearby village of Minrimmon, and my childhood days were ordinary enough, much like any girl’s in Gondor.  But I stopped being ordinary when I was twelve or so.  The headaches I began to suffer from brought visions too, of things that had not yet come to pass.  Young and innocent, I blurted out what I saw, not thinking what the consequences of doing so might be.  As my visions came true—a slashed leg from a dropped sickle, a cow dying from the milk-sickness—the whispers started that the black hand of Mordor was on me and that I should be driven away before I brought evil to all.  My parents protected me the best they could from our neighbors’ malice, but then my mother died when I turned seventeen while birthing another babe.  Father remarried soon, to a whey-faced wench who never liked me.  I struggled to live with her until I was twenty, but when I saw my baby brother falling into a well during a head-ringing attack, she had had her fill.

“She’s a witch, I tell you, a witch!  Either turn her out, now, or I swear I’ll flee with my poor boy!  She wants him dead, she does,” my stepmother screeched at my father as I wept beside him.

He turned to me with tears in his eyes.  “Is this true, my dear?” he whispered.

“No,” I choked out, “but I will not stay where I am not wanted.”

“Maybe we can marry her off soon,” my stepmother muttered.  “The old butcher’s wife died a few months ago, remember?”  I cringed inwardly as I pictured the butcher’s paunch and red nose, and decided to seek my own fate before something else happened.

I climbed out my window that night, a small bundle of clothes, food, and mementos clutched in one hand, and walked to the Great West Road.  There I met a small group of farmers heading to Minas Tirith the next morning.  They offered to take me with them, and I accepted gratefully, sure in my youthful folly I could find honest work there quickly. 

But I found out differently after I arrived in Minas Tirith, for even three years ago there was little work to be had alone and friendless in a strange city.  I thought I might be reduced to begging, or selling my body, as I wandered the streets looking for a place.  At last I discovered a tavern in the poorest part of town that needed a serving maid and occasional cook; the owner paid little, but gave me a warm nook to sleep in and ignored my fits.  The labor was hard, but except for dodging men’s groping hands, I was reasonably content, and my plainness meant few pursued me farther.

One night, my headache became so painful I could not stop myself babbling in the common room while I tried to pour more ale for the gamblers at a table.  Targil was there, a notorious cheat who regularly fleeced the unsuspecting at the games of chance he ran.  Afterwards, he cornered me in the kitchen, demanding, “You see the future?  How often?  When does it happen?”  I tried to explain while he listened carefully.  When I finished, he said with a canny smile, “Come and work for me!  You can make far more money using your gift, even while you save your back!  I shall teach you the tricks of the trade, so you need not always rely on something so uncertain.”

I was tired, and sick of the hard physical work, so despite my master’s kindness I left the tavern and joined Targil in his dubious enterprise.  True to his word, he taught me how to read the cards and tea leaves and palms, and how to spin a convincing tale that made people happy and caused them to pay me better.  But he was often brutal, beating me when I lost control of my gift and uttered dark truths someone did not wish to hear.  His rare bouts of drunkenness were a blessing, for then he tossed me more coins and then ignored me, which meant I kept myself well dressed and fed compared to other girls and did not have to bed men to do so.  Most times I worked out of the rooms we rented, but I persuaded him to buy the tent last year so we could gain business at the spring and autumn fairs here.

I hear voices outside, speaking to Targil.  Memories vanish as I push my shawl onto my arms and smooth my hair back.  Targil asks, “Would you care for a chance at the nutshell game, good master?  Few win, ‘tis true, but you’ve the look of a lucky man.”

“No, I think I and my friends would rather have our fortunes told.”  The man’s voice is pleasant and cultured, with an aura of command.  I perk up, for he sounds far grander than my usual patrons.

“Right this way, then—let me fetch two more stools for all of you—”  Targil holds the tent flap up as the man enters with a woman and a boy.  He is handsome, his hair raven black and his eyes a piercing grey.  The woman is very fair and pretty, with long golden locks—I feel a tiny twinge of envy when I look at her.  The boy, or dwarf, or whatever he is, has a round friendly face with a kind of wide-eyed freshness I thought was dead here.  The man waves the woman to sit down first, and then takes the other stools from Targil.  He and the boy sit down as well, and the woman speaks.

“Do you wish to go first?” she asks.

The man smiles and shakes his head.  “Ladies first, my dear—I will not forget my manners.”

She smiles in return and asks me quizzically, “How is this done?  What shall I do?”

“You have a choice of methods, my lady,” I tell her smoothly.  “I can gaze at the lines in your palm, or have you shuffle these cards and read your future from them.  Or if you wish to linger for a while, I will brew you some tea and then interpret the pattern the leaves in the cup form.  What is your desire?”

She thinks for a moment, and slowly extends her hand to me.  “My palm will do for now, I suppose.”

 I take it gently and turn it up to face me.  I trace the longest indentation with my index finger, saying, “This is your life line, and it is unbroken, so you shall live to a great age.”  I point to the shorter line next to the first.  “And this is the line of love.  It is braided, so you will have a tangled path to tread to find your true love.”  I move my fingertip up to the small mound under her ring finger.  “But since it terminates here, you will marry him soon.”  She chuckles at this, and gives the man a flirtatious glance; he grins in reply.  Heartened by my shrewd  guess, I complete her reading with a flourish of good news, predicting many children amid much laughter from all of them.   The woman pushes the man’s hand towards me as soon as I finish with her.  “Your turn now, Faramir,” she tells him coquettishly.

Faramir . . . I shake a touch when I recognize the name; how could I imagine the Steward of the City would be sitting in my small tent to have his fortune told?  I debate whether I should acknowledge him openly, and decide to say nothing; he may prefer moving namelessly amongst the fair crowd.  I steady myself, and begin his reading, assuring him he shall enjoy great power along with true love and good health.  The woman laughs again and teases him about the outcome; he replies to her banter with wit of his own.  I wonder who the woman is, and how she has so clearly gained the Steward’s heart.  Then he reaches for his purse and gives me a fair stack of gold coin, more than what I have ever earned before.

“My thanks, kind mistress,” he says with a grin that melts me.  “You have a gift indeed for seeing true.”  He begins to climb to his feet.

“Hey, what about me?” the boy demands.  Both Lord Faramir and his female companion look down at him in surprise. 

“We are sorry, Merry,” the woman says contritely.  “We quite forgot you had not had your fortune told yet.  You still want to have it done?”      

He nods vigorously.  “Yes, I do, Eowyn.”

Faramir taps Merry’s shoulder and has him shift over to the middle stool.  “My apologies as well.”  He looks at me.  “Please tell our hobbit friend what the future has in store for him, if you will be so kind.”

“A hobbit?” I ask, not sure I heard the word correctly.

“Yes—my name is Merry Brandybuck, and I’m a hobbit from the Shire, in the West,” the small being says forcefully. 

“Well then, Master Brandybuck, how do you wish me to do this?”

“I think I’d like you to use the cards for me,” he says in a quavering soft voice.

“Very well, shuffle the deck and hand them back to me.”

He does so, and I start laying the cards on the table in the fan pattern I normally use, but as I do, I feel the pressure mounting behind my forehead.  Oh no . . . I hurry to finish the layout and open my mouth to speak, but my speech emerges harshly, nothing like the low tones I used for the others.

“You have defeated the shadow of evil, but you shall battle it once more when you journey home.  There all is altered, but not beyond hope, and you shall triumph if you keep your bright particular star before you always.  Then you will be able to claim your happiness, but not without losing the kinsman you hold most dear, for his journey has just begun.”  My head drops forward limply as I fight to clear the fog in my mind.

“Pippin?”  The little hobbit’s eyes are wide as saucers now and full of fear.

“No, Merry, I’m sure Pippin is fine, and will stay that way,” the woman says comfortingly—Eowyn, I think he called her.  “Thank you,” she tells me then, but her expression is faintly alarmed.

Lord Faramir claps Merry on the back.  “And I am equally sure of the same!  Nothing will ever touch that cousin of yours, you know.”  He takes out three more gold pieces and puts them in front of me.  “I thank you again as well, mistress.  Perhaps we shall call on you once more on another day.”

“You are most kind, my lord,” I say weakly, ignoring the lights dancing before my eyes.  He and the Lady Eowyn each lay a hand upon the hobbit’s shoulders and guide him from my tent; I can hear them joking with him as they seek to cheer him up.  I rub my forehead and cross my fingers that Targil heard nothing, and that I do not face another beating tonight for an awry prediction.

/N:  A thousand and one thanks to Lindelea for allowing me to use three of her “Shire Songbook” songs in this chapter.

* * * * * *

“A soldier’s life, a soldier’s life, who needs a hearth or a home or a wife!

Just give me a sword and a company,

‘Tis a soldier’s life for me!”      

I finish the song with a flourish, letting the last notes ring out from the strings of my lute as the sharp drumbeats trail off.  We bow to the crowd then, who applaud vigorously.  More importantly, I can hear the clank of the coins they toss into the caps laying before on the ground.  A good take today, I think, my pleasure in our monies swelling up and blotting out my disappointment at still being here in Minas Tirith. 

“Another song, Veryandil!” a woman calls.  “For we have much to sing of today!”

“After a brief pause, I beg you, for even the best of minstrels needs to wet his throat.” 

I pick up the wineskins and pass them around to the others.  Failon pokes me in the back with his flute and echoes my thoughts.

“This money makes up for not going to meet the king and his army, doesn’t it?” he mutters.  “But even so, I find myself jealous of Taratar and Altallo.” 

“No point in complaining, for what’s done is done, and they were summoned,” I say with false cheer.  “And if we are lucky, some pretty girls shall come our way and warm the evening hours.”

“Well, then, take a good look at that blonde beauty over there!” exclaims Mirimo.  He waves his drumstick towards a lovely woman who has wandered into the crowd and is coming close to us; she is indeed a beauty, with flowing golden hair and splendid carriage.  “Who is she?”

“I am not sure . . .” I begin, but I see a familiar figure come up behind her and whisper in her ear.  “But considering who she is with, I can make a good guess based on the gossip of the street.”  I nod at the couple.  “If Faramir is her companion, it can be no one but the Lady of Rohan, Eowyn.”

Earon whistles softly as he cranes his head to see her, accidentally twanging the strings of his rebec.  “So that is the lady!  Far lovelier than the common report of the court, I’ll be bound.  What a jealous pack of harpies!”

“Faramir is here?”  Mirimo turns to me with a grin.  “Ask him to join us in a song, Veryandil, for no lady can resist his voice and style!  Do ask him!”    

I smile as well, for Faramir has often sung and played with us at his father’s feasts, never giving himself airs as the Steward’s son, but simply becoming another musician among us, with a fine voice and real skill on the lute.  Many a lady has been charmed by his music, for unlike his brother Boromir he valued the arts of peace rather than those of war, and so had his pick of feminine company.  I decide it would be a good thing to give him a chance to show off a trifle for the warrior woman he seeks to win.

“My Lord Faramir!” I call to him.  “Will you not come sing with us?  Long has it been since you have performed with us, and we would hear you again, not to mention the people of the city.”  A murmur of voices from the crowd accompanies my sally, and more people draw near to hear the Steward.

Faramir is clearly disconcerted, but not displeased, by the unexpected invitation.  “Would you have me flaunt my feathers in front of my friends, Veryandil?  I suspect they already think me vain as it is.”  The Lady Eowyn chuckles; her laugh is rich and warm and makes my skin tingle.  But another voice speaks before she can say anything.

“I want to hear you sing, Faramir!  I know how much you love music, and I do too, remember.  Won’t you please do it?”

I look down at the small person who has pushed through the taller folk and now stands in front of Faramir with a challenging expression, his pointed ears seeming to prick up with eagerness.  It strikes me that this is one of the Periannath, the halflings that the whole city celebrates.  He must be one of the kinsmen of the Ringbearer, I decide.  He must also be a close friend of Faramir to beard him so openly.

Faramir smiles affectionately at the halfling, and turns to Lady Eowyn.  “What say you?  Shall I perform as Merry wishes?”

“Yes,” she replies, smiling slowly, “I would like to hear you sing, my lord.”

“Very well.”  He joins us with a jaunty stride, and his eyes twinkle in amusement at the applause from the crowd.  “Well, what song do you have in mind? Something happy, or something sad?”

“Nay, Lord Faramir, something romantic, I think,” I say with sly wit.  “Don’t you agree ‘Ah, moon of my delight’ would be a fine one?”

“A good one, that is!” cries a young man who beams at his chubbily pretty sweetheart on his arm.  “Please sing that, my lord!”  

 “We do like a bit of romance, my lord,” adds an old woman hopefully.

Faramir raises an eyebrow; he clearly knows what I am up to, and gracefully concedes he has been brought to bay.  “Very well, then.  Veryandil, if you would . . .”

I give a quick count and we launch the introduction; Faramir’s honeyed tenor sails into the main melody easily, not affected a whit by his lack of recent practice with us.  As he sings, I see that many of the young women standing about are sighing longingly, but my eyes are repeatedly drawn to where the Lady Eowyn stands with the halfling Merry.

The enchanted expression on her face tells me that she did not know how fine a singing voice Faramir possessed, nor of his skill in performing.  And does not music feed love? I think gleefully, and mentally pat myself on the back for giving my friend a perfect opportunity to beguile his lady.  I see that his gaze keeps seeking her; I sense that this is no idle flirtation or affair.  It is not difficult to understand why he wishes to wed her; she is the first woman he has cared for who is queenly enough to deserve a man as princely as Faramir.

He lets his voice taper off after the high note that ends the song; the applause from the spectators thunders as Faramir takes a bow.  As he stands up, a male voice shouts, “Another song, my lord!”

Faramir shakes his head.  “Forgive me, I pray—I feel I have been sufficiently vain for one afternoon.”  He strolls back to Lady Eowyn; I strain to hear their exchange.

“If worse comes to worst, you could earn a living as a songster,” she says.

            He grins.  “So I have been told before!  But the worst did not come, so Steward I stay.” 

            I am struck by how playful their banter is.  I take another sip from my wineskin, preparing to sing again, when I feel a tug on my sleeve.  I discover the small halfling has sidled up to me.  “What may I do for you, Master Halfling?” I ask.

            “Hello, sir,” he says.  “My name is Merry Brandybuck, and I’m a friend of Faramir’s.  Do you think everyone might enjoy a tune from my home in the Shire?  We hobbits know lots of songs, and I’d be glad to sing if you believe they would suit.”

            I hesitate, wondering what kind of singing voice such a little creature has, but then I reflect that he is right, and that the novelty of new music will appeal greatly to the folk here at the fair.  “Very well—thank you for offering,” I say.  I raise my voice and cry, “Gather round, good people!  One of the halfling race, those who have redeemed us from the Dark Lord, wants to sing for us!”  A loud cheer greets my words.

            I lean down to Merry.  “Start singing a song, and we will pick up the melody.”

            “All right,” he says, clearly a bit nervous, but not as much as I would have expected.  “It’s a dance of the seasons—it’s from Buckland, where I come from . . .”

            “The water runs free, laddie, laddie,

            Comes now Mistress Spring,

            Lifting up her pretty flowered skirts

            To dance in the stream . . .”

We quickly begin to improvise an accompaniment.  The tune is both dreamy and sprightly, and people start to sway and tap their feet.  It helps that Master Brandybuck has a good voice; it may not be as fine as Faramir’s, for it is far lighter in timbre, but it is sweet and true. 

“The water stands still, laddie, sparkling

Jewels for Mistress Winter

With her bright skirts of snowy white,

Sweeping over the hill,

Laddie, come sing now, come sing!”

The crowd claps enthusiastically, with many cries of “More!  More!”  Merry looks over at Faramir and Lady Eowyn anxiously. 

“We don’t need to hurry home, do we?  May I keep singing?”

“Of course you can, Merry!  I had no idea you could sing well too!”  Lady Eowyn’s face is shining with love; this small one is very dear to her indeed.  Faramir bestows a look of almost paternal pride on the halfling.

“Go ahead, my friend, for I too am impressed and want to hear more.”

Merry grins happily.  “The same as before—start and you follow me?” he asks me.

“Yes.”

He clears his throat and speaks loudly.  “This one’s a hunting song the Tooks, my cousin Pippin’s folk, sing—it’s called ‘Coney Pie.’”

“I hunt all day midst the curing hay,

Just to catch a brace of coney dinner,

For a coney pie brings a gleam to eye,

Such a pie is sure to be a winner!”

As Merry bounces his way through the rollicking tune, the clapping begins again and I am overjoyed to hear many more coins being thrown.  I find myself praying the halfling can keep performing for the rest of the fair, for at this rate we will be paid far beyond our hopes . . .

“And I’ll sing you a Hey!

If you make it this way,

With a crust as flaky as can be!

Hey, ho!  Bake it up this day,

And I’ll ask you—hey!

Pretty lassie, will you marry me?”

There are scattered cheers this time amongst the clapping, for the song is even livelier than the first one.  I give Merry the wineskin after he bows to the crowd; he takes a long swig, far longer than I expected, and then begins another song.  We do not stop again until the sun is low in the west and the shadows lengthen across the paving stones.  When we step back into the shelter of a neighboring wall, Faramir and Lady Eowyn approach us.

“A thousand apologies, Veryandil, but it grows late, and Eowyn and I must steal your soloist away.”  He thumps my shoulder affectionately.

“No need to apologize, my lord, for we have kept your friend overlong, I fear.”  I look at the halfling; he is yawning.  “See how we have worked him hard!”

“I am rather tired,” Merry says.  “But thank you so very much for letting me sing; it was great fun!”  He extends his hand, and I shake it firmly.

“It is I who should thank you, for we have gathered many coins because of your singing.”  I lean down and scoop up a handful of gold and silver.  “Please take these, for you have earned them.”

“I couldn’t,” the halfling demurs, but Faramir prods him.

“Veryandil is right, these are fairly earned.  Take them.”

Merry accepts the money and puts it into his belt purse.  I bow low to the Lady Eowyn.

“It has been a great honour to play for you, my lady.”

“And I am equally honoured to hear you!  Many thanks, my good minstrel.”  Her cheeks are flushed a becoming rose, and her blue-grey eyes are dancing with mirth.  She turns to Faramir.  “But we really should go, before Ioreth sends out a search party for the three of us.”

“The Valar forbid!”  He smiles and shakes all our hands.  “I shall speak to all of you later, my friends.  Keep well.”

“We shall, my lord,” we chorus.  As they depart, Failon whispers, “Care to lay a bet on when the wedding is?”

“Fifty mirians that it’s in four months,” I answer promptly.  “And now, lads, let us pack up and go to the nearest tavern, where we shall drink a round to the Steward and his lady, and our fine halfling singer, and perhaps find some bonny wenches too!”

Will you be all right if I go home, Gran?”

“Of course I will, child.”  I reach up from where I sit and pat Meril on the hand.  “How foolish you are being!  I have sold flowers in this city for many a day, and I am not so old yet that I cannot still manage perfectly well with my walking stick.  Go along, now, or that new husband of yours will wonder where his supper is.”

My granddaughter looks at me worriedly.  “I told him I needed to help you at the fair today and that he would have to fend for himself.  Are you quite sure I should go?”

“Yes, I am.  You have done enough, for you gathered most of these blooms for me.  Go, dear.”

“Very well, Gran.”

She walks away and leaves me sitting next to the fountain where I usually station myself each day to sell my flowers.  I close my eyes and let the late afternoon sun warm my old and aching bones, thankful the weather is not as chill and damp as it often is during the spring fair.  The sunshine is so very right today, now that Gondor has been saved from Mordor’s hoards.  The past weeks already seem like a bad dream, when I huddled in my small house and prayed I would not see my children and grandchildren put to the sword or marched off as slaves.

“Please, granddame, do you have any bluebells today?”

I blink as the voice rouses me from dozing.  My sight is blurry now and it takes me a few seconds to focus on the small figure standing in front of me.  The boy’s brown curls are all tangled and in bad need of a good combing, and the mischievous gleam in his eyes makes me think his father must punish him regularly.

“I’m sorry, child, I was napping a bit in the sun.  What would you like?”

The boy laughs.  “I’m not a child—I’m a hobbit, and all grown up according to my folk.  But I forgive you, for I realize not everyone in Minas Tirith knows of me.”

“That’s right, Master Brandybuck.  You ought not to be an egoist and think your fame has traveled to every corner of the city,” says another voice.  Its owner walks up to the strange creature’s side, and I gasp when I recognize the tall man in Ranger gear.

“My Lord Faramir!  You do me much honour, stopping here.”  I begin to climb to my feet, ignoring my painful joints, but he holds me down with a firm hand on my arm.

“You need not stand for me, my kind goodwife.  Your age deserves its rest.”  He cocks his head and studies me, while the little person who calls himself a hobbit watches curiously.  “Do I not know you?  I think you are the flower seller that used to sell nosegays to my mother outside the Steward’s House, long ago.”

“Yes, my lord, that was indeed me in my younger days—I am Almie.  I am glad to know you remember me, for I have never forgotten your mother.  Minas Tirith has not been the same since the Lady Finduilas left us.  Her beauty and goodness were a blessing to all who knew her.”

“You are quite right, Mistress Almie, life is emptier without her.”  He looks sad for a moment, but then he brightens up as a blond woman joins both him and the hobbit.  “Eowyn!  I wondered where you were tarrying.”

“Nowhere, merely taking my time since I am rather tired.  Are you buying flowers?” she asks Faramir.

“No,” says the hobbit, “I am—I want to buy you a bunch of bluebells with the money I earned singing.”

“That is sweet of you, as always, but are you quite certain you want to spend your new-found coin so quickly?”

“And you forget, Merry, that I might desire to do the same.”  Lord Faramir’s tone is teasing.  “Or should I be worried you have decided to become my competition for Eowyn now?”

The hobbit laughs again, sounding like a bubbling brook.  “Only if Eowyn wishes it!  Maybe she does—after all, you will be even more attentive to her if you think you might lose her . . .”

As Lord Faramir and his hobbit friend bicker good-naturedly, the woman chuckles softly and turns her attention to my flowers, giving me a chance to really look at her for the first time.  With her fair colouring, I am sure she is of Rohan, though I do not know if she came to the city to nurse or to fight.  I saw two shieldmaidens years ago, and while they were handsome, as most Rohirrim are, the woman Eowyn is far prettier than they were.  Her features are delicate and her carriage graceful, so she must be a lady of high birth.  But what I note most is the air of gravity she carries; it reminds me a little of the Lady Finduilas, who always seemed to be hiding some secret sorrow.

She bends over a tub of lilies and irises, breathing in their rich scent, and then strokes the velvety petals of the violets nearby.  “How beautiful your flowers are!  Do you grow all of these, or pick some in the woods and fields outside the city?”

“Both, my lady.  I have a tiny greenhouse next to my house, and I somehow kept all my precious plants alive during the siege; it was a miracle, truly!  But blooms like those violets are picked by my granddaughter—she is a good girl, helping me the way she does.”

As Lady Eowyn continues to quiz me, it slowly dawns on me who she is acting like; of all the highborn ladies I have spoken with, the Lady Finduilas was the only one who ever asked personal questions, who wanted to know if I had a family or if I was able to earn enough money to survive.  I glance at Lord Faramir, and catch him looking at Lady Eowyn even as he keeps up his comic verbal duel with his friend.  He is indeed a wise man, to see that this strange foreign woman has the same kind of heart as his mother’s.  I hope she is as fond of Faramir as he is of her, for she will love him in a way that none of the spoiled brats here in Minas Tirith can do.

I suddenly realize that the hobbit is standing in front of me again, Faramir shaking his head behind him.  “Here!” he says.  “I’ve finally won this skirmish.  I want this bunch of bluebells along with two of the violets.  How much do I owe you?”

“Three mirians are more than enough, my dear little master.”

He pulls the coins from his purse, presses them into my palm, and folds my fingers over them.  He offers the flowers to Lady Eowyn with a courtly bow that makes me smile.

“Carry them for me, Merry dear—wait a minute, though—” She plucks a few bluebells from the bunch he holds and tucks them between her breasts.  “There, now we can go, for it does grow late.  Thank you, and may good fortune visit your house.”

“Oh, it will,” says Merry.  “Goodbye, granddame, with my thanks!”

“A good morrow to you, Mistress Almie, and I thank you for speaking of my mother.  It brings me joy to know her memory is still evergreen for you.”  He bows.

As they leave me, I am startled to see my granddaughter hurrying down the street towards me.  “Meril!  Why are you not home?”

“I wanted to fetch you a cooling drink first.”  I take the dewy glass she holds out with my empty hand as she stares after the strolling trio.  “Who is that queer little creature with that man and woman, Gran?”

“A hobbit, dear.”  I sip the sweetened rosewater and open my hand, delighted at the contents.  “And they are a generous race, indeed!  Look, he gave me gold along with the mirians.”  I finish my drink and smile up at Meril.  “Help me pack up my flowers and come with me to the butcher’s, for tonight we shall all feast on good meat at last.  How lucky that you did not go home yet after all!”

I scoop up a handful of walnuts and cluck at the red squirrel as she stands on her hind legs and chitters loudly.  “Hush, little sweetheart—see, I have a fine treat for you!”  I slip the nuts through the bars of the cage; she grabs one with her paws and begins to nibble eagerly.  “Silly girl, getting fussed over nothing!  I told you that you would eat!”  I stroke her between her ears, enjoying the feel of her silky fur. 

One of the spaniel puppies whimpers from his basket, jealous of the attention I am lavishing on the squirrel.  I cross over to him and begin to pet him.  He gives a happy yip and looks up at me adoringly.  I pat his littermates, and then whistle to my small songbirds.  They sing in reply; the blue and yellow canary’s song is particularly sweet.  My mood lifts at the sound, and I admire afresh how healthy my beasts are despite everything that has happened.  My wife cared for them well while she was gone, and I am grateful all my animals are in good enough health for me to ply my trade today at the fair.

It was a difficult decision to send her, our daughter, and the animals to my brother’s cottage outside Minas Tirith.  We argued about selling them all instead, for the demand for food was great in the days before the siege.  But I rebelled at that notion after some thought.  “For what will we do afterwards, if we have no animals left to sell?” I argued.

“But you are thinking there will be peace!  We do not know what will happen—it seems likely everyone will be dead soon!”  Vendea’s jaw tightened into a stubborn line.

“Then the money we earn from selling our animals will be useless.  And we only have small beasts, not large ones, so the money would not be much regardless.”

Vendea sighed.  “But how shall we take them away, and where shall we go with them?”

“To my brother’s in Lossarnach.  His farm is not large, but he has enough food for both animals and people, and will have stayed thanks to his limp.  I will try to take more supplies with us as well.”

I finally found a driver of an oxen-drawn wain who was prepared to take my animals, but only because I greased his palm with enough coin.  Further disaster struck when I was told I could not go with Vendea and Irima, but must remain in the city to aid the siege’s defense.  I waved goodbye to them sadly as they left, trying not to weep as my little daughter cried, two of her favorite dogs clutched in her arms.  I wondered then if I would see any of them again in this world. 

Surviving the siege was a challenge, with too little food and too much loneliness; but to my joy, we of Gondor defeated the forces of evil with the help of our allies.  My happiness was complete when my wife and daughter returned in my brother’s old wagon, wreathed in smiles that they had managed to keep most of our animals alive and well despite everything.  We were surprised to learn that the city’s spring fair would go forward, but very grateful for the chance to earn some money.

But there have been few interested in buying a pet today.  I suppose many feel a dog or cat would be but another mouth to feed, though there seems to be much food for sale here.  It certainly appears a good number hid away the prime part of their pantries during the siege.  I sigh, remembering how hungry I was then, and hope that I never endure such a state again.

As I move some of the songbirds’ cages, I see three people walking up the street towards me.  I tidy my clothes, glad that Vendea’s skill with a needle makes their patches less obvious than they could be, and smile at them.  I need to lure in some custom, and the presence of a child with a man and woman bodes well for me, particularly since they are all well dressed and clearly prosperous.  I wish I had some hunting hawks or hounds, for then the couple would surely buy something from me.  But such large beasts are beyond my ken, so I must put on a good show and hope for the best.

The boy rushes over, his eyes lighting up as he sees the animals.  “Look here, Eowyn, there are little animals for sale!” he calls out to the woman.  “I should get one for company, since I miss my dogs at home.”  His face is round, rosy, and smooth as a baby’s, and his grin is wide and engaging.  But his eyes sit oddly with the rest of his features, for they seem to be those of a much older man, full of knowledge.  I wonder if he might not be one of the mythical Periannath from the far north that I have heard so much talk of lately.  I cannot believe that, though; the idea of a race of small people who saved us all seems like a mere grandmother’s tale to me.

The woman wrinkles her nose in dismay.  “Even if you do miss your pets, Merry, there is absolutely no hope that you can keep one in the Houses.  Can you just imagine what Ioreth would say if you come back with a puppy, or better yet, a squirrel?  And how would you travel home with such an animal?”  I am surprised by her words; how a woman and boy would be in the Houses of Healing is something of a riddle to me, but I suppose many people were hurt in the siege.

“But they’re awfully sweet, Eowyn, just look,” the boy says coaxingly.  He scoops up one of the spaniels and holds it up to the woman’s face.  The little dog gives a happy yip and licks her cheek.  Her expression softens as she takes the puppy and cuddles it.  Seeing her weaken, I speak in hopes of finishing the sale.  “A beautiful little bitch, my lady, and a splendid example of the breed.  Once grown, she will make a fine hunter and companion, especially for your boy here.”

She laughs in obvious amusement as the boy Merry giggles.  Before I can ask them what the joke might be, the man I saw them with before finally joins them.  He is a tall and imposing Ranger, with a noble face and proud posture.  I eye him cautiously, trying to size him up, wondering if he is inclined to spend his coin.  He looks at the dog as it wags its tail and barks, shaking his head.

“A dog?  Surely the two of you jest.  We cannot bring back beasts to our temporary lodgings.  They will toss them, and us, out onto the street.  Be reasonable.”

I venture a comment.  “My lord, if I may, I would more than happy to deliver the animal to you at a later date, once the three of you return to your usual home.  Might this not answer the difficulty?”

He awards me a grudging half-smile.  “Perhaps, but the evening approaches and we should continue to the Houses.  Do not the two of you agree?  Eowyn?  Merry?”

The woman Eowyn sighs and hands the puppy back to the boy.  “Yes, I do.  Come, Merry, let us go back for the moment, for we can discuss the matter later.”

“All right,” he says without enthusiasm.  As the two adults move down the street, he lingers and gives me with a conspiratorial look.  “You live here in the city, don’t you?” he asks softly.

“Yes.”  I murmur my location to him as he listens carefully.  He fumbles with his belt purse and gives me some money.  “Please, can you keep this puppy for me?  I will come fetch her later, when I can smuggle her into my room.”  

“My pleasure, young master.”  I give him a little wink.  “Willing to get into trouble, I see.”

He grins widely.  “I always am, believe me.”  He waves at the red squirrel.  “Keep that too—it’ll be worth buying just to see the look on Ioreth’s face when it runs around my room.” 

“Very well.”  We see the man heading back in our direction with a purposeful expression. 

“I must be going, I see—thank you, and I will be by very soon!”  My furtive little customer sprints off with a wave and a smile.  I shake my head, and turn to both the puppy and the squirrel.

“Well, my fair lasses, I hope your new owner treats you well.  He seems to have a warm heart, and certainly wants you both badly enough!”  I scratch the spaniel’s belly as she rolls over.  “Now it is time for us to all go home and make you ready, my dears.  Maybe Irima will be a good girl and help me give you baths.”  They reply with barks and chirps as I begin to pack up.  Not likely, after all, that I will sell more, and now I have much work tonight to prepare both of them.  I feel a flicker of guilt that Master Merry might be punished for his purchase; but since he called the woman by her first name, she must be a friend, not his mother, and so not able to wield a sharp hand.  I think about the money I will make and begin to whistle as I go about my tasks, for work is certainly better than idleness for the stomach.  

“Haradric scum!”

I stiffen as the hissed insult reaches my ears.  I am tempted to turn around and spit out an even viler comment in my native tongue, but reason asserts itself when I realize I cannot be certain who aimed the slur at me.  Instead, I busy myself with rearranging some of the swords lying in front of my tent on a blanket, wishing that my dark skin and dangling earrings did not so clearly mark me as an outlander.  I hear my father’s voice in distant memory as I do so.

“Never flinch at any slander, and never lose your pride in who and what you are, no matter that you find yourself in Gondor.”

Ah, Father!  If not for his pride and my mother’s beauty, I would be living on the shimmering sands of Near Harad, under the hot sun in all her glory.  But fate decreed otherwise some sixty years ago, when their path crossed that of a great corsair of Umbar to whom Father’s clan pledged allegiance.  The corsair had traveled to our clan’s oasis campsite to attend a feast in his honour, and Mother, the loveliest and most graceful dancer in the whole clan, performed for him at the request of the clan chief.  Woe that she ever did so, for the corsair was utterly beguiled by her and became determined to claim her and make her part of his harem.

A woman wanders by as I recall the past, her little son holding her hand.  He tugs at her when he sees my bright blades, but she shakes her head and pulls him back.  But she gives me a hesitant smile as she does so, and I feel better.  She is very pretty, with raven hair and dark grey eyes, and reminds me faintly of my mother, though she does not hold a candle to Mother’s beauty.  It is her voice I hear now, gasping on her deathbed, “Your father loved me so much . . .”  

Most men of Harad would have yielded up a wife or concubine to their leader without a second thought, willing to curry favor with the powerful and certain they could quickly find another woman to share their bed.  But Father was not of such mind; he loved his wife dearly and would not give her up, no matter what inducement the corsair offered him.  The corsair grew enraged and threatened our chief with the slaughter of the whole clan if he did not aid the corsair in his quest.  The chief, having no choice, plotted to kill Father and make Mother a widow.  By some miracle, Father’s cousin learned of the plot and warned him to flee.

He gathered as many of his blood kin as he could since they might pay the price for his defiance, and they all fled northward in the night on their camels in search of refuge.  After much argument, the decision was finally taken to go to Gondor despite being our old enemy, for only there would my family be safe from assassins’ daggers.  After a long and dangerous journey skirting around Umbar and crossing the River Anduin, they arrived in Gondor.  Much of the family stayed in the south, but Father chose to press on to Minas Tirith, hopeful his art as a swordsmith would be profitable there.  It was a very rare skill for a Haradrim to possess, since we had to trade for metal.  Father was eager to work in a place where ore was easily had, and he was equally certain those of Gondor would accept him.

Two men pause at my tent now, looking over some daggers carefully.  Their fair colouring and tall height brand them as riders from the North.  No surprise then that they are willing to buy my wares.  Neither speaks the Common Tongue well, but with the help of rough and ready sign language, we make ourselves understood.  They both depart with a dagger tucked into a belt.  I count the coins and sigh; not a bad amount, but hardly much.  I can only pray that the new King and Steward bring back more enlightened thinking soon.  Then perhaps I will enjoy the kind of prosperity Father gained when he first came here.

The Steward in those days, the second Ecthelion, was a man of great wisdom who had allowed some of our fellow Haradrim to establish a neighborhood in the city, within the second circle.  Refugees from blood feud, crimes, or other evils, they welcomed my mother and father, who quickly settled among them.  I was born several years later, and I became his apprentice in his craft.  He taught me both the skills of the forge and the secrets of the earth magic my clan had always used to make our blades.  There was less hatred of our people then, and we could keep to our ways and language amongst ourselves without fear or punishment. 

But things turned sour under the rule of Denethor and the growing shadow from Mordor.  We Haradrim began to feel the sting of persecution, and it was harder and harder to earn a living in Minas Tirith, in spite of the high quality of my swords.  I soon had no choice but to take to the road regularly, wandering from fair to fair selling blades and sharpening knives, eking out monies to eat and travel, but not much more.

Even that trickled away as folk grew more afraid and hostile to any who did not look like them.  I took a chance again and returned to Minas Tirith and my old home two months ago, determined to help in the city’s defense if war should finally come and thereby prove my loyalty once and for all.  I was able to mend many swords and forge a fair number of new ones.  But even that has not been enough to end all the dislike.  I tell people openly that I hated the Dark Lord as much as any man of Gondor, for I knew far better than most what his victory would have done to us all.  A few thoughtful souls listen to my words, but others are stubborn as oxen and continue to hate that which is different, fools that they are. 

Being equally stubborn, I decided to set up my tent here at the spring fair in the hope that some of the soldiers from other places would buy my wares.  But except for the two daggers, I have sold little today.  I am afraid I picked a bad spot, for it is on a higher circle than the rest of the fair and partially hidden by the shade from the houses nearby; but there were few good spots left farther down.   I shake my head sadly and go back into my tent to fetch the trunks for my swords, for there is no need to linger here—I doubt I sell anything else. 

“Look!  A swordsmith—I did not think any were here!” 

The excited shout makes my head snap up, for it is a woman’s voice that speaks the words.  I hurry out to see what manner of lady could possible want one of my blades.

She stands there before them with shining eyes and radiant face, her long fair hair and simple white gown fluttering a bit in the light breeze.  She looks at my swords with the longing hunger of a lover gazing at her beloved.  I know then she is an outlander like myself, for no woman of Gondor would lust after a weapon with such open ardor.

One sword in particular seems to draw her strongly.  It has a large ruby embedded in the hilt, surrounded by swirling wirework, and a prayer is engraved on the blade asking the elements for protection.  She picks it up and I can see her deep joy as she feels its precise balance and heft.  The man and boy who accompany her stand back to give her room as she prepares to test it.  She closes her eyes briefly as she takes a deep breath and runs her hand down the blade, caressing it with reverence.  Then with a sharp cry, she begins to practice.

As she makes her passes, they become more and more intricate, forming a weaving, flashing net around her.  Her moves are flawless, with nothing wasted, and my blade seems to be an extension of her arm, obeying every command she gives it.  A lump rises in my throat as I watch her, for she is utterly beautiful, as perfect a warrior as I have ever seen.  Her skillfulness is the equal of the best sword dancers I have seen, and I am awestricken at her mingled grace and power.  The sword sings sweetly as she swings it, humming of its happiness in her hands, and for a moment I imagine that her soul is merging with the sword, becoming a greater whole.  She finally stops, her whole posture full of the purest kind of ecstasy as she turns to me.  I can feel the grin stretching my mouth as I struggle to find my thoughts. 

            “My very finest sword, my lady.  You have a keen eye and a good arm—never have I seen any woman with such artful skill at swordplay.  With the way you handle it, I might have made it for you.”  My words sound foolish to me, but they seem to please her, for her face lights up even more.

            The man takes the sword from her, and his eyes gleam as he perceives its quality.  Dressed in a Ranger’s green, he too must be a fighter, and a good one, since only Gondor’s best soldiers can become one of Ithilien’s guardians.  “It is unquestionably a prize, more akin to elven craft than anything else,” he says.  “Forgive me, though, but it appears a trifle too long for you.”

            The woman shakes her head vigorously.  “I do not want it for myself, I want it for Eomer.  I shall gift him with it at his crowning when I pledge my service to him.”

            I start at the name; that is surely the new King of Rohan she speaks of, only recently come into his crown upon the death of the old king at the Pelennor.  I realize who this woman is, and my awe increases tenfold.  The deeds of the Lady Eowyn are already the stuff of songs, her courage a model to us all.  I look at her companions again.  The man I guess to be the Lord Steward, her fellow patient in the Houses, for no other Ranger is likely to be walking about with her.  And the supposed boy must surely be her halfling squire, the one who is said to have helped her kill her opponent in the battle.  “Are you the White Lady of Rohan, she who cut down a Nazgul in battle?” I ask, not bothering to keep the surprise from my voice.

            “Yes,” she answers simply, but with clear pride.

            I know then I can name no price for her, for she is a magnificent fighter, and one of the people who has set us all free from the dark terror.  I care no longer about my lack of money, but only think to pay homage to greatness.  My voice trembles a little as I speak.  “Then take it, White Lady.  You helped free Gondor from the Shadow.  May my blade aid you in your labors while defending your land, for you are a great captain and deserve anything I can give you.”

            “No!” she exclaim passionately.   She fumbles with her purse and pulls out ten large gold coins, pressing them into my hand.  “I am flattered, but I cannot let you do this.  Such workmanship must be honoured.” 

            The sincerity in her eyes moves me; it has been far too long since anyone recognized my skill in swordmaking.  I can see Lady Eowyn is as anxious as I am to offer tribute to someone whose talent she respects, and the only way she can do so is to proffer me payment.  Part of me still wants to refuse her money, but I do not wish to give her an implied insult by rejecting her generosity again.  Acquiescing to the inevitable, I incline my head and decide to do something else for her.  “Very well.  Will you allow me to keep it for an hour so that I may engrave the names of you and your brother upon it?  It will then become a fitting heirloom for the kings of Rohan.”

            Her transparent joy shines out as she says, “Of course—you are most kind.  I shall return here when you are done.”

            “No need, my lady.  I shall deliver it to you at the Houses of Healing with mine own hands, with my best sheath and belt accompanying it.”

            The Lord Steward speaks up suddenly, his words making my heart soar.  “Bring your other swords with you, and come seek me out.  I wish to examine them in privacy, and we shall also speak of a place for you in my household or that of the King.  Such high ability should not be subjected to a wandering and uncertain life on the road.”

I look at Lord Faramir in disbelief; I have always dreamed of gaining a place in some noble household, and now it appears such a position shall be granted to me at the very highest level.  He unquestionably shares his grandfather’s wisdom, to be able to see beyond my appearance and recognize my ability.  I give him my very deepest bow.  “As you command, my Lord Steward.  I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”   

He returns the bow with a cheerful smile, and then the three of them leave me.  I hear the halfling chattering happily about the splendour of King Eomer’s gift and how pleased he will be at his sister’s thoughtfulness.  I pick up my engraving tools and bend over the sword as I begin chanting a prayer to the earth under my breath.  Everything will be as perfect as I can manage, for such a chance comes but once a lifetime.  I will not let it slip through my fingers, not when an end to my need hovers before me.  I bless the gods who prompted me to come here today, and set about my task with a will as I continue to chant in celebration of the gift I have received.