AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This story is a gap filler suggested by the LOTR book canon and offered as a side bar to my larger story "Avoidance." Its hero, Prince Imrahil, is, of course, a book-only character. However, characters in my story that were cast in the Jackson films have the same appearance and back story as they did in the films. In other words, my Aragorn did go over that cliff, although that never enters into my story.

Thanks to SMOR, Rosie, Raksha, and my other pals at Creative Juices for having a thorough hack at this before it landed here for your perusal.

As the ship ended its journey, Imrahil could see the newly-built moorings just upriver to his left. The vessel's highest mast flew his standard, the white swan on the dark blue field. Above this flag flew a simple banner, bearing a silver tree whose borders almost blurred against the white field that blazed in the clear sunlight. Until the first of May, Imrahil haddecided, the ships of Dol Amroth would fly the white banner as they hadfor the past thousand years.

He stood in the prow, looking ahead to the Field of Cormallen. Was it his imagination, or had the sprawl of tents practically doubled in size since he left almost two weeks ago? In his right hand he clutched the tubular leather case that held the precious documents destined for the kings. That they were entrusted to him gave Imrahil's stomach a slight sense of unease, for all that he relished the challenge of this responsibility. A drop of sweat formed between his eyebrows. Then he felt the cooling strength of the north wind come blowing down from the upper reaches of the Anduin. He reached up with a heavy arm and straightened the silver circlet on his forehead.

Imrahil wondered where all these new people had come from. The colorful tents, which flew mostly unrecognizable standards, could easily accommodate three times the number of the host that went to the Black Gate. Were they visitors from nearby Rohan? Petitioners for peace from the kingdoms of Harad? Could the tents belong to Elves from the Golden Wood? Many of Imrahil's folk claimed an Elven ancestor somewhere in the far reaches of their background. But Legolas was the only true Elf that Imrahil had ever known.

Sailors scurried up from below decks, dropping the ship's anchor and casting ropes to tie the vessel to the dock side. Imrahil felt the ship lurch and sway. He leaned forward to brace himself, hand placed firmly on the ship's upcurling prow and masthead: the graceful, arching neck of a swan. On the shore a crowd of people was already forming. He could hear their voices raising and see their fingers point, mostly in curiosity, at the spectacle of the swan ship. From the back of the ship came two heralds, carrying graceful horns composed of three coils of silver. Per Imrahil's instructions, they marched to his side and blew the melodious call of the Lords of Dol Amroth.

Imrahil, son of Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, straightened to his full height and swept back his cape from his shoulders. Immediately he felt the intense sun's rays start to bake his hauberk. The ship was now relatively stable against the dock. A sailor helped him onto the landing.

Imrahil told himself, it always pays to cut a good figure among people who aren't sure who you really are or aren't confident where you stand on issues that mattered. He was glad that he decided not to wear full armor. A hauberk, vambraces, and grieves presented an impressive-enough picture. It was hard to maneuver from ship to shore in eventhese pieces of armor. Since the confrontation at the Morannon, his aging body finally felt worn out from too many years at war.

No sooner had Imrahil disembarked than a squadron of dark-haired men marched onto the landing. They wore long, threadbare cloaks and used their formidable pikes to bar his way. No doubt they had been stationed at the docks to guard against possible troublemakers invading the fields from the great river.

Imrahil perceived the guards' suspicion instantly. One of them, who had a scar running across the length of his face, stepped up and challenged, “The king has ordered us to forbid all strangers from disembarking here, Stranger.”

“Eh, eh,” a second guard poked the first in the arm, “He's one of those Gondorian sea blokes, which means the king would probably give him a pass.” The second guard's hood slipped off his head, revealing a bald pate that was beginning to burn. He said to Imrahil, “State your business, mate.”

Imrahil cleared his throat and announced in an even tone, “I have official business with Lord Aragorn and Eomer King of Rohan.”

The tight barricade of pikes suddenly collapsed in the center from a great force exerted behind them. Pushing two massive guardsmen aside, Gimli, son of Gloin, stepped between them. “And well met, Swan Prince,” the dwarf bellowed. Then he turned to the guards, “Let him pass. I'll take responsibility for this truant.”

The guards wordlessly drew aside, making a path for Imrahil. For a moment, he looked back on his ship, the beautiful Finduilas, fairest of his fleet, before following Gimli up the slight incline that rose from the riverbank.

“What happened to you?” The dwarf panted as they moved up the hill, Gimli taking two strides for each of Imrahil's broad paces. “You leave on the back of a horse and return two weeks later on the back of a great boat.”

Imrahil slowed and then said, “Family, Lord Dwarf. I had to return to my home. My mother is quite aged. I have two grown children who did not come on our journey to meet Sauron. But more than that, I wanted to get back to Idril.” Could Gimli, Eomer, and Aragorn, bachelors all, understand the pull of a wife and the importance of family? Then there was the matter of the very important nephew who had provided him with the burden of the document case and the papers it protected.

“The guards behaved strangely,” he said as he and Gimli reached the crest of the hill. “Who are they?”

“Men of the North. Relations of Aragorn's Rangers. They came down to see the Coronation and spent most of their time lurking and laying about. So he put them to work,” Gimli snorted. And they call Aragorn king, Imrahil thought, though he has not been crowned.

They came to the crest of the little hill and looked upon the sea of tents that spread out over the grass. Earlier, the tented community appeared large enough from his vantage point on the deck of the Finduilas. Now he could appreciate the vastness of the settlement. “The whole layout has changed,” he said. “Where is Eomer's tent? When I left he was close to the riverbank.”

“He moved to finer quarters a few days ago. Come, I'll take you to him,” Gimli started down the hill, his single copper pig tail swaying out as he walked.

They traveled past tents of familiar and odd shapes, from which odd smells and familiar smells—not all them pleasant—emanated. Imrahil prided himself on his sense of direction but he still felt a little lost. He tried to remember unusual tents or standards to use as landmarks, for soon enough, he'd have to return to the ship. At last Gimli came to a cleared area roughly the shape of a semi-circle. A yellow and red striped tent pavilion occupied a raised mound in the cleared area. The standard of Rohan flew from one of its two highest poles. Two horses were tethered by the pavilion's entrance.

Imrahil recognized the massive brown destrier with the white blaze down his face, who grazed on the dried grass outside the tent. Eomer had favored this war horse at the Morannon. In the past month Imrahil had gotten to know Eomer, son of Eomund, well. They rode together, drank together, slew orcs and evil men. In the many celebrations after the Dark Lord's defeat, they enjoyed many conversations over foaming tankards of Anfalas ale. Many times—though not always--the Dunedain Chieftan raised his mug with them.

As he and Gimli approached Eomer's tent, Imrahil felt a great sense of guilt. Being a news bearer was never an easy task. He paused for a moment, watching Gimli enter and talk to someone, most likely Eomer's aide. Then Imrahil collected his thoughts and walked in.

Eomer sat at a camp desk laden with papers and volumes. More piles of documents lay piled on either side of his feet. He looked up in consternation, “You have taken your own sweet time, Prince.”

Eomer's thick, slanted brows were raised so high that they appeared to reach up into his hairline. “We feared you had been waylaid by one of those masterless bands of Haradrim that we've found lurking on the east side of the river.”

“He was visiting his family, evidentially,” Gimli said.

Eomer grumbled and then said, “My dear Prince, I have discovered that ruling a kingdom is more complex than leading an eored. And it is especially hard to rule a kingdom from afar.” His eyes rolled as he ruffled the pile of papers on his small desk. “I could use advisors who have more experience in administration than I. Gimli, take young Fram over to the Brown Stripe for lunch. Perhaps the Prince of Dol Amroth has some recommendations as to the governance of a distant land.”

Imrahil knew immediately that Eomer was bluffing, that he had something else on his mind. His apprehension increased as he watched Gimli and the aide Fram leave.

“Did you bring her?” Eomer demanded, rather than asked.

Imrahil sighed, “I brought my daughter.” He knew full well that Eomer was not referring to Lothiriel. He grabbed one of the chairs by the tent entrance and moved it closer to Eomer's desk. Perceiving his friend's concern, Imrahil's heart felt heavy as he said, “Eowyn was in excellent health and in very high spirits when we left Minas Tirith this morning. But she would not come. Instead, she gave me this letter, which she asked me to deliver to you personally.” He opened the tubular carrying case and with some difficulty pulled out a rectangular chamois cloth parcel that was squished by the surrounding scrolls.

Imrahil handed Eomer the package. The King of the Mark untied the laces and broke the seal that bound the chamois cloth. Eomer pulled out the thin parchment and spread it out. The contents of Eowyn's letter came unasked for into Imrahil's thoughts as he watched Eomer's face screw up.

“Do you know what she wrote?” Eomer asked bluntly.

“She did not say.”

It would have been highly impertinent to ask Eowyn beforehand what she intended to write. Moreover, Imrahil wouldn't even consider opening a personal communication left in his trust. Nevertheless, as Eomer read the letter, Imrahil perceived its content. He did not ask for clear sight nor use it to gain advantage in war or in politics. But unlike his late brother-in-law, Imrahil had never considered this trait a curse. It was merely something that was a part of him, like grey eyes or his four offspring.

“She will not come. She says she will remain in Minas Tirith for the King's Coronation,” Eomer said, his voice dull.

“That seems reasonable enough,” Imrahil said carefully. “It's in less than two weeks.”

Eomer moved his arm upward as if to strike the table in rage, but his arm stopped in mid air. Instead, he brought his hand to his forehead. More in distress than anger, Imrahil thought.

“I suppose you don't you recall Elfwine's report?” Eomer eyed him directly. “He said my sister was thin and exhausted from working in the hospital in Minas Tirith. He guessed that she was grieving over something and that her grief drove her to overwork. That's why I sent you out in the first place, friend.”

“She seemed rather preoccupied and sad when I first met her. I admit that I stopped at Minas Tirith first before going home,” Imrahil said guiltily. “But when I returned to the city a few days ago, matters changed considerably.”

“I should say so. Let me read you her final words,” Eomer then read a portion of the letter:

Please accept my decision, dear brother. I want to remain in Minas Tirith at least until the coronation festivities conclude. It is here that I have found my life's calling, and I think my heart's desire, as well.

Imrahil realized that his hands were clenching the document case so hard that its stiff leather sides were cracking. He understood full well what Eomer was about to go through. What had seemed like such a happy turn of events for Imrahil's family was evidentially going to have a different sort of impact on the King of Rohan. The departure of a well-loved sister from the home of her birth couldbe as great a loss for her brother as well as her parents.

“I need her advice,” Eomer admitted. “She has far more experience in the every day running of things than I do. But instead she chooses to roam around Minas Tirith following some healers. There are plenty of healers in Minas Tirith but only one Lady of Rohan. I've a mind to have Aragorn order her to come here.”

Then Eomer groaned, “I've a mind to go to Minas Tirith myself and drag her off, but I've been stuck here mired in this paperwork. Well, my good friend the up-and-coming king of Gondor should be holding his council just after the lunch hour. It's time we had a discussion of Eowyn's fate.”

Imrahil sighed, Eowyn's fate indeed. Shouldn't she have the ultimate decision on such matters? Maybe the others in her family were accustomed to planning Eowyn's future for her. Might that have explained her determination this morning as she handed him the letter in its leather packet?

He said to Eomer, “No doubt it's time to have a few words with Aragorn over a number of issues. I have scrolls from the Steward that require Aragorn's attention. I also need to return to my ship for a few moments. Why don't we reconvene in Aragorn's headquarters, if, indeed, they are still in the same location?”

Imrahil managed to find his way through the twisted alleys of tents back to his ship. An hour later, he had gratefully removed his burdensome hauberk and grieves and retrieved his daughter.

Lothiriel had been waiting with deceptive calmness on the deck of the Finduilas. Imrahil had originally urged Lothiriel to accompany him , so that she could visit her cousin Faramir and then be united at Cormallen with her older brothers. However, Imrahil had other, more important reasons for bringing his daughter to the Field of Cormallen. And so much had changed since they left Ethir Anduin. For all his subtle, daughter-manouevering, Imrahil needed his daughter's skills in Minas Tirith and would need them even more when they spoke to Lord Aragorn.

Imrahil regarded his daughter out of the corner of his eye, as they headed up the embankment to Aragorn's camp. Lothy was pleasing and pretty enough, though not possessed of the striking beauty that impressed possible suitors. She was taller than Idris, but still blessed with that wavy brown hair of her mother's and Idris' slightly swaying gait. Otherwise, Lothiriel, like her younger brother Amrothos, resembled his side of the family. Her broad cheeked face and, even more, her figure recalled the long-departed Finduilas: a perfect Gondorian woman's form, shaped like an hour glass.

She was comely, but surely not comely enough to override her brilliance. Her brothers were dullards by comparison. But, sadly, her brains were her least marketable feature.Of the few eligible men left in Belfalas, who would marry an aspiring female advocate?

Ah, such a challenge. A sensible father would have kept his daughter at home and not encouraged her to seek legal training. Unfortunately, all the capable male legal assistants had boarded the fighting ships or traveled north to join Denethor's armies. Belfalas needed legal assistants, even if they were mere females.

Lothiriel stopped walking and abruptly faced her father. “I don't see what legal right Aragorn, son of Arathorn, has to be king,” she said, eyes glaring. “I'm serious, Ada. Cerin and I have been going over the statutes that date back from forever. You have nearly as good a claim to the throne and certainly Faramir ....”

He leaned over and placed his hand gently beneath his daughter's elbow, guiding her down the rough path. “I know. I know. Cerin is a good advocate. But even he will tell you that the Steward's recognition of the rightful king should be the final acknowledgment of Aragorn's right to rule. Aragorn saved Faramir's life, and Faramir recognized him as..”

“Red was sick as a dog and hardly knew what he was saying,” Lothiriel interrupted.

“...Faramir is my liege lord,” Imrahil overrode her objections, though he certainly had considered Lothiriel's point of view more than once. “I serve whomever he serves, and I have never doubted the accuracy of Red's judgment.” They came to the end of the tent village and stood at the edge of a lush field. Some hundred paces beyond was a large but unadorned circular pavilion. From it's highest pole flew a sable pennant bearing the crown, stars, and white tree.

“Meet Aragorn and judge him fairly,” Imrahil encouraged his daughter as they approached the tent. “I have found him to be an extremely gifted leader and a man I am proud to call friend.”

Did Lothiriel actually snort in response? He was in a precarious enough position, thanks in particular to the Lady of Rohan, and didn't need more female trouble from an overly bright, overly indulged daughter.

Two men in the austere dress of the Northern Dunedain Rangers stood guard on either side of the tent opening. They both raised their right fists to their chests in recognition of Imrahil as he and Lothiriel passed by. Imrahil then caught one of them eyeing Lothiriel in a way that did not please him at all. Thankfully the young woman seemed not to notice the guard's appreciative look. She was so sensible, his Lothy.

The interior of the great tent was divided in half by a fine but somewhat faded tapestry. In front of it a broad table was set with brass tankards and a few plates of bread stuffs and fruit. At the table's end sat Aragorn, son of Arathorn, who rose from his chair as Imrahil and Lothiriel entered. Aragorn's health and hygiene appeared to have made a turn for the better, even over the course of two weeks. The Dunedain Chief was well-scrubbed and displayed a healthy tan beneath a nicely groomed brown beard. His surcote was of a form-fitting cut, the color of wine, and stubbornly devoid of trim. That was Aragorn,in Imrahil's quick analysis. Plain spoken, fair-minded, and without need of display.

Behind Aragorn's chair stood the halfling Peregrin, son of Paladin. Far to one side a Rohan youth unfamiliar to Imrahil stood sentry. No one else had come to pester Aragorn with official business.

Imrahil lowered his head just slightly in deference and then ushered Lothiriel before him. “My lord, this is Lothiriel, who ...”

“Ah, it seems you have beaten me here,” Eomer's voice interrupted. The King of the Mark thundered into the tent, followed by Gimli and Fram, their heavy boots stomping on the thin carpeting over the tent floor. They grabbed seats and pulled them up to the table. Gimli took a pear from the fruit plate. Eomer leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, and placed his hands beneath his oblong chin. His ruddy complexion appeared especially ruddy. Imrahil and Lothiriel stood stiff, watching them.

Aragorn calmly ignored the commotion, “It's good to see you are back safely, Imrahil. And welcome, Lothiriel. Pippin, can you get the lady a chair?”

Imrahil was delighted to see the plucky halfling who had been such an inspiration to his knights before and after the battle at the Black Gate. He marked how Lothiriel's face brighten with curiosity upon seeing Pippin. But then her features quickly returned to the appropriate serenity.

So this was to be an informal meeting, Imrahil thought. There were no emissaries from the defeated allies of Sauron, no visitors from allies, no petitioners asking for help. And if Aragorn had selected any members for his council, they were not here. Just a little get together with a bunch of war comrades-at-arms. Imrahil immediately felt the grimness of Denethor threaten to overtake him. Comrades-at-arms precisely described his relationship with these leaders of the West he'd met less than two months ago.

“Have you eaten?” Aragorn asked, his outstretched arms indicating the spread of food. Pippin placed a heavy chair at the table, grinned at Lothiriel and gestured for her to sit. Imrahil noticed that his daughter nodded her head slightly, lowered her eyes, and demurely helped herself to a small bun. Good girl, he thought. Except--was it Imrahil's imagination toying with him? Or did Pippin give Lothy a flirtatious wink?

“Aragorn, we need to discuss the matter of my sister NOW,” Eomer interrupted the proceedings with a single pound of his fist on the table.

“And so we will,” Aragorn agreed. “But I certainly think Imrahil should have the honor of speaking first, if only to explain why he was gone for so long.” A subtle glint in the soon-to-be king's grey eyes told Imrahil that Arathorn's son expected much more than a simple, “I had to visit my wife and family,” explanation.

“Very well,” Imrahil said as he walked over to Aragorn's chair. Raising the tubular leather package, he struck it sharply on the table in response to Eomer's aggressive gesture.

The King of the Mark sat bolt upright, but Aragorn barely blinked. “Proceed,” he said.

“I've brought a packet of official scrolls from the Steward. Most you can read at your leisure.” Imrahil detected a slight look of aggravation on Aragorn's sharply-etched features. At the other end of the table, Gimli chuckled; Eomer muttered but then seemed to relax in his seat.

“However, the Steward did give me two scrolls that must be read in your presence.” Imrahil pulled out one bound by a gold ribbon, which he handed to Lothiriel. Then he fished out a second scroll and started to read:

“My Lord King, please be aware that suitable living quarters for yourself are now complete and await your arrival. I trust that you will find these rooms comfortable and to your liking. The walls of the city have been repaired in accordance with the blueprints I have enclosed. Only minor adjustments need to be made to the Great Gate. We will be ready, as planned, for the festivities on the first of May.

“For myself, I have taken a vacant townhouse in the Citadel, a few blocks from your new residence. I will remain there for the Coronation and as long as you need me thereafter.”

Imrahil paused for a second and then said, “Signed Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor.”

Aragorn sank a little into his chair. Imrahil detected a great sense of gravity come over the Dunadan. The great moment was almost upon them all. Then everything would change. Everything. But there was another matter of great importance that must happen first and must not change, Coronation not withstanding.

Imrahil looked about the room. Gimli had taken out a pipe. Eomer had settled down a bit, though he still appeared to be guarded. Pippin stood riveted behind Aragorn's chair. Lothiriel waited, poised at the edge of her seat.

“Faramir also bade me deliver this contract to you, Lord Aragorn. By law such a contract must be witnessed by a high ranking public official of the involved parties' village, or by an officer, if the man is in the military. For nobility and councilors, these contracts must be witnessed and signed by the Steward. On the rare occasions when the Steward is involved, it has historically been the duty of the Prince of Dol Amroth to witness the contract.

“However, since he intends to recognize you as his liege lord, Faramir has requested that the legal assistant deliver the document to you as well, Aragorn, mostly for your information. Lothiriel is the legal assistant who drew up the contract.”

“Legal assistant?” Gimli exclaimed.

“Evidentially the lovely lady is a legal assistant to boot,” Imrahil heard Eomer mumble to Gimli as Lothiriel rose and opened the scroll.

Imrahil continued, “It is standard practice for the legal assistant to read the contract to the appropriate public official, as has been done in Gondor much longer than we all remember. And I'm sure Lothiriel can explain more about it and any other legal practices of Gondor, if you have questions.”

As Imrahil took his seat, Lothiriel rose and stood beside his chair. With an impassive expression on her face, she began:

“My lords, in my capacity as legal assistant to Cerin, son of Baleor, advocate, I was asked to draw up the following contract. It reads:

“This day, April 20, year 3019 TA, I announce my formal betrothal and intention to marry the below-signed woman in one year's time. Should the engagement be broken and this marriagenot occur, the bride price that I will make on June 1st shall be returned to me.”

Lothiriel drew herself up and said, “It is signed, Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Imrahil noticed Pippin start to grin but then return to the gravitas expected of an esquire in attendance to a king.

Then his daughter read the fatal words:

“This day, April 20, year 3019 TA, I announce my formal betrothal and intention to marry the above-signed man in one year's time. Should the engagement be broken and this marriage not occur, the dowry that my family will make on my behalf must be returned to me.

“It is signed, Eowyn, daughter of Eomund, Lady of Rohan.”

An odd silence hung like deep fog over the table. Finally Eomer jumped to his feet, as if to explode with all the force of Orodruin as its fires dissolved the One Ring. Imrahil thought surely Eomer's hair would have stood on end if it wasn't weighed down by its own great length. Then the King of the Mark blew out a great exhalation and sat down with a thump. He glared up at Lothiriel, “That's ridiculous. That is utterly ridiculous. And drawn up by a woman legal assistant, yet. I'm supposed to uphold such a thing?”

“It is perfectly legal, Eomer King,” Lothiriel said with a cool—and, in Imrahil's opinion--appraising expression. “And I have not finished. I am required by the laws of Gondor to say that this contract has been witnessed by Imrahil, son of Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, and that it has been drawn up on April 20, 3019 TA, by myself, Lothiriel, daughter of Imrahil, assistant to Advocate Cerin.” She squeezed Imrahil's shoulder as if for support.

“Daughter? So that's why you brought your daughter here!” This time Eomer didn't even try to control his temper. “What is this, some plot of your family to influence the future of Rohan? Well, I won't stand for it. I should be the one to determine my country's future, including who my sister marries."

“Then why didn't you think about that before today rather than waste her great beauty. She's no longer a youthful woman.” Lothiriel muttered. Imrahil scowled a warning at his daughter.

Eomer continued, his anger hardly diminished, “Certainly her marriage must be made for political reasons to someone suitable.” Then he turned to Aragorn, “You. It's your fault that all of this is happening.”

Imrahil clutched his chair. If this was any indication on how the relationship of these two would play out in the future, should Dol Amroth and the House of Hurin stay well out of their affairs?

Aragorn replied with what Imrahil deemed a slightly wistful voice, “I never made it a secret to anyone as to where my heart lies. Eowyn is a great woman and a lovely woman as well. She does not deserve to wed a man who would forever long for someone else.I can't think of a better consort for her than the Steward of Gondor.”

“A sickly younger son,” Eomer said.

“Why, that's unfair!” Lothiriel dropped her smooth demeanor. “You know nothing of my cousin and hisgreat accomplishments.”

Imrahil grabbed her hand in an effort to stay any rush of regrettable words from coming out of Lothy's mouth. He said, “To the best of my knowledge, you only saw Faramir when he was in bed. How can you measure the character of a man when you have only seen him when he was near death?”

Eomer challenged Imrahil, “Tell me, then, you who call yourself friend of Eomer Eomund's son, what is there to recommend of this man? Can he measure up as a warrior? As a horseman, could he even keep up with my sister?”

“Oh, probably not,” Imrahil said. “The Rohirrim are the lords of the Plains. We of Gondor leave that distinction to you. I have a choice cavalry, the Swan Knights that you have seen. And Boromir had a crack cavalry unit as well.

Unfortunately, finding talented horsemen and brave destriers to fill these cavalries has been an ongoing problem for Dol Amroth and Gondor. Warfare on two legs is more highly-prized for people who love great ships or live in walled cities. We value our archers, and Faramir is considered one of our greatest. In fact, the only archer that could possibly best him is Legolas, son of Thrandruil—and he has a distinct racial advantage.”

“At least Eowyn will never starve when she is married to such a marksman,” Eomer hardly seemed impressed, although his temper was starting to cool. “That is good to know, for he soon will be out of a job.”

Lothiriel shot Eomer a pointed look. Imrahil wondered what it meant. His daughter said, “My cousin is probably the best educated of all our family. He's a great administrator. He's gotten the Minas Tirith reconstruction project off to a good start. And not only that, he's documented all of it. It's in all the scrolls. Right, Ada?”

Aragorn said, “Do you mean that Lord Faramir is quite comfortable with paper work?”

“Surprisingly enough,” Imrahil conceded. “He's probably relieved to work indoors for a change, after all those years as Captain of the Rangers.”

“That ensures he will never be out of a job,” Aragorn said, fingering his beard as though in contemplation.

“You are a traitor to our friendship, Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” Eomer said. “Eowyn's country needs her. I need her. I demand that you either order her to return here immediately or that you relieve me of my duties so that I can retrieve her.”

“She won't come, either way,” Lothiriel said.

“Eh, what did you say, woman?” Eomer challenged.

Imrahil's mouth dropped open. He was about to launch a mighty retort, when Lothiriel repeated mildly, “She won't come.”

“Just what do you know about my sister?”

Imrahil was startled at the bold look his daughter sent out in the direction of his friend, Rohan's king.She said, “I know that they are in love.”

“In love? What has that got to do with anything?”

“That's why she stays with Faramir,” Lothiriel said with the confidence of a lawyer laying out a legal brief.

“I don't know her very well but every time I saw Faramir the past two days, she was with him. They were either holding hands, or leaning against each other, or staring into each other's eyes. It's quite remarkable, actually. And your sister is as much a participant as my cousin.” She cast her eyes at everyone at the table, and then held her peace.

Eomer shook his head and ran his hands through his hair, “So you tell me they want to marry for love. Marrying him because he's the Steward at least makes some sense. Someone in my sister's station does not marry for frivolous reasons. You, madam lawyer, did you marry for love?”

“I am unmarried, Eomer king,” Lothiriel said.

A great sadness seemed to cause Eomer's shoulders to hunch. He turned to Aragorn, who did not move. Then he said, “Imrahil, I counted you as a comrade-at-arms and a friend. Instead, you are the instrument in separating me from the only family I have left. You must not understand the anguish of a brother who is about to lose his sister.”

Those words stung. They absolutely stung. But they also gave Imrahil a sense of comfort. He composed his thoughts and then said, “Decades ago my dearest sister left my family's home to marry a grim man whom I did not like then, nor at any time in his long life. He was the Steward of Gondor and an excellent political marriage for our family. But more than that, he and Finduilas loved each other until the day of her death, for all that she withered in the confines of Minas Tirith. I respected that. And it's in her memory thatmy daughter and I have done all we could to see that Finduilas' son is finally to marry. To your sister, so it seems.”

The King of the Mark rested his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands. Aragorn leaned forward and poured himself some ale from the large pitcher.

Imrahil said, “You are not losing your sister, Eomer, but rather gaining our vast tribe as relatives--a blessing or a curse, as only time can tell."

Aragorn raised his tankard in Eomer's direction, "At any rate, you will now be welcome at any time at the Prince's waterfront manor, worth the dowry of a hundred princesses." He then continued, “The Coronation is nearly upon us. Speak with Eowyn then. I'd council you to convince her to return to Rohan for a time before her marriage. My guess is she will be glad to return home for awhile to help you organize the peace.”

Eomer straightened himself, apparently taking Aragorn's word to heart. Then he said, “Unfortunately, that still leaves me with a mountain of paperwork until the Coronation. I had hoped Eowyn would help me with it.”

“Lothiriel can help you,” Imrahil suggested, though in doing so, he turned his head away, anticipating stubborn resistance from his daughter. What a relief to hear his daughter's soothing voice say, “I would be pleased to help you. After all, paperwork is what legal assistants are trained to do, Eomer king.”

Imrahil raised his head and, to his surprise, perceived a peculiar under current going on between his daughter and Eomer. It was in the look that Lothiriel gave the king, direct and reassuring. And that blasted Eomer was giving his daughter glance for glance. “Of course you must pay a fee for her services,” Imrahil spoke quickly.

“Of course,” Eomer agreed. “I'll pay whatever the daily rate is for legal assistants in Minas Tirith, and then some. Do you ride, Lothiriel, Imrahil's daughter?”

“Only a little,” Lothiriel said, “My family are people of the water. But I like horses and wish I had one.”

Eomer rose from the table and moved over to Lothiriel's chair. Begrudgingly, he offered her his hand to seal their agreement, “Then I promise to include a fine horse and riding lessons in your payment.”

A smile formed on Imrahil's mouth as Lothiriel said, “Who will give me riding lessons, my Lord King?”

Eomer relaxed and said quite loudly, “Why I will, upon completion of all the paperwork, of course--and your promise to explain why such lively woman as yourself would ever want a life as a legal assistant.”

The occupants of the tent gave a sigh of relief. “Congratulations, Imrahil, son of Adrahil,” Aragorn said with a wink. “You have proven yourself as successful in negotiations as you have been in war. You've convinced me that the first members of my council are indeed to come from your family: yourself and Faramir, son of Denethor. And you presented a legal assistant to solve Eomer's administrative problems.

Imrahil paused for a second, and then poured himself a tankard of ale. He raised his mug in Lothiriel and Eomer's direction, and then clicked the mug against that of Gimli and Aragorn. “May you live long, my King,” Imrahil said as he drained that tankard dry.