Théodred runs and shouts with the cook's son in the courtyard. Not for the first time, I wonder if he feels the lack of a sibling.

Perhaps I should re-marry. Not only should my son have a brother or sister, but 'twould be better if I had another heir. I would like more children whom I could teach to love this country as I do. And I do miss the companionship of a wife.

I do not think Elfhild would want Théodred to grow up motherless, nor me to be alone all my days. Perhaps I shall think on it.

Boromir stares into the cradle suspiciously. "Mother, he's not doing anything," he complains. "He's just lying there."

"That is what babies do," I tell him, amused at his impatience. "They need to time to grow, and growing takes a great deal of sleep."

He continues studying at his new brother. As I watch, Boromir gingerly touches one of Faramir's tiny hands, and his eyes widen when Faramir stirs at the contact. "Ooh, he moved," he breathes, suddenly fascinated.

I must smile at Boromir's awe; I have felt that way since he himself was born. And now I am twice-blessed.

When they first arrived, my sister's children would not be parted, and scarcely spoke except to the other. My son, however, was patient,taking responsibility for them without a word, gently helping them ease into this new life.

Now they sit easily with Théodred, Éomer at his right hand, Éowyn on his knee, leaning against his shoulder. I have always regretted that I did not have more children, and now here these two are, as alike to Théodred as they are to each other. I regret that such sorrow brought them to me, but I am grateful to have them. 

 Éowyn does not have many memories of her father; she was very young when he died.

She recalls how tall and strong he was; how his eyes sometimes smiled when his face did not. Sometimes he burst into song for no reason. Once he set her on the back of his great stallion, letting her hold the reins as he led them around the paddock.

When her father returned from patrol, Éowyn always ran to meet him; he called her sumorswegel and swept her into his arms. Then he would draw Mother and Éomer close, and hold them all tightly.

"sumorswegel" means "sunshine"

The younger Riders were shivering as badly as the horses when they emerged from the cave; the older looked resigned.

Théodred surveyed the damage – trees ripped up by the roots, sod cruelly torn, boulders strewn about, one undamaged wagon wheel. Destruction as far as he could see, a path of ragged earth leading westward.

“W-w-what was it?” the youngest Rider asked, face pale and frightened. “The work of the Enemy?”

“Nothing so predictable,” Théodred replied grimly. “A whirlwind, wrought only by nature. We will have much work in the village.”

Behind him, someone muttered, “If there is still a village.”

“You taste like the sea,”
he said, and the salt on her
skin made him thirsty Imrahil awoke, and did not know why he had dreamt of his wife, for he did not do so often.
Pondering, he rose from his bed, soundlessly made his way outside - his night guards unblinking at the sight of their prince about so late -- walked until he stood on the small, private cove where they once swam together when the sea could not be resisted.
He sat above the break of the waves, remembering the flavour of her skin after a swim.

Imrahil stood on the deck, surveying the fog rolling over the sea.
He favoured night watch, for it was peaceful, easy, and he had time alone to think.
His roving eyes stopped, widened in shock.
Out of nowhere, only a few feet away, there was another ship.
It made no sound.
He heard no splashing of waves against its hull, nor sails flapping in the gentle breeze.
The moonlight seemed to almost shine through it.
He knew that was not possible.
Uneasily, he recalled ancient tales of the ghost ship The Amroth Rover.
It glided by, silent as the grave.

They topped the the rise and halted, taking in their destination.
Even from this distance, the four travellers could see that the city bustled with activity, though only Legolas could make out more than a general, busy movement. “Within there rise the roofs of houses,” he told the others, “and in the midst, a great Hall of men, the roof seemingly thatched with gold.”
“The Meduseld,” Gandalf supplied. “It is the golden hall of Théoden King, in the city of Edoras.”
“Edoras,” Aragorn repeated admiringly.
“Edoras," Legolas repeated respectfully.
“Edoras,” Gimli repeated loudly, snorting. “It’s only a model.”

To me, Eorlingas!

He is hewn to the ground, and the earth knows no difference between royal blood and that of less lineage.
The River cares not that it sweeps his life away in its current.
The sky does not weep for him, nor does the sun know that its face shines down as the Second Line’s heir lays dying.
The moon will not mark his absence, when it climbs into the night sky.
The wind continues on its journey eastward.

Let me lie here - to keep the Fords til Éomer comes!

“I don’t like it here,” Éowyn sniffed. “I want to go home, Éomer.”

Éomer was suddenly fighting back tears as well. “We can’t go home, Éowyn ,” he said quietly, “You know we can’t.”

“Why?” she demanded, beginning to cry, and Éomer pulled her into his lap, trying to soothe her. “Mother…” she gulped, “...Mother said you were the master of Aldburg now! So why aren’t we living there instead of here?”

“I’m not old enough,” he told her, scowling. “When I am older, we’ll go back to Aldburg, Éowyn , I promise. We won’t stay in Edoras forever.” 

It feels as if I have been on this wall for months, watching my companions fall.
All around lie men who were my friends, men who were my rivals, men whose names I do not know. Alive, dead, dying, crying out in pain and fear. One may be me; I cannot tell.
I hear distant harmony, and dread chills my heart. To hear such in the midst of battle – surely I am on the edge of madness.
But no – the others hear it.
Singing. Fierce, powerful, defiant.
A great shout arises.
We are suddenly given new hope.
Rohan has come!

“You are destroying a beautiful song,” the music master testily informed Eowyn. “Singing is like making a speech - you must breathe properly, so that your voice carries. You are bellowing.”
Eowyn bit back a sharp reply. Why must she learn how to sing? How often would she be called upon to sing alone in public? And such a dreary song as this?
“All right,” sighed the master, “try it again. And this time, breathe from here.”
He placed his hands low on his on torso.
She hid her boredom, took a deep breath and sang the ancient dirge.

The sea had been smooth, the weather fine, and as yet, they had encountered no brigands.
Imrahil stifled a sigh as he leaned on the rail of the ship. He would rather be home with his three-months’ bride than here, idle and bored.

He studied the night sky, remembering how she had once teased him for comparing her eyes to stars. Imrahil had been sincere; when she smiled, her eyes twinkled clear and bright as the guiding star that led weary sailors home. He had not thought he would miss her so.

Still two weeks til they’d return to port.

Though they are achingly elegant and proper as they dance, something about his hand on her waist, her hand on his shoulder which causes all present to feel uncomfortable, as if they intrude on a private moment.

Perhaps it is because the Steward is rarely seen to smile so; perhaps it is the light in his lady wife’s eyes.

Onlookers whisper behind soft hands, creating rumours founded on jealousy, a courtiers’ dance with no honour or understanding of what they see.

Two observers are oblivious to these subtleties. They watch, wide-eyed, awed by their father’s grace and their mother’s beauty.

A/N - This is a tie-in with the "Under My Wing" series.

“You are watching that woman very closely, Dúrvain.”

Dúrvain tossed a dismissive glance at his fellow guard. “I was bid by our Prince to keep an eye on her, Fimorn.”

“For himself?” Fimorn gave the woman a critical look. “Surely not; she is some child’s nursemaid.”

“Lord Denethor’s children are in her care,“ Dúrvain said, a small smile on his face.

“She’s that nursemaid?” Fimorn was intrigued. “She does not look as if she would slap a lord.”

Dúrvain was not listening. “It is a pity we are on duty all evening,” he sighed. “I would ask her to dance.”

She lingers.
I see her on the tear-stained faces of servants who had served her for years.
I can smell the scent she wore in the corridor to her room, as if she had recently walked by.
I see her in the mourning draperies hung from windows throughout the city.
I see her in the sorrowful eyes and faces of my two boys.
I see her in my mirror, in my own grim, drawn face.
I see her everywhere.
There is one place which gives me respite. One place, high in the Tower, where my memories do not haunt me.

Everyone looked at Frodo. He could barely think, he was so bloody cold. He’d never wished so badly for shoes. What had he been thinking, not even bringing a pair of gloves? Only Boromir and Gimli had that kind of foresight, though they did not look anything like comfortable. Merry, Pip, and Sam looked as miserable as Frodo felt, and even Strider and Gandalf looked frozen. Legolas, of course, looked warm as toast.

He was losing feeling in his fingers and toes, and his ears ached from the biting wind.
How bad could it be inside a windless, snowless mine?

“What have you got?”
“My Horn.”
“That’s Father’s Horn.”
“It’s Father’s now, but one day it’s going to be mine.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m oldest. The oldest brother gets to carry it when he gets old enough. Father had it, Grandfather had it, and Great-grandfather and on back forever.”
“…”
“What’s wrong?”
“Won’t I get to carry it sometimes?”
“Maybe I will let you. Or maybe we can get you one, too! Then we both will have one!”
“Like a set?”
“Yes, like a set! And everyone –“
“Oh, hurry! Put it back! Father’s coming!”
“Ssshhh! Not so loud, Faramir!”
“Run!”

Death looms large
There is no fear
No pain

There is only
My sword
Which has faced more foes
Than I will ever see
This ancient blade
Which has served me with such honour

I hope that my fathers
Who have gone before me
Greet me with pride
I hope my son
Awaits me
His mother at his side
I hope my sister
And her valiant husband
Are pleased
With how I have raised their children

I hope those children
Do not fall
Under the Shadow
I hope the King
Will crush our foes
That Rohan
Will flourish and be
blessed

I don’t much like the look in my Sam’s eyes when he listens to Mr. Bilbo spin his yarns. Meanin’ no disrespect to Mr. Bilbo, o’course, but he’s got no boy of his own and he can’t be expected to know that it ain’t good to fill a lad’s head with elves and dragons and such. Sam’s a good boy, but sometimes he’s a little too interested in Mr. Bilbo’s travels. Lucky thing we got no Took blood, else I’d be worried that Sam would up and run off one day, chasin’ wild adventure when there’s gardens need tendin’.

look, dwarves, dwarves

i remember dwarves

you don’t

you don’t remember anything

ssssshhh sssssshhhh

they’ll hear

they won’t hear

don’t even know we’re here

lost lost dwarves

follow them

will taste better than elves

better than black squirrels

ssssshhh ssssshhh

oh look look at that one

look how fat look how juicy

oh i want that one

no no i saw him first

no there’s enough of him for all

ssssshhh ssssshhh

i saw him first

hide hide they’re coming this way

shouldn’t have left the path

oh lost scared dwarves

they’ll be good eating

when they’ve hung a bit

Boromir leaned toward the mirror, examining his chin.

Nothing.

He turned his head from side to side, ran his palm up his neck, over his cheeks.

Still nothing. Nothing at all. He was twelve years old! What was taking so long?

“Boromir?” His uncle was standing there, looking very like he was hiding a grin. “What are you doing, lad?”

Boromir flushed, embarrassed at having been caught. But, he thought, Imrahil was the perfect person to discuss this troubling problem with. “Uncle,” he asked wistfully, throwing another glance at the mirror, “ how old were you when you grew your beard?”

Every day, I look toward the River and see my sister’s broken body.
I remember when she was beautiful and whole, and her lanes teemed with life.
I remember when her Dome of Stars rose proudly above her rooftops, when the Kings lived in her Great Hall, and all was joy and light within her walls.
Now she lies in ruins, haunting me. All that she was is destroyed;my once lively, graceful sister is overrun with foul beasts who treat her only with contempt.
I wish I could see her again. I wish that one day, she would be healed.

Sings not, yet its voice soars a haunting refrain.
Fights not, yet bears the scars of countless battles.
Born not of woman, yet armies of sons flock to its call.
Lives not, but is silenced forever by the hard edge of a steel blade.

Speaks not, yet tells a tale of woe to make kings weep.
Loves not, yet breaks the hearts of noble men.
Borne not by boat, yet sails unerringly to its home.
Eats not, but devours the hope of a dark-clad man in a white shining city.

No conqueror, yet defeats a Steward with a single blow.

A historic battle, they say.
But what care I for history?
It will only record great deeds, not names of common men.
It cannot record the black terror of facing Mordor’s cruel horde.
It will not tell how I wake, trembling, screams of fell beasts and men still echoing in my ears.
It will not speak of how I did not sleep for days, searching through bodies on the
Pelennor.
It will not know how my wife will fall silent when I bring our son home on
his shield.
History will not mark these things.
What care I for history?

I remember
when I was small, how he would
smile and tousle my hair when my brother
and I spent time with him
how he would show us maps of old and
sing ancient ballads (though
we did not then understand the words)
and explain the importance of our
family’s history.
Then he was nearer, and did not hold himself
from our laughter, nor turn us away dismissively
when we arrived at his door.
Now he seems cold and
impervious, watching over Gondor with all
the emotion of the Argonath.
This is not the father I
remember from my young days  

Imrahil makes no attempt to hide his sorrow, nor do any of her family.
Faramir is sobbing, and will not be comforted, though he clings to his brother.
Boromir is quieter in his mourning, but still he weeps, shoulders trembling.

Many people have come – those who knew her well, and those who knew her not at all. I see tears in the eyes and on the faces of all who have gathered to pay their respects and see her laid to rest.

And I?

I can find no such well inside me - only a vast desert in which grief echoes.

“You look lovely this morning,” Faramir greeted.

Éowyn pulled away from him, scowling. “Lovely?” she repeated. “My skin is blotchy, my ankles are huge, none of my gowns fit, I’m a bloated, lumpy cow….” abruptly she began weeping, “..and I’m going to look like this til this child sees fit to be born!”

Faramir did not seem surprised by her shift of mood. He took her in his arms, placed their joined hands on her swollen belly. “You are always lovely to me,” he murmured, smiling.

Again Éowyn wondered how she had come to be blessed with such an understanding husband.

Éomer studied the puppies as if he’d never seen such creatures before. They tumbled over the floor with high-pitched barks, sniffing the straw, playfully snapping at one another.

“Any one I want?” Éomer asked, as if afraid Théodred would take back his promise.

“Any one you want.”

After a moment, Théodred realized that his young cousin wasn’t watching the wiggling pile of little dogs; he was watching one puppy, a speckled fellow, sitting alone in the corner of the pen.

“Him,” Éomer said, pointing. “The little one.” His expression was sympathetic. “ He looks like he wants a friend.”

He had not slept an entire night through since Gandalf had freed him.

I should have fought harder against it. I should have known that Gríma was not to be trusted.

He rose, and paced. I should have listened to the suspicions of my Marshals and counselors.

He had not listened, and Rohan had suffered. His people now doubted their king’s wisdom., and he could not blame them.

If I had been able to resist, Gríma could not have worked his treachery. Théodred would still be alive.

He wondered if he could trust his own judgment in the days ahead.
 

I have not abandoned my sword
for trowel and spade.
I could pierce a man’s heart
with my blade as neatly
as this needle pierces fabric.
I have not forgotten how to be a warrior, though
I have turned my attentions toward healing and growing.
I have become a wife and a mother.
Yet I am a still Shieldmaiden.
It has made me who I am; I could never
discard that part of myself.
If there is need, the Shieldmaiden will awake
again to wage battle.
But for now, she is content to rest
at peace with this new life.

 
Théoden King had been sunk into darkness for so long that we did not believe he would ever cast it off.

Yet now he sits at the table, once again our proud and noble lord. He no longer needs assistance to cut his own meat; his wine is no longer watered. When he rises to speak a blessing, his voice is strong, unwavering; his eyes are blue and sharp as they were before the shadow held him. When he walks, his back is unbowed, his head held high.

The word is passed swiftly and joyfully throughout Edoras: Our King is restored.

Pippin says that the guards were too afraid to disobey, that my father was pushed past the edge of sanity.

Men I had known since I was a child, men I trained with or helped train – all but one would have let me burn. Without a word of protest, they helped to build the pyre that would have been my deathbed. Only Beregond had the courage to defy Denethor’s madness. Mindless, the others obeyed, uncaring that I yet lived.

“We were just following orders,” they have said, as if these words make their inaction forgivable. “We did not dare argue.”

He was aware of nothing but the Horn in Faramir’s hands.

Though his son still stood a good distance away, Denethor could see every detail of it as clearly as if he held it in front of his own eyes. He saw the Horn had been split from mouthpiece to end, the cut almost smooth, but jagged enough to prove that it had not been cleaved easily; the trace of dirt on the metal scrolling, the shallow scrapes along its length, and he saw that the leather shoulder strap was darker than normal, as if it were wet.

Denethor wondered dimly if the strap was wet with water or blood, and with that horrific thought, his mind and vision both went black.

“Father!” Faramir’s broken, anguished voice dragged Denethor back to harsh reality, and he found himself kneeling on the cold marble floor, staring blankly at his son. “Father ---”

Denethor pulled Faramir to him in a fierce, desperate embrace, clinging to the boy as if he had nothing else to hold him to this world. “My son,” he wept, father and child shaking with their shared grief, “oh, my son.”

And neither knew nor cared which son he meant.

(for Elena Tiriel)

On the other side of the door, Éomer could hear chattering, laughter, and a voice raised in occasaional irritation.

He did not want to go in there. There were a hundred -- nay, a thousand-- other things he would rather do.

But a man could not always do what he wanted.

Éomer squared his shoulders, and bravely opened the door.

“Éomer !” Éowyn squealed. “You came!”

He looked at the dolls that encircled the table, then at his small delighted sister, sighing internally as he gave her a warm smile.

“My lady sister,” he said, bowing low, causing Eowyn’s grin to broaden. “Where shall I sit?”

“Here.” Éowyn led him to a chair that was as battered as the dolls. “You are the guest of honour -- now you ladies behave,” she frowned, pointing a finger at her other guests.

Éomer sat gingerly in the tiny chair, and accepted his cup of stone-cold tea.
 

for Shadow975

“What are you carving?”

Boromir did not glance up at Aragorn’s question. “I’m not certain,” he answered, making a long, arching cut on the wood. “I do not usually start with anything specific in mind; I just begin, and it becomes what it will.”

He held it out at arm’s length,, frowning at some flaw Aragorn did not see. “It is an old habit,” Boromir elaborated, correcting the invisible defect with a precise motion of the tip of his knife. “My brother has an entire collection of such figures, soldiers and dragons and the like. And it helped while away those long, dull hours in the field, while we sat idle, waiting for action.”

Aragorn nodded. “Several of my companions passed the time the same way,” he said, “but I myself was never good at whittling anything but toothpicks. It requires too much patience.”

Boromir eyed Aragorn skeptically. “You do not have patience.”

Aragorn’s smile was wry. “There are different kinds of patience, my friend.” He tilted his head, examining the unfinished carving. “It looks a bit like a horse.”

Boromir turned the wood from side to side. “You are right,” he agreed, an inspired gleam stealing into his eyes. “Although I might say it looks more like a pony.”

(for Vistula the Dunedain)

After camp had been made and dinner eaten, Sam would surreptitiously watch Boromir whittling and wondered what a Man like him would carve.

One evening, after preparing Mr. Frodo’s bedroll, Sam turned to unroll his own and found a small wooden pony perched on his rucksack.

Looking more closely, Sam saw that it was Bill, complete with overloaded packs, shaggy fetlocks, and forelock hanging across one eye.

Surprised and pleased, Sam looked toward Boromir, who was talking with Strider. The man of Gondor did not seem to notice Sam’s attention, but in the firelight, Sam swore he saw a grin sneak across Boromir’s face.

for Forodwaith

“I know I should,” Éowyn sighed, “but she’s -- “

“She’s what?” Faramir asked with a hint of a grin.

“She’s an elf, “ Éowyn finished, a bit defensively, and if Faramir had not thought it impossible, he would have sworn his betrothed was intimidated.

“Well spotted,” he teased, taking her hand in his. “She is indeed. Does that mean she could not use a friend?”

“But -- what would I say to her?” Éowyn asked. “Just because we’re women doesn’t mean we have anything in common, Faramir!”

“That is true,” he admitted, “but you will never know unless you talk to her.”

Éowyn could not argue with that. “All right,” she sighed, suddenly determined. “I will talk to Arwen. But if it goes badly, you will be the one apologizing to Aragorn.”

Eowyn’s grave eyes
Shine like a blade plunged into
An enemy’s back

I shall not see the
White City again, and yet
I am going home

Only in the glorious spring of 1420
when the mallorn bloomed in the meadow
and many women gave birth to children
with shining golden hair
when fields far and near brought forth
crops of mythic proportions
and old men spoke of these days
as if they had already passed
‘twas only then
when the Shire swelled with prosperity
and the last marks of Sharkey were erased
by lush green grass, the hard work
of many determined Hobbits, and
dust from a small Elven box,
only when the sterile oblivion of the Black Lands
had faded to sometimes seem an unlikely dream
only as he stood under the arch
hand-in-hand with Rosie Cotton
only then did Sam realize
with his whole being
how much of his heart’s life depended
upon simple joys, such as
coaxing vibrant blossoms
from a small shy garden,
the sparkle in his love’s eyes as
she bade him wash his hands for dinner,
or
collecting warm brown eggs
from his own white chickens.

“They have a cave troll!”

Boromir looked up from his history book at Faramir’s panicked hiss.
His little brother was desperately trying to block the door to the study with a heavy wooden end table.

“Who has a cave troll?” he asked, amused.

“The Haradrim!” Faramir replied, as if this should be perfectly obvious.

“The Haradrim,” Boromir repeated, skeptical but grinning.

“Yes.”

“Have a cave troll.”

“Yes!” Faramir was having no luck getting the end table to move. “They’re almost here -- they were right behind me!”

Boromir set down his book and stood. “Then we’d better hurry,” he said, and went to help his brother barricade the door.

***

“They have a cave troll.”

The moment he spoke the words, Boromir remembered. He smothered the grin that came to his face -- the others would not understand why he was smiling at a time like this.

(for Nasira)

“Forth Eorlingas!”

At the shout, Éowyn looked up just in time to see her brother go sailing past the open door and down the corridor, hair streaming out behind him like a golden banner.

She ran out into the hallway. “Éomer son of Éomund!” Éowyn exclaimed, fixing her brother with a stern eye. “What do you think you are doing?!”

Éomer was doing his best to look abashed, and failing miserably, for he could not hide the sparkle in his eyes, nor the grin that was doing its best to take over his face.

“Er --- sliding down the hallway?” he hazarded.

Éowyn raised an eyebrow at him. “With your 9-months-old son?”

The grin would not be restrained any longer. “But look at him!” Éomer pointed out delightedly, angling Elfwine toward Éowyn . “He loves it!”

Sure enough, Elfwine was waving his chubby arms and making the breathless burbling that passed for laughter, his expression an exact mirror of his father’s.

Éowyn could not help but smile at her brother-son, even while she glowered at the unrepentant Éomer .

“What if you fall?” she wanted to know. “How will you explain to Lothíriel that her great oaf of a husband has smashed her son?”

Éomer rolled his eyes at his sister. “Have I ever fallen while doing this?’ he asked as he tickled Elfwine’s belly.

“Yes,” Éowyn answered immediately.

“Perhaps I should restate the question,” Éomer said, narrowing his eyes at her . “Have I ever fallen while doing this when you weren't trying to make me fall?”

Now it was Éowyn’s turn to attempt to repress a grin; Éomer’s balance was uncanny, and, when they were younger, she had many times tried to make him fall while doing this very thing in the halls of the Meduseld.

“Ithilien!” a voice yelled, and this sentiment was echoed by a much higher, much younger voice.

“ ‘thilen!”

“Best get out of the way,” Éomer warned, laughing at his sister’s dropped jaw.

The siblings moved back to the doorway, and a moment later, a wildly-grinning Faramir came flying past them, Elboron clinging to his back like a burr, shrieking with laughter.

“Éowyn!” Once they’d come to a stop, Faramir greeted his wife with beautiful nonchalance. “You’re back early -- I thought you were meant to be at the Houses for another hour -- what a nice surprise!”

Éomer made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a swallowed chuckle.

Éowyn stared at her husband in disbelief, then shot the smirking King of Rohan an accusatory glare. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but Elboron leaned over his father’s shoulder, piping, “Slide, modor, slide!”

He held his arms out to her, beaming with excitement, eyes dancing much as Faramir was trying to keep his from doing.

“Come, Éowyn,” Éomer coaxed, and she could hear the challenge in his voice, “your marble floors here are so much better than the ones at home!”

Éowyn hesitated.

Faramir and Éomer exchanged a quick glance, neither quite certain that she wasn’t going to put an end to the game.

Then a gleeful smile broke across her face. “Just give me a moment to change out of these skirts."

You cannot learn how to tie knots properly from a book, though I hear that inland, people try to do so. The art is best learned from a salt-toughened old man with an attitude that is impartial to title, and with a finite amount of time to play with immature nobles who would learn the arts of the sea. If this man also has a mouth like a midden-heap, and with a mock leg made of wood, so much the better.

This is what I told my children and my nephews, when they asked to learn the ways of a ship; it is what my father told me, and his father told him when the same request was made.

This is what I murmur to my 23-day-old grandson, although he is sound asleep in my arms.

I stroke his dark head gently and finish with our family's traditional ending : But I would rather teach you myself.

“This was all we found, my lord.”

Theodred’s disquiet turned into dread as he beheld the unmoving bundle the Rider extended.

Only years of fostering an iron will kept Theodred’s hands from trembling as he took the bundle. He unwrapped the rough burlap with less-than-practiced fingers, fearing what he would find beneath.

The coarse fibers burned his skin; the blood on the fabric repulsively sticky to the touch.

The child’s face was peaceful, if bloodstreaked. Sorrrow welled in Theodred‘s chest, and he drew one gentle finger down her cold cheek.

She jerked in his arms, opened her mouth, and wailed.

“You’ve spelled ‘Eldar’ incorrectly,” the tutor said, exasperated, “it‘s an ‘a’, not an ‘e’.”

Boromir dragged his attention from the open window, which wasn’t easy on the first fine day of spring. “Why do I need to know how to spell ‘Eldar‘?” he complained, scratching his head fiercely.

“Because a Steward should be well-educated, and spelling a word correctly shows you are well-educated, ” the tutor sighed. This conversation was had far too frequently.

Suddenly he saw something moving in Boromir’s hair, and froze.

A louse?

“Boromir,” he said in horror, “have you been playing with those children from the first circle again?”

He admired her curves as she passed him, swaying teasingly, as if aware of his scrutiny. Her movements spoke of innate artistry rather than artificial grace held up only by beauty.

She was proud, this one.

Oh, Imrahil wanted her, so much that his stomach was in nervous knots when he approached his father later that evening.

“You are usually quite opinionated.” Adrahil smiled at his son. “What can it be that you are so hesitant to ask for?”

Imrahil took a steadying breath. “The Heart of Amroth,” he said. “I would like to have her as my first command.”

Eomer sees him eyeing Eowyn from across the room, and it infuriates him that Grima dares to look at her so.

He longs to kill Grima, for this and other reasons- he and Theodred have discussed it many times, both drunk and sober.

But neither are willing to spill blood in the Golden Hall.

There is nothing that can be done. Grima is too close to Theoden; his uncle is too caught in the Worm’s snare. They do not know what the repercussions might be to the King, if Grima were dead.

But Eomer’s patience is fast reaching its threshold.

We are jammed into the Corsair ship like so much cargo.

Once a day, we are let out to roam the decks, our chains now an extension of our bodies.

I see familiar faces, but not my family. No laughing eyes the colour of the midnight sky; no face lighting up at seeing me. No small voice squealing, “Papa!” at my approach.

I delicately touch the raw scrapes on my hands, wondering what madness compelled me to try to jerk my wrists free of the manacles.

And yet after all we have been through, I find I still have hope.

It was dark, but he preferred it dark.

Only the very bravest dared venture in his black, twisted wood, and many days, not even the wind was that courageous.

He heard the whisper of small, unshod feet, footsteps that faltered, as if they were lost.

Of course they were lost, he thought contemptuously. Fools, they are, if they believe they will slip past me unnoticed.

Old Man Willow gathered his roots in anticipation, and waited to strike.