There is a certain word that exists, chiefly used among the elves, who have time to remember, that is best rendered in our tongue as “Eucatastrophe.”  Elven scholars often describe it as the antithesis to tragedy, but only as the prologue to further discussion, for there’s more to it than that.  Eucatastrophe is the living proof that some higher power is in control of the world, that chance will defeat chaos, as against all odds the very best thing that could possibly happen happens.  Just as a tragedy can be averted in many ways and is yet inevitable, if one single event in a Eucatastrophe is altered disaster will strike.  And yet nothing is ever, ever altered.

            Gondor had, a little over three months earlier, experienced a Eucatastrophe.  In fact, all of Middle-Earth had; but Gondor, and Minas Tirith especially, had felt its effects the most.  Four months ago, all her people had had to look forward to were dreadful battle and certain defeat.  Now her age-old Enemy was defeated, her King had returned, and, most recently, she had gained an Elf for her Queen.  She was Her Royal Highness Arwen Undómiel, daughter of Elrond Halfelven, Evenstar of her people, Queen of the Re-united Kingdoms, and currently, she was also very bored.

            Khand, the last of Mordor’s allies, was to arrive today to negotiate (hopefully) for peace.  It was an Affair of State, and so the Queen was expected to attend.  Yet a millennium’s experience had not taught her how to deal with the slightly prickly situation of what to wear to a mannish Affair of State.  Ah, to be among the Elves, who did not take so much stock in a woman’s clothing!  And, more importantly at the moment, to be among people who knew what colors complemented her!

            That was a little petty, but she could not help thinking it.  There had been so little time to prepare for her arrival, and somehow half of Gondor had gotten in its mind that all elven women took after Idril rather than Lúthien.  One elderly seamstress had presented her with a stunning antique gold dress—whether it was intended as a ball gown or for regular usage eluded her, though she suspected the latter—that would turn her fair skin sallow if she even thought of wearing it.  She felt the thick silk on her hand as she leafed through dresses in the ornately carved armoire (also a gift, from some well-intentioned carpenter). Why, this would look better on my husband than it would on me! she thought.

            Instantly she had to sit down and suppress her laughter as she tried to rid that image from her head.  After a few moments’ trial and failure, she and finally decided to put it down the thought as a strange fluke that must have arisen from being in a new environment, being married, or both.

            After making sure that no servants had heard the sound of contained laughter (she had dismissed them; she was not quite used to other people dressing her), she rose and confronted the gold dress again.  No, this one simply would not do, and probably would never do.  She examined the one next to it, a simple blue.  Too plain.  While it was certainly beautiful, it was much more suited to the drawing room than to Court.  Red would draw far too much attention to herself (especially since the people from the East were generally known for their colorful clothing), black far too little.  Finally she settled on a simple grey silk with only a few flowers embroidered on it.  It would have to do.  The bells of the city chimed; the delegation from Khand would arrive within the hour.  Arwen changed, looked over her sitting room one last time, and left.

            It was hardly her fault that that hideous golden dress lingered in her brain over the ensuing hours.

Khand!  Even the name had a marvelous flair to it, a strange foreign taste that lingered on the tongue.  What was known about it?  The loremasters trawled the Great Library, but found little.  It had been allied with Mordor, but Mordor was no more.  The Easterlings had sued for peace, Harad had sued for peace, and even Umbar had sued for peace.  But no one knew about Khand.  Perhaps they would discover they had nothing in common with these Men of the West, and would choose to fight.  It would be folly, but Gondor did not want another war.

At least they had sent a delegation.

The people of the city lined the streets along all seven circles when the heralds announced the approach of the Khandians.  Children tried to get a peep between the legs of adults, who hastily pushed them back.  Nobody was sure what the people of Khand were going to do, even if the negotiations were going to be peaceful.

But there was nothing to worry about.  The men may have been different, but they were not hostile yet.  Their horses were fiery, and those riding upon them had darker skin and black eyes, but all swords were sheathed, peace-tied, and well out of any reach.  They were clothed strangely, in loose-fitting bright-colored garments, and their eyes were outlined in black.  The ambassador spoke in a thick accent, and, after some discussion, the procession began.  Up and up through the circles they wound, until finally, they were formally greeted by the king and his queen in the seventh, and shown their accommodations.  Formal negotiations would start in two bells, which would give the guests enough time to relax from their journey.  Only then would the tensions truly begin.

Among the throngs at the sixth circle, two hobbits watched.  Inside the guest-house behind them, peeping out the window, were the faces of two more.

“And so another one of the Enemy’s works comes to ruin,” said Frodo when the procession had passed.

“It is funny, isn’t it,” said his companion.  “I mean, so many of the folk we saw on his side when we were traveling ended up here—talking to Strider and asking himfor all the red ink and treaties and such.  Why, I’ll bet that if he’d been on their land a year ago they’d’ve shot him on the spot!”

“They probably still would, if he appeared to them as Strider.  It will take time, but it has begun.  I am glad.”

The door banged open as Merry reentered the house.  “Pippin’s off for guard duty now, but you already knew that when he took extra food from the pantry.”

“You mean more than the usual extra food?”

Merry coughed.  “Right.”

“And why are you raiding the pantry?”

“Oh.  Rath Dínen.  I have my own duties, too, you know.  Why don’t you two… I don’t know… go outside or something?  Didn’t you at least watch the entry of Khand?”

“Yes,” said Frodo, “but from the comfort and relative noiselessness of indoors.  I’ll be interested in seeing what happens in the negotiations, though.”

“Mr. Frodo says you and Mr. Pippin are getting far too used to all the attention here and you’ll be sorely disappointed when you go back home,” said Sam.

“And I say that if you two aren’t honored for your services to the Shire I’ll eat my head.”  Merry left the building

Sam peered at Frodo.  “How could you…”

“It’s a turn of phrase, Sam.”

“I know it’s a turn of phrase, but it don’t make no sense…”

After a few moments’ silence, Frodo spoke.  “Now what?”

“I think now is when we get some lunch, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo nodded.  “I was actually speaking in the longer term.  You’ve seen everything you wanted to, haven’t you?”

“Aye, and a great deal of things I haven’t wanted to, as necessary as they were.  And yes, I’d like to go home, though I’d like to stay here, too—I need to see my Gaffer, and…”  Here Sam broke off and blushed.

“Yes, yes, I understand.  I was considering asking Aragorn what his plans were—if we had leave to depart.  I shall probably wait until all this delegation business is over, though.  That should give me a few days to finish the writing I’ve been putting off for so long.”

“I thought you’d finished all of your notes!”

“Not all of them,” said Frodo.

Not too long after the Queen had retired to her room after the initial meeting between the two nations, one of the innumerable servants curtseyed and announced the arrival of the Lady Éowyn.

“Thank you,” said Arwen with a bow of her head.  “You may show her in.”

The moment she opened the door, though, Éowyn herself strode in, looking rather flushed and very ill-at-ease.  Arwen dismissed the servant.

“My lady,” said Éowyn, with a rather impressive curtsey.

“Oh, I’m certain we’re on good enough terms to dispense with those formalities.”  Arwen patted the place beside her on the loveseat.  “What ails you?”

Éowyn pressed her lips together in an obvious effort to contain herself.  “I will never, ever, ever fight with agentleman again!”

Arwen raised an eyebrow.

“Faramir, specifically.”

“What happened?”

“I challenged him to spar in the practice yard.”

“And?”

“He wouldn’t fight!  He was civil enough to accept the challenge, but he wouldn’t do anything!  He ‘couldn’t bear to hurt a lady!’”

“So what happened?”

“I defeated him soundly.  Thrice.  It took every fiber of willpower and love within me not to do any lastingdamage to him, such a fool he was being.”

            The Queen smiled in spite of herself.

            “He does have a nasty bruise along his arm, though.”

            “Somehow I suspect that this is not what the Lord Steward had in mind when he courted you.”

            Éowyn laughed.  “If he did not, then he should have.  I simply do not see why he would not defend himself when he knew I was going to give him very little shrift myself.”

            “You must recall that the honor of a Gondorian differs from that among your people.  It is a testament to Faramir that he even courted you, knowing full well you were unlike the women he knows.  Why did you challenge him?”

            “Several reasons.  I wanted to know if my initial assessment of his prowess was true, and I have not had very much practice at the sword, since the War ended.”

            “I thought you had said you were to become a healer.”

            “I am.  Only—the sword is still beautiful, and I see now that my love of it was not always tainted with death.  If I should want to keep life, rather than lose it, why should I give up something I love?  Have you ever fought, Arwen?”

            Arwen shook her head.  “I have never needed to, though my people train both men and women in that art.  I was never as good as my brothers at the sword, but I still keep a pair of throwing knives with me and my aim is good.  I daresay that if anyone were to make an attempt on my life he would find it more difficult than he expected.”

            “That is well.  It is only—”  She sighed.  “I did not thinkI should find love in a barren White City, least of all with him, and while it is freeing, still there are so many other burdenswith that.  I fear—I fear, in my long solitude, I forgot how to be a woman, and now that I am trying to remember, I do not know how much of what I see is true and how much is false.”

“Faramir had little trouble loving you before,” said Arwen, “for you are not just a woman.  Nor am I.  Nor are men just men, for if they were, how could we choose a husband among them?”

“If you are trying to counsel me,” said Éowyn, “I do not see from your words what I should do.”

“I do not know if you should do anything, other than what you are doing already.  Our lives are changing, and even the best changes come with burdens.  Fortunately, you do not have to face them alone.  And do remember that the only one who should care what kind of woman you are already finds you womanly enough.”

“Womanly enough not to injure me, at least.”

“And yet you gave him little more than a bruise.”

“Because he is Faramir, not because he is a man!”

“Would he have consented to a match with any other woman?”

Éowyn sighed.  “I suppose he is trying.  There were some stakes in the matter as well, and I admit I do not know what to do with them.”

            “What were they?”

            “I fear we were jesting a little, ere we stepped on the grounds.  He said that he was tired of seeing me in white, and decided that the victor would decide what the defeated would wear for one day.  I don’t yet know how I could turn that to my advantage, though.”

            Arwen smiled.  “We could probably think of something, with a little time.”

            “I hope so—he shall have to learn that I am well capable of a jest in return!  Thank you for your help—I must admit I am surprised that you are here and not at the delegations.”

            “There was a—minor—problem, and one which I admit I was happy to leave in others’ hands.  As it turns out, the guests we have received this day were not the actual delegation, but only one ambassador.  His first order of business was to inform us that the Khandis would be arriving in two days, and that no negotiations were to take place until then.”

            “What is the ambassador doing here, then?”

“Apparently, assessing us to see if we are worthy of the great Khandis’ alliance.”

“So, the court is supposed to entertain him for two days and see what happens?”

“Aragorn has decided that he should be treated like any other ambassador, if negotiations have not formally begun, but that is much easier said than done, since there are no records of Khand having ever entered Minas Tirith.  We are all, I must admit, anxious to begin negotiating.”

            “And what of Aragorn?”

            “He is holding a meeting with the ambassador—a quiet one, he had hoped, for himself and all interested parties.  Unfortunately much of the court has construed curiosity for interest, and my absence has caused few to follow my example and give them privacy.”

            “You left the court only to provide an example, then.  Is your husband not using you, then?”

“Not perfectly in this instance, I grant you.  But surely you must understand the ways of the court better than that.  When our every move is to be scrutinized, we must often use one another so that we can accomplish our shared goals.”

            “Were I you, I should not be happy with that arrangement.  In the Riddermark, people are expected to be more honest.” said Éowyn.

            “I am aiding the situation in Khand as best as I can,” said Arwen.  “Eventually, I shall be more direct—necessarily so.  I do not know why, but I fear things will go ill if I am not involved.”

            “It sounds as if you have little time for one another, especially for two so newly wed.  Did you not say that Aragorn worked to get where he is now, just so he could marry you?”

            Arwen smiled.  “‘For little price do Elven-kings sell their daughters.’  Not that my father is a king, mind you; but Aragorn considered the price unworthy of the reward.  I am sure that he will be able to spend more time with me as things settle.  Lord Denethor ruled the city well, but there is so much difficulty in the transition of power, even for a King welcomed by the whole City.”

            “Yet, even then, he will still be King, and will have his duties to conduct.”

            “And I will still be Queen, and I shall have mine.  I know how to spend time wisely.  You need not be concerned for us.”

            “So few people know what worth he holds for you, though.  I wish there were a way, in spite of his duties, for him to show it.”

            Arwen nodded, musing on this for a few moments.  Suddenly, several fragmented ideas that had been dancing through her head all day came together for a quadrille.  She cast her eye at the wardrobe, whose doors had been shut in vain long ago to prevent further contemplation of the gold dress.  “Actually, I think there might be a way…”

“You called, my Queen?”  Pippin made a dapper bow.

            Arwen bowed her head.  “I have an idea, and a message for you to take to Aragorn when you have heard the idea and given me your opinion of it.  The Lady Éowyn, here,” she gestured to Éowyn, “was wondering if there was a way for the King to demonstrate his great affection for me without neglecting his duties.  I happen to have a golden dress, the fabric of which much better suits his weathered complexion than it does mine.”

            Pippin tried to connect these two ideas in his head, but the relationship between them was very tenuous.

            “Do you think his wearing of the dress would be sufficient sign of adoration?”

            Pippin’s eyes started out of his head.  The Queen kept such a serene face; he could not tell if she was serious or he was mad.  “Permission to laugh, your Majesty?”

            “Permission is granted.”

            Pippin laughed so hard that he turned red.  He appeared to be having trouble standing up straight.

            “You have not yet told me your opinion of the matter, Peregrin,” Arwen said quietly.

            It was dubious whether it was even possible for Peregrin to speak without suffocation, but somehow he managed.  “Yes.”

            “And what is so amusing about that?”

            Pippin mastered his emotions, and fixed the Queen with a particularly cool stare.  “I don’t care if you can mask your feelings; that’s incredibly funny and you know it.”

            “Then you think I should proceed in proving my husband’s love for me to the nations?”

            “Wait, really?”  There was another spasm of laughter.

“Yes.”

“In that case, I follow the orders of the Queen of the City that I serve.”

            Only now did Arwen smile.  “Very well.  I have a message for you to deliver to the throne room.”

“I am merely an emissary,” said the ambassador, “and have not the power to treat with you until the Khandis arrives, if then.  How Khand decides to treat with you then depends on the Khandis’ reaction to my reports of your people and your culture.”

Elessar resisted the urge to rub his temples.  They had been over this already.  “I hardly see how a difference in culture matters, provided that the same respect for peace and justice is held.  We will not interfere in your affairs, provided you do not interfere with ours.”

“In that case trade is futile, for is it not an interference?  And if we cannot trade with our former ally, and we cannot trade with you, how can we expect our people to survive?  As for justice, your views on the matter may be entirely different from ours.  It is too early to tell for certain, but thus far the things we were told about you are not lies, as you would have us—”

The speaker fell silent as there was a palpable change in the feeling of the room.  Air from outside rushed in as the two heavy doors to the throne room swung open without a sound.  All eyes turned toward the diminutive figure standing at the far end, silent enough that the light pad of hobbit feet on stone could be heard even at the far reaches of the vast hall.

Pippin ignored the attention and strode resolutely forward, shoulders square as he reached the foot of the dais.  Turning his eyes to the floorwork, he genuflected and said, “My lord, the Queen would have you in her closet.”

It was so quiet that he could hear his heartbeat.  The eyebrows of several older members of the court, not quite acquainted with the nature of the Halfling, froze mid-crawl.  The guards placed at strategic corners of the room steeled their expressions, while the ambassador merely looked perplexed.

Finally Aragorn, sensing that any progress made this afternoon was now rendered completely useless, gave up all pretense of formality.  “What, again?”

Pippin finally raised his head to see the frozen expressions of shock and scandal painted across the room.  Color seeped into his face.  “Oh.  That didn’t come out right, did it?”  He rose from his kneel.  The faces in the hall began to relax as the less conservative members of the court fought the temptation to laugh.  “Her… her chambers?”  He paused, as a few snickers broke out.  “No, no, that doesn’t sound right, either—the activities roo—?—no, definitely not.  The, ah—the sitting room.  Yes, that’s it—the sitting room.”

Aragorn let the laughter run its course, and waited for the redness in Pippin’s cheeks to subside.  “Oh,” he remarked.  “That closet.”  He coughed.  “The court will recess for the afternoon.  We meet again after supper.”  Instantly conversation broke out among all parties, and the typical milling after court was replaced by a rush to leave the room.

The King rose and addressed Pippin.  “You are dismissed until your next scheduled duties.  I trust that whatever Arwen wants is important enough for such an interruption.”

Pippin practically flew from the room.

“You did what?” said Merry, fifteen minutes later, as the hobbits took tea outside.

            Pippin turned bright red again.  “I really am quite sorry.  How was I to know they were going to take it that way?”

            “Pip, my lad, you underestimate yourself.  Put a message in the lips of a demure serving maid, and people will take it at its best.  Put it in the lips of an impish hobbit who enters the hall by the front doors, and… well, look at what happened.”

            “Really, I don’t understand how you do it, Mr. Pippin,” said Sam.  “In front of all them lords and ladies…”

            “An entire delegation,” Pippin muttered, letting his head sink into his hands.  “Strider will be so upset…”

            “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you, Pippin,” said Frodo, speaking up for the first time since they had sat down.  “From the little I’ve read, delegations from Khand are rather easily ruined.”

            “What?  Have you read anything on the land, Frodo?” said Merry, recalling momentarily the endless hours his cousin had spent in the Great Library when he’d first arrived in Minas Tirith.

            “Well, not much—they had very few texts about Khand itself.  All they know for certain is that it has always been allied with Mordor, and its king is called the Khandis. That has been all the information needed till now.  I didfind, though, a mention of Khand in an old merchant’s journal, back in the days before Sauron’s return.  He was trying to open trade with some men near the borders of their land, and all seemed to be going well; but when the men went into their tents to talk with their superiors, they returned with swords and chased him out of their borders.”

            “They’d be mad to attack here,” said Pippin.

            “True, but it shows that they are highly unpredictable by our standards—or at least, they were long years ago.  Maybe your interruption will have a favorable impression with these ‘superiors,’ when they learn the story.”

            “I doubt that.”

            Frodo shrugged.  “Besides, Pippin, Arwen probably sent you to the court because she knows Aragorn will heed you more than a demure serving maid, and I am certain he has already addressed that topic with her.  I only hope,” he added, “that whatever she wanted warrants his attention.”  He looked at Pippin expectantly.

            There was an embarrassing silence.

            “I don’t know so much about that,” said Pippin.

            “What does she want him to do, Pippin?” said Merry.

            Pippin held up bravely for a few moments under the hobbits’ scrutiny, but it was too much for him and he began to snicker.  “I really shouldn’t say…”

            “Pippin…”

            “You won’t believe me…”

            “What is it?”

            Pippin lifted his head, trying to keep his face straight, and looked each of his friends in the eye.  “She wants him to wear a dress for a day.”

            “What do you mean?” said Frodo.  “Formal wear?  Elven robes?”

            “No, no.  A—a lady’s dress.  Such as the ladies wear in court.”  Merry’s tea sprayed out of his mouth.  Pippin ignored him.  “And I believe the Lady Éowyn is trying to get Faramir to do the same.  The Queen said she wanted my assistance with the matter, and possibly yours as well, Merry.”

            “I am having nothing to do with this,” Merry said, dabbing at the tea sprayed on his uniform.

            “Strider won’t go for it,” said Sam.

            “I’m not so sure,” replied Pippin.  “He is very much in love with her, and if Rosie Cotton asked you to do something just as strange back home…”

            Sam flushed a shade that would rival a sunset.  “She wouldn’t.  And I shouldn’t ever a told you about her…”

            “Peregrin, be nice,” said Frodo.  “It was rather forced out of him.”

            “Oh, he can tease me as much as he wants when I get a sweetheart.”

            Frodo quirked an eyebrow.  “What if you can’t find a sweetheart?  What if you end up an old bachelor like me?”

            “Frodo!” said Pippin.  “How dare you suggest such a thing!  And you, dear cousin, may be a bachelor, but you most certainly are not old.”

            “So says the young whelp who still has four years not to worry about such things.”  Frodo stood up from the tea table.  “When you, my lad, are fifty years of age, and still find yourself single, doubtless you will be of a different opinion.  And now, I must take my leave.  There are some things I’ve been meaning to write for a while that I must work on.”

            Merry, Sam, and Pippin stared at Frodo’s retreating form for a moment.  Merry got up and looked at the food Frodo had left on his plate.  “He’s eating Man-sized portions again.”

            “He’s probably just homesick, Merry,” said Pippin.

            Sam was silent.

            Any time for further contemplation was cut of when a serving maid walked up to the small table and curtsied.  “The Queen requests the presence of Sirs Meriadoc and Peregrin in her chambers.”

            Merry and Pippin glanced at one another.  “The Queen can’t be gainsaid, you know,” said Pippin.

            “I know, I know.”  Merry turned to the maid.  “Tell her we’ll be there shortly.”

            “I guess Strider went for it, Sam,” said Pippin as they left.

            “Look after Frodo while we’re gone,” said Merry.

Aragorn sat heavily on the loveseat in his wife’s closet.  “This had better be important.”

            “Were you really making progress on that delegation?”

            He shook his head and unclipped the heavy robe of state about his shoulders, letting it slip to the floor.

            “Consider it an act of mercy, then.”

            “A very rude act of mercy.  This is one of the first impressions Khand has had of me as a ruler of men.”

            “Yet not the first.  You are a noble man, and it will take much more than a hobbit’s impudence to shake the knowledge of that, so deeply instilled in the hearts of all.  Besides, has not this ambassador protested that he has no authority for the past hour?”

            “He is still the one making the report to the Khandis.  What was so worthy of an interruption that you sent for me?”

            “I felt alone.”  She began to pace in front of him.

            The King stared for a moment at Arwen, not entirely sure if he was hearing this correctly.  “Enough to…”

            “I was also afraid.”

            “Afraid?  You’ve put your stakes on so much and…”

            “And now I wonder if it was worth all the effort.  I have received everything I wanted for almost the past forty years, but now I do not know if it was what I should have wanted after all.”

            The color drained from Aragorn’s face.  “You could not mean…”

            “I am sorry.  I know I have already made my vow to you.  Yet even then you always said I could sail.”

            “Arwen, I—this is madness!  Both of us swore to forsake the twilight—”

            “And yet the heart of a maiden is difficult for the head to rule.  I know I should stay.  Only I had never expected leaving my people to be like this—to be revered by Gondor as one of the Valar, and yet never understood, never loved for myself, never even being appreciated before men by my own husband…”

            “Arwen, I love you with my entire being!  Look at how much I achieved to win your hand!”

            “And yet you neglect the prize for the pursuit.”

            “If you doubt my love I could show you some token of it.  When Peregrin made that remark about—”

            Arwen made a small laugh.  “Oh, you appreciate me well enough when we are alone.  Yet in public my needs are secondary to those of the realm.”

            “I am afraid that you are outnumbered there, my lady.”

            She nodded.  “I understand, and that is why I am making my decision.  Oh, if only there were some way you could show them all what I know is in your heart…”

            Aragorn rose and took her hand, grasping at the faint line of hope being thrown to him.  “I am certain there is one, and if it is in my power I swear to you on my honour that I shall accomplish it.”

            Arwen broke into a smile and kissed his hand.  “I know you will, and I shall hold you to your oath.”  She walked over to the armoire and opened it.  “May I, my lord, present to you your clothing for tomorrow.”

            His jaw dropped.  “You were never thinking of leaving, were you?”

            “I never said that I was.”

            “What—why?”

            The smile on Arwen’s face reminded Aragorn of his brothers.  “I do not know.  But trust me on this.  It shall at least remind our people of the place you hold for me in your heart, and it might also take away the drudgery of state affairs.  You shall not be alone in this.”

            The guard at the entry to the room (who had been keeping a remarkably straight face during all this) let in a serving maid announcing the arrival of the Steward of Gondor and the White Lady of Rohan.

            “My lord,” said Faramir, making a bow.  Then he saw the armoire.  “Oh, no—not you, too?”  Éowyn followed him in.

            “Excuse me,” said Arwen to the servant.  “Would you mind fetching Meriadoc and Peregrin?  They should be at tea right now, at the hobbits’ accommodations in the sixth circle.”  The maid curtseyed and left.  “Very well.  Once they arrive we shall be ready to determine what exactly you two will be wearing tomorrow.”

            A sense of dread fell on the men.  “I thought you had already settled on the gold,” said Aragorn, finally, resigned to his fate.

            “I am willing to change my mind if a better gown is found,” Arwen said.  “After all, I have not gotten a chance to truly see if the color suits your complexion.”

            “What do the Halflings have to do with this?” said Faramir.

            “Peregrin showed a particular interest in the matter.  It was only logical to get his cousin involved.”

            “You should have seen the expression on his face, dear,” said Éowyn.

            “Is that what this is for, then?  To make a laughingstock of the King and Steward?”

            The women looked affronted.  “No one would laugh at two such formidable men, even bedecked in a dress and jewels,” said Éowyn.

            “Jewels?” said Aragorn.

            “Jewels?” said Faramir.

            “Jewels!” said Arwen, delighted by the idea.

            “After all, if the true point behind this is an exercise in honor, and in devotion to one’s lady, why not demonstrate such love in the fullest way possible?”

            The men gawped.

            “The Halflings, my lady,” said the servant from the door.

            “I practically had to drag him here, Arwen,” said Pippin, flouncing into the room. 

Merry followed at a more respectful rate and bowed.  “And what sort of assistance will you be requiring in your scheme, my Lady?”

“Nothing as of yet, Meriadoc.  If you two could just take a seat and observe, offering any commentary as you choose, that will be all that is necessary.  Pippin did acquaint you with the particulars of the situation, did he not?”

“Unfortunately, yes.  Are you really going to do this?”

Arwen brandished the gold dress.  “Whom would yousuggest to wear this, then?”

Merry was taken aback.  “Er… I don’t know—Éowyn, perhaps?”

Éowyn shot him a glare.  “You expect me to wear that sort of frippery?”  Without waiting for Merry to respond, she continued.  “I don’t see why you’re so opposed to the idea, Merry—at the very least it will be… educational.”

“And will Faramir need to receive an alias as well, then, to continue in the tradition?”

Éowyn laughed.  “I hadn’t thought of that, though since it’s not an imminent struggle it wouldn’t be necessary.  Arwen, can you think of any good names for a woman of Gondor?”

Faramir rose from the couch.  “Éowyn, I agreed to the clothing and nothing more!  This is madness!”

“And I am sure you will conduct yourself honorablythrough such madness, as a man of Gondor,” Éowyn said calmly.  “You accepted the stakes, and the consequences of loss, full-willing.”

“No names, then.”

Éowyn bowed her head, smirking just a little.  “As my lord commands.”

Pippin walked over to him.  “Don’t fret about it so much, Faramir.  After all, as Éowyn said, it will be educational.”

Faramir gave him a look so unfathomable that Pippin decided just to ignore it and wait for the women to get to business.

“Right,” said Arwen after everyone whose opinion mattered was ready.  “Estel, love, I’ll need you to come over to the wardrobe.”  The King complied with bowed head.  “Now, Éowyn, I believe that we agreed that you would hold the dresses and I would judge, did we not?”

Éowyn nodded and rose.  “I’ll save the gold for last.”  She began to leaf through sundry dresses in the armoire.  “Do you suppose his complexion is warm or cool?”

“I’m imagining warm—hence the gold—but we had better check anyway.”

Éowyn drew out the silvery gray dress Arwen had worn to welcome the delegation earlier in the day, and also the deep red.  She held the former up to the King’s body, pulling a sleeve tight to give the appearance of it lying on his arm.  The wince on the faces of the judges’ panel was almost audible.

“Definitely not,” said Arwen.  “Civic life has not yet leached the tan of the wild from you, beloved.”

“I’m glad to know that,” mumbled Aragorn.

Éowyn proceeded to draw all warm-toned articles of clothing from the wardrobe.  “Merry, do you think you could hold some of these?”

Merry did not budge.  “How could I?  They look massive.  I’d drown in silk.”

She let out a small sigh.  “Killjoy.”  She draped the extra dresses over her arm.

The red dress actually looked rather fetching, until Pippin pointed out the problems with the low neckline.  Aragorn allowed himself a little detachment from the situation: “I don’t think I’ve seen you in this before, Arwen.”

“For good reason—immodesty is not becoming of a Queen.  I don’t even know why they made it for me.”

“Does it fit you?”

“It might.”

“If modesty is your concern, my lady, might you be coaxed into wearing it in private?”

Merry gave a little cough.

“We can discuss that after we’re done with this whole business, if you like.  Consider it a potential reward for good conduct.”

Éowyn went through a few more dresses, none of them with a decent enough reaction to elicit any serious contemplation of the King’s wearing them on the next day.  Finally they reached the gold dress.

Merry’s jaw dropped.

Pippin burst into a short spurt of laughter.

“Perfect!” said Arwen.  “I had guessed correctly.  That shade of gold—it perfectly complements the skin tone.  And the better contrast with your eyes!  Oh, Estel, this will work even better than I thought!”

Aragorn stood there for a few moments, looking clearly crestfallen.

“You may sit down, love.  Now, of course it will be difficult to find jewelry with settings that will match this shade, but we have a great deal of time.  It will be well worth the effort.”  She stood up, and Éowyn handed her the dresses she had been using.

“It is your turn, Faramir.”  The Steward rose and stood in front of the armoire.

At the first attempt it became painfully clear that Faramir was far more suited to wintry colors than his liege lord.  Arwen replaced all the dresses that had been considered for her husband, and took out the ones that Éowyn had left inside.

“It’s a shame that you wore this one so recently,” said Éowyn, regarding the grey dress.  “It would have worked perfectly.”

“Then we shall just have to work with colors that suit grey well.”  Arwen took out the blue dress and held it up to him.

“I like the color, but it’s too plain.”

“The same problems I had with it earlier today.”  They proceeded through the rest of the dresses, but to no avail.

“Hm,” said Éowyn.  For a few seconds she was lost in thought.  “You know, I think I might have the dress myself.  Merry?  Pippin?”

The hobbits rose.  “Would you run down to my room at the Houses of Healing and find in my clothes press the dark blue dress?  You needn’t worry about drowning, Merry, if each of you takes an end.”

Merry shrugged.  “Why not?”  He and Pippin made their obeisance and left the room.

“A dark blue dress?” asked Arwen.  “I am intrigued.”

“I believe the inspiration for it was actually the cloak Faramir gave me—that and the fact that I was a famous woman who had neglected to bring women’s clothing to the City.  I do admit, I am rather fond of it, since it is not practical to wear the cloak in summer weather.  In fact, Faramir—if you wore your cloak of state over the dress, and I wore white and the blue cloak tomorrow, we’d complement each other perfectly.”

Faramir’s head sank directly into his hands.

“Need it be tomorrow?” said Aragorn.

“Why not?”

“It’s the Highday.  There is a banquet going on in the evening, and the ambassador of Khand is a guest of honor.”

“I do not know.  I should think that you would want to exonerate your honor as fast as possible.  Even if we put it off for a day, you would still be appearing in front of Khand in a dress.”

“Hum.”

It took a few more minutes for the hobbits to navigate their way back to the court, laden with such a dress.  “We were afraid that someone was going to lay down on the dress like an invalid,” remarked Pippin.

“Give it here,” said Arwen.  She held it up to Faramir.  “Excellent idea, Éowyn!”

Éowyn found herself nodding without even thinking about it.  “I did not think I was this good at coordination.”

“You learn something new about yourself every day with the King and Queen,” said Pippin.  “Talents you didn’t even know you had are brought to the fore.  Ouch!  What was that for?”

Merry folded his hands in his lap and pretended that he had not just clapped Pippin extremely hard on the back.

The city bells rang, and the King rose to leave.  “That is the signal for supper, and afterwards I must prepare for the morrow’s audience.  I trust I shall not be interrupted this time?”

Arwen bowed her head.  “You will not.  This evening Éowyn and I shall determine some of the more basic parts of each of your wardrobes—Faramir, Éowyn will meet you early in the morning and get you dressed, and then we shall reconvene for the finer points of your appearances.  Merry?  Pippin?”

“Yes?” said the hobbits.

“I imagine both of you will need to be—stewards, almost—of these tasks.  Should anyone need an item, you would be the ones to find it, and you would also manage all of the—accoutrements.  Merry, should you choose to accept, you would have the additional task of chaperoning Éowyn and Faramir.  Until then, you are dismissed.  I trust to see you both very early in the morning, well before sunrise.  You need not worry about breakfast.”

Both hobbits bowed low.  “The Queen is most gracious,” said Pippin.  They departed.

For a few moments the two couples sat in the Queen’s chambers.  “This is the part where you are supposed to escort the ladies to dinner,” said Arwen.

With a shake of the head, the two men proffered their arms to the ladies, and the four exited the room.

It took a while before either Pippin or Merry spoke as they returned to the building on the sixth circle that currently served as the hobbits’ home.  Each was too occupied with his own thoughts.

            Eventually, though, Pippin summoned the courage to interrupt his cousin’s pensive mood.  “Say, Merry—what’s on your mind?  You’ve been thoughtful since tea, and surely you can’t just be thinking about your stomach.”

            “Nothing is,” said Merry.  “Just a low feeling, I’m sure it will pass soon.”

            “Merry, something is on your mind, and it won’t go away by itself.  I should not have to tell you to live up to your name, especially now that the War’s over and all.”

            Merry was silent.

            “It’s Frodo, isn’t it?”  Pippin glanced over at Merry and saw the answer in his face.  He gestured over to a nearby bench.  “Sit?”

            Merry nodded, and the two hobbits hoisted themselves upon it.

            “Now, Merry, I usually get more than enough time in a day to be serious.  I call it ‘guard duty.’  However, whentwo of my friends are feeling downhearted, I start to worry.  And I don’t like to worry, Merry.  If Frodo is sad, or if he’s homesick, there’s not much we can do, except cheer him up.”

            “But that’s just the thing,” said Merry.  “These are some of the happiest times I ever could imagine, and all of a sudden he’s sad again.  It wasn’t just at tea, you know.  For the past few days he’s been like this—talking quite happily, and then suddenly turning the conversation away from himself and going.  And if he keeps on doing that, we can never find out what’s wrong.  It’s just…”  He sighed.  “I would have thought that he’d know by now that leaving us won’t help us in the least.”

            “And your staying glum about it won’t help him in the least.  Now, Merry, I want you to close your eyes and remember the last time you did something incredibly stupid.”

            “What?  I don’t understand how this is going to—”

            “Trust me, Merry.”

            “Oh, all right.”  Merry leaned back on the bench and closed his eyes.  “Hmm… letting you look into that cursed—”

            “No, Merry—something stupid you did, without my or anyone else’s assistance—before we left the Shire.”

            Merry thought for a long while.  “Well… at my last birthday party, I told one of your sisters—I think it was Pervinca—and Cousin Ilberic that they would make an excellent couple.”

            “And?”

            “The lass that Ilberic was courting walked by.”

            Pippin nearly fell off the bench with a snort of laughter.  “You hadn’t told me that one before.  How many ales had you had?”

            “Three.”

            “Three?  I’d need… oh, at least seven to make that kind of mistake!  But see, don’t you feel better now?”

            “Better now that you’ve laughed at me?  Certainly not.”

            “What if I had done something like that?”

            “Pippin, you do things like that.”

            “And?”

            “Yes, I laugh.”

            “That’s the point!  You see, Merry, you’re acting far too grown up for your own good.”

            “Pip, I am grown up.”

            “Of course you are, back home.  And here as well, I suppose, at least at war and all.  I know they keep on looking at me as if I’m some seasoned hobbit in his forties.  But at the same time…  Yes, what is it?”

            This last comment was directed to a little raven-haired girl who had toddled up to the bench and was insistently poking him on the knee.  She handed Pippin a white flower.  “For the pheriannath who did so much in the war.”

            “Thank you very much, lass,” said Pippin.  “And how old are you?”

            “Five.”

            “And is this just for me and Merry, or for all of us?”

            “All.”

            “Well, I shall be sure to show it to Frodo and Sam when I see them next.  You have a very kind heart.  Thank you.”  He watched as the girl scampered off, then turned back to Merry.  “See, that’s what I mean.  We’re famous here, but most of the people don’t know what to make of us.  I’d say this girl has come closest to giving an appropriate gift to a hobbit—I don’t know what I’m going to do with a set of cufflinks or a pair of leather boots back home.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find something to do with them,” Merry muttered.

Pippin ignored him.  “And here, we don’t have our mothers hounding our every step.”

            “Pip, what are you getting at?”

            “Oh.”  Pippin looked abashed.  “I’m getting to it.  Anyway, what happens to Frodo, happens.  We can’t do much about it, as much as I hate to say so.  I’m sure he’ll be all right.  He’s just… itching to get home, is all, and to see Bilbo again.  I’m surprised he hasn’t brought it up to us yet—maybe he will tonight.  But if you worry, you’ll just make the problem worse.  I, for one, think he needs a good laugh, which brings me to the point I’ve been trying to get to for some time now: what do you think of this ‘dress’ business?”

            Merry blinked.  “At the moment, I’m feeling incredibly sorry for the men.”

            “And that’s because they’re going about it the wrong way, too.  But are you going to help?”

            “Yes.”

            “Good.  Éowyn and Faramir do need a chaperone.”

            “But how could that cheer Frodo up?  He hasn’t been at the court in days, and I, for one, would not find the sight of the King and Steward in ladies’ garb cheering.”

            “I see.”  Pippin looked at the flower and turned it around a few times.  “Well, really, that’s one of the minorgoals this might achieve.”

            “Pip, have you got another one of your ideas?”

            “Yes.”

            “And if I remember correctly, didn’t the last idea you had get us separated for eleven days and placed at opposite ends of a hopeless battle?”

            “I also saved Faramir’s life.”

            Merry heaved a sigh.  “What’s your idea?”

            “Well, truth be told, I’ve been feeling sorry for the men, too.  And we’re supposed to be attending them all day.  So I thought we might join their ranks.”

            “What?  Dress up like ladies?”

            “You will admit that seeing everybody’s reactions will be well worth the embarrassment.”

            “Pippin, are you sure Strider said you were all right after that troll fell on you?”

            Pippin grinned.  He was going to win this.  “Look at it this way, Merry.  Now that Strider’s a married man, Frodo wants to go home, and… well, I do, too.  But once we get home, we’ll have to start acting normal again.  Our parents are going to want to tie us down!   I don’t thinkmine will be too pleased that we left the Shire without so much as a ‘goodbye’—and we’ll have lasses to impress.  Our carefree days of youth will be over.”

            Merry coughed.  “Somebody’s will.”

            “Yours, too, Merry.  You’ve been acting far too responsible for your age.  This would be your last chance to do anything otherwise.  Besides, we wouldn’t have to do anything too drastic.  Just show everyone our hairy legs, and the whole court will run screaming.”

Merry cast Pippin a dubious glance.

“Merry, we know hardly anyone here—at least, not nearly the number of people we know back home.  We could always call it some strange hobbit custom, if you’rethat worried.”

            “You’re saying we’ll only get a chance to do something this crazy once?”

            Pippin nodded.  “Just think—you, me—a barrel of Dad’s finest pipeweed…”

            “You getting us caught because you couldn’t handle the smoke…”

            “It’ll be like the good old days.”

            “And this will cheer Frodo up?”

            “If not, he’ll be put into such a state of shock he’ll be forced to revise his behavior.”

            Merry looked around.  “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.”

            “Oh, come!  You know you’ll enjoy it.”  Pippin looked again at the flower, then tucked it behind his ear.  “How do I look?”

            “Smashing.  Come on—it’s getting late.”

            It was only when they got back to the house that the problem of finding anything that would fit occurred to them.

Dinner was a quiet affair, which meant in Gondorian culture that only half of Merethrond was used, and everyone only wore their normal silks.  The King and his Queen were seated at the head of the main table, with select guests of honor.  Of course the ambassador had to be accorded a place, but he spoke little.

            At the King’s right sat the Wizard whose task it had been to marshal the great fight against the Enemy.  Aragorn leaned over to speak in his ear.  “There is an unexpected matter upon which I would have counsel with you.”

            Mithrandir nodded his consent.  “After the last course, then.”

            From Elessar’s left, the Queen glanced keenly at her husband, then at Gandalf.  Their eyes met, and slowly the expression of the Wizard changed.

            Instantly the King looked at him.  “What is she telling you?”

            Gandalf shrugged.  “That it is a personal matter between herself and you and that I had best not interfere.”

            Aragorn attempted to focus his eyes on both individuals at once, with great difficulty.

            “And,” Gandalf continued, “if I understand her communications concerning this matter aright, I am not entirely sure if I wish to interfere.”  There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, though it could have just been a trick of the eye.

            “At least I would like it if this matter were postponed until after the delegations are over!”

            Arwen laughed.  “You forget, love, the folly of asking a third party to aid you in the presence of your opponent.  Time is very limited, you know—Théoden cannot lie in state in Minas Tirith forever.  Soon, I am afraid, your Fellowship will be dissolved for good.  Surely you would like the support of those who know you as you go through this ordeal?”

            “If they know me that well I am afraid they shall laugh.”

            “Not cruelly, though.”

            Aragorn masked his mood by taking a particularly long quaff of wine.

Meanwhile, farther down the table Faramir was making similar requests of aid toward his uncle.  Imrahil shook his head in disbelief as he recounted the day’s events.

            “And you would seek to shirk such a task?” Imrahil said finally, keeping himself remarkably composed.

            “Nay, only to delay its execution.  I gave her my word, and I do not boast in vain.”

            “At any rate,” said Imrahil, “I am afraid I cannot help you in this matter.  If you did not wish for any such difficulties you never should have wooed such a free Northern spirit.  You would do better to ask her brother for help.”  Their eyes wandered to the foot of the table, where the King of Rohan was seated next to his sister.  They both laughed at something, and Faramir desperately hoped that it was not concerning him, nor the events that seemed doomed to occur tomorrow.

            “No,” said Faramir.  “I will not humiliate myself further by asking Éomer King to persuade his sister to suspend my undertaking.  Knowing him, he will judge me weak, and he does not hold authority over her the way men of Gondor might over their sisters.”

            “Do not despair, Faramir.  Tomorrow’s ordeals will be naught compared to what we have all faced and survived.”

            Faramir nodded, but added, “If you believe it to be so light, then, I would suggest that you find a dress that becomes you and wear it tomorrow.  If we could persuade you and Éomer—ah, what a regal bunch we would all be!”

            The Prince of Dol Amroth laughed at this.  “I am afraid I shall have to decline your offer.  Even if I were honor-bound I doubt that we could achieve Rohan’s participation—your schemes would be ruined either way.  However, I will pity you tomorrow, with all my heart.”

            “Uncle—”

            But Imrahil was suddenly very intrigued by the conversation across the table.

“I do think we have a problem, Pip,” said Merry.  They were standing in Pippin’s room, surveying the wardrobe.  “Do you know anything about sewing?”

            Pippin shook his head.

            “Me neither.  And that’s too bad, because I think we’re going to need to make our dresses.”

            “Are you sure we couldn’t rummage around the palace and find some children’s clothing?”

            “I thought we were going for something scandalous.”

            “Seamstresses?”

            “No.  We are not commissioning someone to make us ladies’ clothes.  Besides, who could sew them in time?”

            “Oh, you’re no fun.”  Pippin glanced around the room.  “Well, we wouldn’t have to make dresses, would we?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “We could just make the skirts, you know… wear some of our old tunics from back home for the top, or some of the off-duty stuff they made us.”

            “And how would we make the skirts?”

            Pippin climbed up on his bed (still massive, even though the legs had been cut down to a more appropriate height) and shook a pillow out of its case.  He looked at the pillowcase, appraising.  “Silk.  Very nice material for this time of year.”  He hopped down.  “See, all we have to do is cut it off at an appropriately scandalous length,” he held up the pillowcase to his waist, grabbed his hobbit-sword, and sliced off roughly seven inches—

            “Pippin, what are you doing?”

            Pippin shot a glare at his cousin.  “Being resourceful.  I can pay for a replacement, if that’s what you’re worried about.  Do you have a better plan?”

            “No.”

            “That’s what I thought.  So, you cut loops around one of the edges,” here he made a set of incisions with his knife, “step inside the fabric, thread your belt through, tighten, and presto!  Instant skirt.”  Pippin examined himself, made a few experimental twirls, and sat down, quite happy, on the bed.

            Merry gaped.  “Pip, you’re brilliant.”

            “I know.”

            “Now, how are we going to alter the shirts?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Well, I should think we’d have to widen the seams—I know I’ll have to, for my shirt from home fits snug on me.  But I don’t have a clue as to how one does that.”

            “Oh—I see where you’re going.”  Pippin paused.  “However, I don’t think we want quite that much scandal.”

            “Whyever not?”

            Pippin lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.  “If we show these men of Gondor how buxom our kind are, the Shire will be overrun.”

            Merry laughed.  “I see, I see.  No stuffing of the shirts—we want the lasses back home all to ourselves.”

            “Precisely.  We can always make up for it with flowers and whatever other dainties we can find.”

            “Splendid.”  Merry proceeded to cut up the remainder of the pillowcase, then stopped and let out a little cough.  “Pip?”

            “Yes?”

            “We don’t want too much scandal?”

            “We want as much scandal as we can afford to make.  Why?”

            “You see… if we are to be wearing just these skirts below, and if we’re sitting down, and someone is looking at us from the wrong angle… that person could get a ratherunpleasant view.”

            Pippin blushed.  “Oh.  That hadn’t occurred to me.”

            Merry nodded.

            “But what can we do?”

            “Hm.  Do you have any breeches that can afford to be shortened?”

            “Ah.  I think I may…”  Pippin pulled an old pair of trousers and hacked off the legs.  “They don’t fit anymore, anyway—too short.”  He held the remaining bit of trouser up to the skirt.  “This will work famously, Merry.  I think it needs a new name.”

            “What?”

            “Well, we’ve already discovered that it would be mad to wear one of the two without the other, so we really just created a new garment, didn’t we?  And it’s a skirt, but it’s extremely short, and it has an extremely short pair of breeches underneath so no one will get indecently exposed.  So… ‘short’ and ‘skirt…’  ‘Shirt’s’ already been taken… it’ll have to be a ‘skort.’”

            “‘Skort’?  Do you realize how incredibly stupid that sounds?”

            “Merry, that’s what this is all about.”  Pippin undid his belt and the skirt slid to the floor.  “Now, all we’ll have to do is make a hem so it won’t look as if I ruined a pillowcase.  Do you know where we could find a needle and thread?”

            “I’ll bet my pipe Sam has some,” said Merry.

The King’s work for the evening was much more fruitful than the meeting with the ambassador, because he was not dealing with anyone else, and because he was not interrupted.  He hoped dearly that the Khandis would consent to negotiations, that the afternoon’s work may not be futile, and then might the deals truly begin.

            Arwen and Éowyn would almost surely be done concocting this stage of their foul plan, but he still wished to see one guest of the city before he retired for the night.  To this guest’s apartments he now made his way.

            “Master Elrond?” he said, making a slight bow.

            “I will not comment on how ironic I find it that the King of the Reunited Realms is bowing to me in the heart of his own kingdom,” said Elrond.

            “Ah, but I am in great need of your help.  It concerns Arwen.”

            “Oh?  How so?”

            “She has prevailed on me to promise her to wear a dress for her tomorrow.”

            Elrond was not quite sure he had heard correctly.  “I thought that during your first sojourn in Lothlórien you had been dressed in elven—”

            “Not ‘dress;’ a dress.  One of the ones made for her arrival, to be precise.”

            “This is strange news indeed.  How do you propose that I assist you?”

            “If you could only persuade her to delay the day until Khand has left—”

            But the Lord of Rivendell just shook his head.  “She is her own woman, and even if she were not, I have relinquished any charge I might have held to her.  If you cannot persuade her no one will.”

            Aragorn nodded grimly.  “Then I shall have to do without hope.”

            “I do thank you for warning me, however.  You in women’s attire is one memory I would wish to forget, if ever I experience it.  I shall inform my sons and Legolas of the potential danger—perhaps we will remain indoors.”

            The King bowed again, and then left the room.  Was that laughter he heard from within?

Éomer knew something was the matter when, on walking from the throne room to the Riddermark’s guest lodgings, Faramir accompanied him for some way and attempted to engage him in far more conversation than was his wont.  “Do you wish to speak with me about something?” he finally said, irritated at the Steward’s circumlocutions.

            Immediately Faramir was aware of his actions.  “Forgive me.  I was debating with myself whether to speak or not.  I need some help regarding your sister.”

            Éomer stiffened.  “What sort of help?”

            “Help in persuading her.”

            “I think you have already outdone me there, in persuading her to love such a man as you.”

            Faramir stopped in his tracks, not sure what to make of such an affront until Éomer could no longer contain his laughter.  It was a most peculiar form of mirth—one that the Steward had never encountered before—that was best described as a “guffaw.”

            A light step behind them alerted both to the presence of another.  “I’d recognize that laugh from anywhere—I hope it was not at Faramir’s expense, brother!”

            Éomer turned to Éowyn.  “Only slightly—it just seemed so odd that he would come to me asking for help in bending your iron will.”

            “Faramir, what were you…”

            “I only wish to put off the day, if it is possible—”

            Éomer whirled back to face Faramir.  “If you mean to suggest that you are having any hesitations about marrying—”

            Before the situation could get any crazier, Éowyn intervened.  “Peace, brother.  I know what this is about.  Faramir has agreed, as the terms of a contest, to wear an outfit of my choosing for a day.  He is only concerned because I have decided that the outfit will be feminine—a dress, to be precise.”

            Faramir had the distinct impression that he was going to be hearing that guffaw very much the next day.  “Actually, Éowyn, I was thinking that if the King of Rohan wished you and the Queen could find a dress for him as well.”

            Éomer darkened, but his sister ignored him.  “Oh, but that would never do!  He does yet not have a lemman.”  She looked shrewdly at Éomer.  “You have thought about that, haven’t you—you’ll have to marry, at the very least to continue the line…”

            Éomer did not exactly run from the hallway.

            “A smart man,” said Faramir.  “Were I wiser I would do the same.”

            Éowyn smiled.  “And why, exactly, did you wish to delay wearing your outfit?”

            “Only until Khand left.  They should learn to respect us, not belittle us.”

            “I merely follow the Queen’s judgment there.  You should get to bed, love.  Tomorrow will be a long day.”

            Faramir finally gave up, and went to his chambers.  For a long time he lay awake, wondering how he had gotten into this mess and dreading the next day, but eventually he slipped into a light slumber.

He hit the stone floor of the chamber with a thud, hardly daring to move.  Desperately, he tried to muster his thoughts and assess the situation calmly.  Too late, he thought.  Any dwelling on the predicament he was in would only make things worse.

            The floor was cold, cold as he lay there stripped, yet he could not tell if he shivered due to that or due to the strain of his muscles, from climbing those stairs.  How many days ago was it?  It felt like months, but he knew it could not be that long.  And a new pain troubled him, fresh and sharp as a hot knife, on the back of his neck.  Where was he?

            Captive.  The word seemed to echo in his brain.  He could taste the blood, fresh on his lips—he had refused to give them the joy of hearing him scream when they had questioned him.  He had held out, but who knew how long he would next time?  How long would it be before he went mad?

His heart told him he had lived in this nightmare forever, but his head said it could not have been that long.  He remembered, before the dreams had come on, running—running down a tunnel, yearning to be free of the stifling air of that cave.  Then… Sam had cried out, but before he could react—

Sam.  He took a sharp breath.  How could he have forgotten about Sam?  Where was he?  A million answers sprang into his mind, and none of them were hopeful.  Oh, Elbereth, he thought.  Please, please, let him be alive.  Let him be safe.  Safe?  He nearly laughed at himself for daring to think such a thing.

Of all those who had tried to help him, they were either dead, now, or caught up in a war he had been too late to stop.  And now, Sam, too, was lost— dead, stranded on the edges of Mordor, or captured as he was.

He forced himself to breathe.  He could not banish his despair, but perhaps he could distract himself from it.  He closed his eyes and did what he used to do in the early days of the Quest, when homesickness had plagued him and he had still had a hope of return.  He brought back his memory.

He had done this so often, just before he had set out—on his long rambles throughout the Shire, he had treasured up all the images of his favorite haunts, unsure at the time if he would see them again.

He let himself have a small smile, and called up his memories of home.  Frowning, he paused for a moment: the familiar image of Bag End had not sprung into his mind.  Home, he thought again.  Sleeping late on a Thursday morning.  Nothing was there.

He frowned even more.  This was strange indeed.  He tried another image.  The Water.  Sitting, letting my feet be washed by the cool stream as I hear it running through the Mill.  No image, no sound, no feel of water came into his mind.  He tried something along the Quest—meeting the elves of the Woody End.  Gildor Inglorion.  The fair feast they prepared for us.  The wholesome bread.  Hearing the beautiful language they spoke rolling of their tongues.  Nothing.

Desperate, he cast about for a sad memory, one that had been with him for many years—perhaps he could remember grief. The Brandywine.  Hushed whispers, cousins’ tears, cold earth and cold comfort and—

Nothing.

Mother!

Father!

Nothing.

He tried to remember so many things, to bring them in his mind, but each time he failed.  At last, defeated, he wept, barely shaking so nobody could see him.  You have already taken so much from me, he thought to the Ring.  You cannot take my memory as well!

Where was it?  Not round his neck, nor in his pockets, surely not that, not my precious—

They’d stripped him of everything.  Of course.  Everything, he thought dimly, the word echoing in his mind…

No wonder he felt so empty inside.

He heard yelling and fighting below him.  They had gone through his possessions, then; and they had found it.

It was the end.

Frodo shook his head.  He could not do this.  He glanced over at the candle that burned on his desk.  There were only a few inches of wax left.  He gazed at the paper, then his quill and ink.  He had made no progress since he had sat down at his desk after supper.  It must be a few hours from dawn, he thought.

He needed to finish this before they left, and he wanted to leave soon.  But how could he record, even in scattered notes, the living nightmare that had claimed him?  How could he describe the pain, the hopelessness he had endured when he himself did not know how he had done it?  One thing was for certain: he could not continue to dredge up these memories and then do nothing with them.  That would only hurt him more.  It was too much for him to put into words; too much for others to understand how he had been broken.  He shuddered as he remembered the bliss that had surged through him when he had taken it for himself; and how, even though it was gone forever, sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night wanting it still.  No, it was far too hard a task.  Weary, he laid his head on the desk, finding himself in the all too familiar situation of knowing what he had to do and not knowing how.

Just then, he heard a tap at his door.  Sam, no doubt, wondering what he was doing at this hour, and trying to comfort him.  Hastily he tucked his quill and ink into the desk drawer.  “Come in,” he said.

“Good morning, Frodo,” said Merry.  He entered the room, carrying a lantern.  He was closely trailed by Pippin.

“We saw you were still up,” said Pippin, “so we thought you might like a bite to eat.”  Frodo looked at Pippin and saw he was carrying a tray nearly spilling over with food.

“Now, when was the last time you had your first breakfast in bed, Frodo?”

“I’m not in bed,” said Frodo.

“Right,” Pippin replied.  “Get in.  You’re clearly exhausted.”

Knowing that there was no use resisting as long as they were in the room, Frodo complied; and Pippin set the tray of food on his lap.  He caught the whiff of mushrooms.

“You know,” Merry said, “the head cook is awfully grouchy this time of day.”

Frodo stared at the food, seeing all his favorite dishes from back home on the tray.  He looked up at Merry.  “Thank you very much, but—is that a flower in your hair?”

Merry nodded.

Frodo picked up the lantern and peered at him.  “What exactly are you two wearing?”

“Skorts.”  Pippin grinned.  “And powders.  And creams.”

Frodo stared at them a little longer, until Merry and Pippin began to exchange nervous glances.  “Out,” he said.

“What?”

“Both of you.  Out.  Leave.”

“What have we done?”

“Out.”  Frodo pointed toward the door.

“Fine,” said Merry.  They both curtsied and left the room.

As soon as the door shut, Frodo let out the laughter he had been holding in.  He laughed, and was surprised at how pleasant it sounded and felt, even though this was not the first time he had laughed since the Quest was over.  He kept on laughing, until tears sprang into his eyes and his sides hurt.  And when he was done laughing, Frodo Baggins began to eat.

Merry and Pippin were not disappointed in the matter of breakfast, and any displeasure at their tardiness was cast away by the nature of their attire.  “Was that agiggle I heard, O Queen?” said Pippin through a mouthful of bacon.  “I thought elves were too dignified for that.”

“I think it was more of a snort, Pippin,” Merry said.  “Noises of mirth are readily suppressed among the Elder Folk, but at times even they are caught off guard.”

“Goodness, no!  Haven’t you read Bilbo’s tales?”

“Ah, but you see, Pippin, there is just one problem with that: we are not Bilbo!”

A much heartier laugh came bubbling out from where Éowyn was seated.

Arwen took a measured sip of tea.  “You all must forgive me.  This whole endeavor rather brings me back to the days when I was young and my whole family was merry, though I do not think either of my brothers ever did anything so extreme as this…”  She was forced to stop speaking, for her self-control gave way and the Queen was given into hysterics.  Merry began to look concerned.

“I think we have an emergency on our hands.  She’s feeling the effects of mortality, Pippin!”

Pippin ran up and laid a hand on Arwen’s forehead.  “She’s not feverish, so she must not be delusional.  I do believe that her dry, elvish nature is disappearing fast, and we are the causes!  Éowyn, should we leave the room and wake up Strider?”

Éowyn thought a moment.  “I do not think that would be wise.  The very look of you two…” here she began to lose her self-control as well “…might send him into a severe… state of shock.  We cannot lose both our heads of state.”

“But then you and Faramir could hold a coup!” said Pippin.

“That’s quite enough of that,” said Arwen.  “I am not mad, though I imagine having you two around more often would push me nearer the brink.”

Merry and Pippin exchanged looks of mock injury.

“Nay, I was not expecting your… level of creativity in assisting us.  I pity those who will be given even less warning.”

“Don’t worry,” said Pippin.  “Frodo already knows.  We were banished from his presence,” he said woefully, “and that is part of what makes us late.”

“I hope that he is not—”

“I don’t think so,” said Merry.  “But if he doesn’t eat all those mushroom pasties I’d better get them.”

Arwen smiled to herself, divining the purpose of the two hobbits.  “I do not think you will have to worry about that.  Your plan may have done just the thing to help him.”

“Meriadoc, do you know anything about powders and creams?” said Éowyn.

“No; nobody uses this stuff in the Shire.  Why?”

“Because I want you to be aware that the level of powder that you have put on your face makes you look rather…”

“Rather…”

“You look like women of ill repute.”

“My repute is very respectable, thank you very much!” said Pippin.

“I am only judging your appearance.”

“Well, we didn’t have much light, either,” said Merry.

Arwen simply shook her head, possibly reflecting upon mortals and their vanity.  “Some of it will have to go.  I doubt you wish to sully the name of the women where you live.”

“But…” said Pippin.

Éowyn gestured to a looking-glass.

“I suppose you have a point.  Can either of you do a better job?”

“I have no experience in the matter; women of the Riddermark do not like to present false fronts.  And I doubt Arwen ever needed any.”

Arwen nodded.  “We will have to try with what we have.  I assume that neither of you wishes to forgo that part of your appearance altogether?”

The hobbits shook their heads, and so while they discussed what needed to be done the ladies fixed their appearance until they looked decidedly feminine, yet not poorly so.  At sunrise the men entered the room, and Merry and Pippin were dispatched to get the servants to prepare the baths.

“Who’d have thought that peacetime required so much liquor?” said the man to his companion, lighting a torch to lead the way into the underground storerooms in the First Circle.

“Who’d have thought the King would return and need to entertain so many people?” retorted the companion.  “Really, we’re quite lucky this place even exists right now; so many others in the city were ruined by the blasting fires.  Anyhow, if His Majesty don’t like it, he can wait till next harvest.  A Ranger should understand food shortage.”

The man grunted.  “Well, if we can make this last till the end of the delegation, we should do fine.  And a good thing too.  The rest of the wine—the good wine, mind you—has been gone with all this celebrating, even the stuff we brought in.  I hope we get another shipment fast.”  He waved the torch in front of the rows and rows of bottles.  “2983—that should be good enough, if you ask me.”

The companion drew forth one of the bottles.  “Not a bad ye—”  The bottle stuck in the rack.  He tugged at it, but the rack began to tilt forward.

“Leave it alone!”  The man’s advice went unheeded as the rack toppled over.  The torch was knocked out of his hand, setting wood and spirits alight.  “Run!”

They made it out of the conflagration alive, but a little singed.  The spirits were lost.

“Oh, dear,” muttered Éowyn.  “Still too small.”  She took her eye away from the crack in the screen where Faramir had hastily covered himself with his towel, so that she could judge the fit of the garment she held.  “Merry, you shall have to…”  She paused, trying to think of a way to phrase this delicately—“… search around.”

            “And leave you two lovers alone in such a state?  Really, Éowyn!”  Merry grinned.

“Do you not trust us, Merry?”

“I do,” said Merry, “but so do all chaperones persuaded to leave their charges alone.”

“Just be quick about it, Merry, and no one else need know.”

“All right,” said Merry, “but I have some misgivings about this.”  He curtsied, waggled his finger at them both, and exited the room. 

            “Are you ready to be dressed, yet?” Éowyn called to her betrothed.

“I shall never be ready,” said Faramir.  “However, since I seem to exist only to gratify your whims this day…”

            “You can come out, you know,” said Éowyn.  “I do not have everything yet.”

            Slowly Faramir’s head emerged from behind the screen, nervously eying the array of baubles on the dressing table.

            “Are we using all of those?”

            “Not yet.  Once you have dressed, you and I shall meet the King and Queen, and there we shall settle the issues of jewels and the various powders and creams which will enhance your appearance.”  She smiled.  “Arwen told me she would be setting his hair in elf-fashion.”

            Immediately Faramir’s head disappeared.  Éowyn sighed.

            “Oh, do come out, love.  You should be grateful I didn’t make you shave.”

            “Might I remind you that Merry trusts us?”

            “Oh!  I forgot.  Here, put this on.”  Éowyn picked up a spare petticoat and tossed it over the screen.

            There was an evident rustle of fabric as Faramir mused over the piece of clothing.  “I have to wear this?”

            “Just step into it and tie it around your waist.  It makes the skirt of your dress fuller.”

            “But shouldn’t I be wearing under it—”

            “No.  Just keep your legs together when you walk.  It’s what everyone else does.”

            “I cannot believe I am doing this,” muttered Faramir.  “First the lavender-scented bathwater, and now—”

            He was interrupted by a knock at the door.  “I think I have found something that will fit,” came Merry’s voice from the corridor.  “May I come in?”

            “No!” cried Faramir.

            Éowyn laughed.  “Don’t mind him, Merry.  He’s just being difficult.  Please come in.”

            Merry opened the door and entered the room.

            “I really am sorry, my Lord Steward,” said the hobbit as he shut the door.  “But my loyalty has been pledged to Rohan, not Gondor.”

            “And to think that we are allies…”

            “Let me see…” Éowyn said, taking the article of clothing Merry had brought.  “Yes.  I think this shall fit.  Will you come forth now, Faramir?”

            Faramir finally stepped forth from his refuge, wearing the petticoat and looking very much like the proverbial sheep being led to the slaughter.

            “Come!” said Éowyn, seeing his expression.  “You are not one to wallow in self-pity!”

            “It is but a fit that will pass, I am certain,” said Faramir drily.  He did not look particularly happy.

            “Poor dear…”  She held up the article, judging how it would fit on him.  “Yes, this shall work perfectly!” she told Merry.  “How did you find it so quickly?”

            “Oh, I ran into Pippin in the hallway.”  He laughed.  “Apparently Strider and Arwen are running into similar problems.  Fortunately he found a few spare ones in the chambers of some noble’s wife.”

            “You shall have to thank him for finding them.  Now, I’d imagine such hard work is taxing on the appetite, so if you need to refresh yourself…”

            “You do want to be alone with him, don’t you?”

            “Dressing the Steward is a personal matter, which as few should witness as possible.  You cannot do it from your height.”

            “Very well, but I am staying within earshot,” said Merry. “I shall return within ten minutes’ time, though, whether you like it or not.”

            “How can that Halfling make light of a situation this dire?” said Faramir.

            “His name reflects his disposition, that is all,” said Éowyn.  She began to undo the laces of the garment.

            “Éowyn?”

            “Yes, Faramir?”

            Faramir swallowed.  “Forgive me for asking, but what exactly is that?”

            The corners of Éowyn’s mouth began to twitch.  “It’s called a corset.  It goes around your waist.”

            “That thing goes around my waist?”

            “Yes, of course it does.  Now, if you’ll put your arms above your head, I’ll get this on you.”

            Faramir’s arms remained plastered to his side.  “No.  I gave you my word that I would wear the dress you chose for me.  I did not give my word that I would have the life squeezed out of me by one of these… corsets.”

            “I understand,” she replied.  “However, in order to fit into the dress I picked out, I am afraid you shall have to wear a corset.  Thus, by your agreeing to wear the dress, you also agreed to wear anything that would aid you in wearing the dress.”

            Faramir sighed, and then raised his arms above his head.  “Do your worst.”

            “Oh, stop being so melodramatic,” said Éowyn.  “If half the women in the free lands can do this every day, I’m sure you can do it this once.”  She neatly set the corset about his waist, threaded the lace through the first two holes, and pulled.

            Faramir grunted.

            “Grit your teeth, love, it helps.”  She continued to lace up the corset.

            “I am beginning… to understand… why… you masqueraded… as a man… for so many days!”  The sentence was barely discernable through Faramir’s clenched teeth.

            “There,” she said.  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”  She let the laces go.  They only hung an inch from the last holes.

            Faramir took a few deep breaths.  “This thing is more uncomfortable than a suit of armor!  What is it made of?”

            “Linen, reinforced with whalebone brought in from Dol Amroth,” replied Éowyn.  “Here.  Take a look at yourself.”

            Faramir took one look at his reflection in the full-length mirror and wilted.  “How could you be this cruel to me, Éowyn?”

            “Shh…” said Éowyn, placing her arms around his neck.  “I love you.”  Gently she turned him around and kissed him.  “Now, I want you to close your eyes and think of tomorrow, when all of this will be over.”

“Merry is listening…” said Faramir, though he was already relaxing.

“We’re going to get through this today, and then you’ll never need worry about it again.”

“Never?”

“I promise.  Just think:  if you can do this, you can doanything.”

“If I survive,” Faramir whispered.

“You will survive.  You’ve survived a lot worse than this.  And then we shall be wed…”  She kissed him again.

“Mmm…”

“I just need you to do this for me.  Do you think you can?”

He nodded.

“All right.  Arms above your head, please.”

Faramir complied.

“Breathe in… and breathe out.”

Éowyn grasped the strings of the corset, anchored her hand against Faramir’s back, and yanked on them with all the strength of a shield-maiden of Rohan.

Merry was on his second helping of food when he heard unpleasant yells coming from the room behind him.  “Make that fifteen minutes,” he muttered.  “Hey, what’s that?”

Somehow, Merry had managed to hear some sort of commotion in one of the nearby hallways.  Cautiously he walked to the end of the corridor to see some high-ranking servant—the cellarer, he realized—talking heatedly with another individual in the Tower’s livery.

“What’s going on?” he said.

The cellarer turned around and jumped back a foot at the sight before him.  “Meriadoc of the Shire?” he hazarded.

Merry nodded encouragingly.

“If I may be so bold, what are you—”

“Never mind that; ‘twill be your first shock of many today if I guess correctly.  What’s the problem?”

The cellarer began dry-washing his hands as he spoke.  “Well, it would be of no importance were it not for the feast to be held tonight—a disaster has befallen in the wine cellar on the First Circle.  The consequences are so—soenormous that someone in higher authority should know, but I do not wish of course to bother His Majesty.”  He reddened and looked down.  “I should not be burdening you with this knowledge, sir.”  He reddened even more, for looking down had brought his gaze in full contact with the hobbit’s incredibly exposed legs.

“Not to worry, my fine fellow,” said Merry.  “I’ll see that someone in authority learns and maybe we can see what will be done.”  He went back to his food, stuffed the rest of it into his mouth, and ran up the staircase that led to the main part of the Citadel.  “Oi, Pip!” he cried through a mouthful of food.

Pippin was just leaving the apartments of the royal couple, presumably for the purposes of his own sustenance.  “What?”

“Is Strider disposed?”

“No, but he can’t do anything about it.  Why?”

“Some sort of emergency concerning the wine for tonight’s feast.  Cellarer didn’t think it’d warrant his attention, but considering how he’ll probably want the ambassador to get as drunk as possible so he’ll think seeing His Majesty in a dress was some sort of bizarre dream, I think he might want to examine the situation anyway.”

“Fine by me,” said Pippin, “but you break the news.  I’m famished.”

“Pippin, you’re always famished.”

“Well, more famished than normal, then.”  And with that Pippin walked away and down the stairs.

Merry sighed at the thought of how long he was leaving Éowyn and Faramir untended, but he still went to the door of the Queen’s chambers and knocked.  “Who is it?” said Arwen from within.

“Merry, with a bit of important news.”

“Enter, please.”  Merry did so, and the sight that he encountered was not a little amusing.

They were both upon the loveseat, Arwen with the dress spread across her lap and Aragorn with that grim, focused look that one gets when dealing with constant pain.  Merry could immediately see why, for he had that corset-thing strapped around his waist and it really did look as if it would hurt.  Merry refrained from circling his hands around his own stomach to see how much he could bear.

“Important news, eh?” grunted the King, whose struggles seemed to have returned him to full Ranger mode.

“Some sort of mess-up at the cellars on the First Circle.  I don’t know much more than that, but you might want to send someone down to investigate.  When you have time, of course,” he added, wondering what the hold-up was in Aragorn’s robing.

“He is too broad-chested,” said Arwen.  “At least, he would be if he were a woman.  I am widening the seams and that should be able to make it fit, but it is causing a slight delay.”

“And no small discomfort,” added Aragorn.

Arwen tied off the thread she was working on.  “There,” she said, “it is half finished.  And if that is all you have to say, Meriadoc, I suggest that you return to your charges.  They are not to be left alone for long, if only for the sake of decorum.”

“I doubt Faramir is in a state to try anything, my lady.  I could hear him from where I was eating.”

“I know,” said the Queen.  “Decorum.”

“Er, right,” said Merry.  “Then, by your leave, I will ensure that decorum remains,” he said, and curtseyed before he left the room.

By the time he got back, Faramir had managed to get inside his dress.  The room nearly shook with Merry’s laughter.

The King’s audiences with his people always started at the second bell.  Every day, as sure as the sun’s rising, he would enter the hall in robes of state, mount the dais, and sit upon the throne to judge the everyday matters of the people.  It was an old custom that had largely been dropped during the latter days of the (eminently practical) Stewards, but the new King had brought it back in full force for matters that concerned just the White City.

Heledir was glad of this, because it meant that someone important and not just some lower judiciary could listen to his problems.  Of course, he was not the kind to abuse his citizen’s privilege and stop by every day; but he was fairly certain that this particular problem warranted some royal attention.  After all, his fellow merchants had had issues with panhandlers outside their businesses, and if he could get the King’s eye drawn to the problem perhaps it would go away.  True, begging was perfectly legal in Minas Tirith, but his complaint was not with beggars in general, but with this one, who had taken nest right outside his shop.  There had to be a decree against it, and if it was rarely enforced?  Well, the kingship itself was a thing of the past, and he highly doubted Elessar would easily go against the old laws.

His plan was perfect, too perfect.  He had caught the child just as his apprentice was opening shop and arrived an hour early so that there would be no doubt his case would be heard.  Yet the second bell had rung a full quarter of an hour ago, and there was no King forthcoming, only a message delivered from the lips of a servant that he would be slightly delayed.  It went against everything he had heard and seen of the King.  Where could he be?

“Come, Arwen, are you certain this is entirely necessary?”

Arwen twisted another lock of her husband’s hair back and pinned it into place.  “Are you telling me you have never had your hair done in elven fashion before?”

“No—simply not such an outrageous elven fashion.”

She made a show of dropping one of the elaborate gold hairpins that had been supplied for her purpose.  “I’ll have you know, my lord, that my own grandmother perfected this style in Doriath in the First Age, and it is only with her good graces that I am even permitted to copy it on you.  Were I you, I should not complain.”

Galadriel…  Aragorn added her name, and that of her husband, to the list of people that he would have to avoid at all costs.  He had the feeling that she would be the sort not to keep this a secr—suddenly his head sunk into his hands.  She would be sailing, wouldn’t she?

“Hold your head high, love, I won’t be able to do it right otherwise.”

Wearily he raised his head, trying to keep the litany of elven heroes of Ages past who suddenly could (and probably would) be privy to his mortification.

Merry and Pippin were currently ransacking several chests of jewels which had been pooled together for the sole purpose of the day’s event, trying to find the perfect match.

“Did you say the pins were also only here because of your grandmother’s good graces?”

“Yes.”

“Then why, in the name of Atalantë, did you not get whatever other jewelry matches with these pins and save me the time and delay of those two miscr—”

Pippin fixed Aragorn with an expression best associated with a pup on the business end of his master’s boot.

“—hobbits rummaging around and creating a mess?”

“In case you could not tell, the style itself is old, and so are the pins, which Lady Galadriel told me only last night she kept as a keepsake of Celeborn’s courtship.  That also means that if you lose any of them today, your life will be in considerable danger.”

“These come from Celeborn’s courtship?”  The King spluttered for a moment.  “Why?”

Arwen smiled a mystifying smile.  “I believe her words to me were, ‘Anything for a good cause.’”

Éowyn, in the meantime, was facing considerable difficulty with Faramir’s hair, even though all she was doing was gathering it together and placing it in a decorated net.  Not only did its silkiness make it impossible to keep together for more than a few seconds, but there was also the fact that he was trying purposely to keep her delayed.  Every few seconds, he twitched his head, sending all the hair flying from her grasp, whilst reciting love poetry to her.

“My love is like the golden dawn,

The herald of the”—twitch—“day,

Her hair it gleameth like the sun,

Her eyes a mist of grey…”

Merry looked up from his task with a bemused look.  Was he coming up with that on the spot?

Another twitch, Éowyn bit back a Rohirric curse.  Merry rose and walked over to her.  “I think I can help you a bit,” he said.

“How?  Unless you plan on getting it in that cursèd net—I don’t think you could hold him down.”

“No, it’s much better than that.”  Merry’s voice dropped down to a whisper.  “Kiss him.”

“What?”

“Kiss him for as long as you possibly can, and he’ll get short of breath.”

“You know this how?”

“The lasses back home wear bodices—not as tight as that… thing, but it still works.  It’s mighty fun when you get the hang of it.”  Éowyn gave him a dubious look; Merry, with a smug smile on his face, made his way back to the pile of necklaces he was sorting through.

“What did you tell her?” hissed Pippin.

Merry only grinned.  “Watch and see.”

Faramir was on his seventh quatrain when Éowyn finally decided to take action.

            “And when she smiles, ’tis like the—Mmf!”

            Aragorn was about to rise from his seat, but his wife detained him with her arm.  The kiss deepened, until it was certain that all decorum had been breached, and even Merry was a little concerned.  Finally Éowyn broke it off, panting from the effort as she rose from her knees.  Faramir took two breaths before falling unconscious on the chaise.

            “I would call that a success,” said Éowyn.  “Merry, hold up his head for me.”  Merry complied, and she scooped up her beloved’s hair and slid it into the net.  “Lawks,” said Merry.  No one had ever fainted for him before.

            As Éowyn walked briskly over to a nearby washstand for some smelling salts, Pippin looked at his cousin incredulously.  “How did you learn that trick?”

            Merry shrugged, setting aside the heavy sapphire necklace that he had finally decided on.  “Practice.”

            “You mean you were off kissing lasses in Buckland and you never told me?”

            “I never said it was more than one…”

            “Who?”

            “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

            “You…”

This interjection was echoed by Faramir, who had just come to after a particularly strong whiff of the salts.  He put a hand to his hair, only to find that it had been successfully captured.  “Of all the low-handed tactics…”

“Would you have preferred I subdue you otherwise?”

“We are not yet wed!” he hissed.

Arwen finished with the last strand of her husband’s hair.  “Meriadoc?  Peregrin?  Have you found the best matches yet?”

“Yes, my lady,” said Pippin.

“Very well.  We shall proceed with that, then… and afterwards, the cosmetics!”

It was a full half-hour before the King arrived, and for the last five minutes of that time, Heledir had seriously considered just leaving the matter for another day.  But all of his glorious planning should hardly go to waste just because somebody else was unreliable.  Too often it did.

He was just about to turn back, ruminating on the disappointment that the new King had turned out to be, when the herald came out, looking uncharacteristically ruddy, and announced that the King would be entering the audience chamber shortly.

“He bids me tell you that he apologizes for the delay, but that the reason for said delay will become apparent at his arrival.  He also bids you not be alarmed, nor believe that he cannot adjudge your cases fairly, should he appear at all unusual to your eyes.”

No doubt the herald was quite new to his more domestic position, or else he would have acted more professionally, Heledir reflected.  There was nothing that would be made public which would elicit any emotion in a properly trained—

“Unusual” was an understatement.  The herald’s words had barely grazed his consciousness, since all that had really concerned Heledir was the fact that the King was supposed to be holding an audience.  Now they returned to him, as the words of a cryptic prophecy will when fulfilled, and he forgave himself any judgment he had made against the herald and his lack of composure.

His majesty the King Elessar was wearing a dress.  Not only was it a dress, it was obviously a dress, designed for a woman’s body.  And somehow, it had been made to fit, from the cinching around the waist to the extra room for the chest that implied a considerable bosom.

It was disturbing.

“If the first case would please come forward,” said the King.

Heledir scanned the entire room to see if anyone else had noticed that His Majesty was in a gown, or if his own reason had simply decided to desert him for the day.  But no, the same confusion that currently gripped him had spread to the other supplicants—the same shifting of feet and eyes.  One citizen’s eyes strayed to the doors of the Hall, but he did not flee.

No one moved.

Heledir felt his shoulder being tapped.  “Sir?” whispered the malefactor he had brought along to be judged.  “Is the King in a dre—”

“Silence!” he hissed.  But it was too late.  He felt, rather than saw, the keen gaze of the King rest upon him.  Knowing he could not escape it, he walked forward and knelt before the dais.

“My lord King,” he said, trying not to splutter as he studied the fine embroidery on the golden slippers that adorned the King’s feet, “my name is Heledir, son of Emlin.  I am but a simple merchant, who sells the leathern wares made by the tanners on the Pelennor to the folk of the city.  For a week past my business has been obstructed by this beggar”—here he gestured to the child behind him—“who has both kept customers from entering the shop through her failures and curtailed their buying power through her successes.”

The King looked down at him through eyes that had been rendered more expressive through the artifice of charcoal skillfully, lightly, shaded about the lids.  They were currently expressing nothing, except perhaps a slight exuding of general kingliness.  Heledir marveled that His Majesty could pull it off.  “We empathize with your concerns, Heledir, son of Emlin; however, as we are certain you are well aware, begging has long been a last and legal recourse to the poorest of the poor of this city.  Is there some other grievance that you wish to be addressed?”

“Well, my lord, I am aware that begging in general is permitted by law in Minas Tirith, but we merchants have long held in memory another law, ancient and long disregarded, that limits its practice.  I know full well that I could not come before you with an ordinary beggar and expect any succor from you, O King, but this is a girl.  She should not be making her living in the streets.”

“Do you mean to say that there is a law prohibiting women and girls from begging in the White City?”

“Aye, my lord, and it dates from the time of the Kings.  It is but a rumor among us, of course, for the law was not enforced in the time of the Stewards and there was no one in the City to go to for aid.  Perhaps it never existed.”

The King nodded, then looked at the girl who had hitherto stood with bowed head at a respectful distance.  “Come forward,” he said.  “What is your name?  Speak clearly so that all may hear.”

“Míriel, my lord,” said the girl, not daring to meet the King’s gaze.

“Look at me.  How old are you?”

She lifted her head; Heledir assumed that His Majesty was judging through her eyes the truth of her story.  “Twelve, my lord.”

“Where are your parents?”

“My mother died when I was four, my lord.  My father was killed before the Black Gate.”

“Have you no relatives in the City?”

“No, my lord.  My parents moved here from the Morthond Vale; my nearest family resides there.  My father had told me to seek them out, should the worst happen, but by the time I learned of his passing the soldiers from that area had already left.  Our home was on the first circle and was destroyed by the blasting fires, along with most of what we owned.  I would employ myself as a maid, but there are so many other children that have been orphaned by the war, and so few people to hire them, that I have had no success.”

The King spent a few moments in thought.  “Then, young Míriel, in gratitude for your father’s sacrifice to Gondor, the least the royal crown can do is see to it that his wishes toward you are fulfilled.  We will secure and pay for a place for you on the next caravan leading to Morthond, as well as send word to your kin of your current situation, and until that time you may be considered a ward of the City and Crown.

“As for you, Master Heledir, you have brought to our attention something which had hitherto escaped our notice, and we will see if there is any mention of this law you speak of in the records.”

“Thank you very much, my lord,” said Heledir.  “I assure you that as soon as this one goes another will take her place.”

“Return tomorrow, and we shall settle on how best to deal with the law.”

Heledir bowed and took his leave.

The girl lingered.  “My lord?” she said, very faintly.  “Why are you in a dress?”

His response was just as quiet.  “I am in a dress because the Queen wished to test the limits of my love for her, and my love for her has no limits.”

Elessar heard sundry other cases for two more hours, and slowly news of his strange attire began to circulate through the city.  Rumors took their course, and were wildly blown out of proportion, but the one person who had asked why told the truth.  Thus it was that word was spread that the King was wearing a dress for love of his bride.

If the rumors concerning the King spread like a disease, those concerning the Steward were epidemic.  For it had befallen upon him to investigate the conflagration in the First Circle, in person, which unfortunately entailed passing through all the main thoroughfares of Minas Tirith on foot—and even though it was currently overcast he was still highly visible.  Faramir was well beloved by the people of Gondor, and thus was neither scorned nor stared at.  Even the whispers conducted in his wake held no disrespect, only sheer curiosity.  Many wondered whether his strange attire had anything to do with the wild shieldmaiden he loved, and whether she had, in fact, tamed him.  But these were made in secret, and Faramir was not harassed for the entire morning.

            Not, at least, until Éomer King decided that this day would be most excellent to better his acquaintance with his future brother.

            Faramir was returning to the Citadel, juggling the information he had received at the site of the fire with such other trivial matters as breathing.  No one aside from a slightly burnt and extremely irritated magpie had been injured, and the basic structure of the cellar was still intact, but the wine was entirely gone.  He knew the accounts of the Royal Treasury as well as his own sword, and aside from a few bottles for personal use that were stored in the White Tower itself—definitely not enough to furnish tonight’s fête—there was nary a drop of alcohol in the city.

            Except, of course, at the inns…

            The inns!  Why had he not thought of them before?  It would be simple to arrange: find a fine establishment, and pay a fair price both for the wine and for silence.  Knowing the nobility of Minas Tirith, wine from inns was “low,” even if it was of the finest quality.  Discretion, therefore, was the key.

            “Faramir?”

            Faramir looked down to see Meriadoc the hobbit, still garbed in that ridiculous thing—though, he rued admitting, he was in little position to judge.  “Merry, I thought you were supposed to continue helping devise whatever torture Éowyn has next in store.”

            Merry grinned.  “Oh, I am, though I’ll get a break as soon as I deliver this message:  Éomer King requests your attendance at the stables.  He wishes to speak with you, I don’t know why.  How bad is the damage down there?”

            Faramir shook his head, still amazed by the apparent rapidity with which these pheriannath could change the course of conversation.  “All of the wine is gone.”

            “But how are they going to furnish that—whatever is going on tonight?”

            “I do not know,” said Faramir, “though I believe we shall be purchasing wine from one of the inns.”

            “That could work,” said Merry, nodding to himself.  “And if you’ll excuse me, my lord, I have a stomach in sore need of filling.”

            “Go, then.  I shall see Éomer.”  And Merry trotted away, though, Faramir noted, not back toward the Citadel. 

            Faramir made his way over to the stable, not even bothering to stop and catch his breath since he was certain it would be a fruitless exercise.  Inside a boy was holding the reins of two saddled horses.

            “My lord Faramir,” said the King of Rohan.  “Ever since I first talked to the Master of the Stables here I have been filled with a most driving curiosity about one of the riding customs of the people of Gondor: I believe it is called the side-saddle, and was designed to accommodate the style of dress that women wear.  I thought today would be a fine day for a demonstration: fancy a ride?”  He flashed a wide grin at him, as the sun came out and gleamed upon his golden hair.

            Faramir swallowed.

“The worst thing about the entire matter is that nobody knows how the thieves are managing to hide it.  They can catch them right at the scene of the theft, but it’s as if the gold has disappeared.  It must be some new technique that’s been spread among the lowlife of the City.”

Pippin was only half paying attention to his colleague; the other half of his mind was on the mug of ale he was currently nursing.  But Peregrin never forgot that he was a Guard of the Citadel, and even on days such as this where he was all but dismissed from regular duty he meant to keep current on the city’s gossip.  Today this entailed speaking with Targon, one of his first acquaintances and probably one of his best, if only because he was in charge of his Company’s buttery.

“We haven’t had to deal with this, though, right?”

“Nay, only the regular city guards.  But it certainly is giving them quite a puzzle.”

“Hmm.”  Pippin thought about the subject for two seconds.  “No, I can’t think of a solution.  There isn’t anywhere… unnatural… that petty thieves would try to hide gold, is there?”

Targon shook his head with all of the stupefying gravity that seemed to be inherent in Gondorian blood.  “There is honor even among thieves, Peregrin; unless such things have been dispelled with the passing of the Age.  And moreover, some of these petty thieves have been caught mere seconds after the theft.”

“Well, couldn’t someone else have stolen the money, then?”

“If that is the case, which many think it is, then Minas Tirith has on her hands the best—and worst—thief in many a year.”

Pippin sighed.  “This is all so disheartening, especially with it being after the War and all.  You’d think that they’d learn to lay off it a little.”

“Alas!  Evil may be defeated in one part of the world, but ever will it rise again in another.”

“I know,” said Pippin glumly.

“But come, let us talk of other things, while we have the time.  I must admit that I had hoped you would come here for provisions today, for you might be able to explain His Majesty’s—and your own, I might add—eccentric behavior.”

“Oh, that.  It means nothing, if you’re wondering, aside from the fact that Elessar has met his match in his lady wife, whose wits outstrip her beauty—if that’s possible.”

“He is doing this at her bidding, then?”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” said Pippin.  “Well, perhaps I would, but that’s beside the point.  No, I’d say that she ‘prevailed upon him’ or some such phrase, it’s much nicer to the poor man.  And as for me—well, if the King of Men is allowed to go mad for a day, I don’t see why the Prince of the Halflings shouldn’t be.”

A wry smile came to Targon’s face.  “I suppose that is as good of an explanation as I can hope for.  The Queen gave you no reasons for this turn of events, then?”

“Oh, she said something about him proving his love for her to the people without neglecting his duties, but I think that’s a load of tripe.  She probably just got bored yesterday.”

Targon stared at him, and Pippin had a feeling that he was probably supposed to be reading an emotion on that stern visage.  Assuming that he had made another social misstep, as that was the normal reason he got stares, he added, “Well, that’s the only reason I’d make the King wear a dress.”

“Indeed,” said Targon.  “Well, this may explain why the King dismissed his scribe for the day.  He probably does not wish for any record of today to exist.”

“You’re probably right,” said Pippin.  “A shame that is, too, because I’d love to have a sketch of him and Lord Faramir, just for posterity’s sake.”  Suddenly his expression changed, and he slowly turned his head to look Targon right in the eye.  There was a glint there that made Targon just a little nervous, but he did not look away.

“Say,” said Pippin, “you’ve got a fair hand at drawing, don’t you?”

Targon said nothing.

“Yes, you must—because you wanted to make a sketch of me to show your son, and you wouldn’t do that if you were bad at it.  Look, I know I was really self conscious about it before, but—”

Arwen would have said that this was cheating, but Aragorn didn’t care.  The King was allowed to accept or deny visitors at his free will, and if this meant holing himself up in his room at any time of the day that he did not have official duties, then so be it.  He would not be made even more of a spectacle than he already was.

The more he thought about it, the more he was troubled by Galadriel’s implied knowledge of the entire situation.  A keen judge of character he was, but he had not the power to cast out his mind and communicate with others through thought the way the elves did.  Arwen, for all her relinquishment of the life of the Eldar, retained it; and this must have been the way Galadriel had learned of his current plight—unless Arwen had slipped out of bed while he slumbered.  At any rate, for all he knew, every single elf in the city could be currently beside himself laughing at the mental picture of Aragorn’s appearance, and he knew his brothers too well to believe that they would be content with that—Elrond’s warning or no.

It was hard to exist as King when one was living with people that knew the intimate details of one’s first brush with the chamber pot; and while Elladan and Elrohir were models of discretion in public, this did not mean that they did not refresh their stock of embarrassing stories for personal entertainment.  He began to make a mental list of elves to avoid at all costs today, and concluded that his current course of action was the best: the only elf that he thought would have any sympathy for him was Legolas.  Yet Legolas could not be counted upon for support, for, likely as not, if he had received Elrond’s admonition, he would be himself sequestered.

A servant entered the room from the antechamber.  “My lord King,” he said, “the Lady Undómiel requests entrance.”

She would no doubt be irritated that her entrance had to come announced, but he had asked to be informed of all the people who wished to see him in private.  “She comes alone?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Aragorn nodded.  “Very well, she may enter.”

Arwen did enter, and she was, no doubt, irritated.  “It is a sad day when I must announce my entrance into my own chambers, Estel.”

“Aye,” said Aragorn, stretching out as best as he could in this constricting clothing, “and a sad day when I can trust next to no one who enters them.”

“Surely you do not mean to say that you fear I shall worsen your plight?”

“I do not know what mischief you have planned for today, Arwen.  I feared you might bring Elladan and Elrohir in tow.”

            Arwen sat down next to him upon the loveseat, smiling.  “Then fear not, for I neither seen nor spoken to them today.  The only one I have spoken with is Galadriel, and even then the conversation did not go beyond planning your outfit for today.”

            “So, you have left them to their own devices.”

            “Perhaps,” said Arwen, and her grey eyes sparkled.  “Still, I dislike the approach that you are taking.  The audience this morning was all very well, but for you to hide like this—it rather defeats the purpose of today.  My heart forebodes me.”

            Aragorn more snorted than laughed.  “Does your heart also tell you that it would be best for me to stride boldly up and down the streets and make myself a laughingstock?”

            “I was not jesting about this, love.  But at least I believe that your devices will defeat themselves soon, and today you will, by necessity, be much more public than on everyday occasions.  I know that you are only bound to wear the dress today, and not to display it, but still… there is the matter of that red gown.”

            “I see how it is.  But it is not the reaction of the people that concerns me, Arwen, as much as that of the elves, who will remember this far longer than any of us will.  I cannot let them see me.”

            “Not even at the feast tonight?”

            Aragorn was silent for a few moments.  “Very well—I concede my defeat.  Still, I shall try to best them, especially my brothers, as much as I can, for I would still fight this hopeless battle.”

            Arwen smiled.  “There.  That is the man that I love.”

            The memory of Faramir’s ordeal earlier in the day prevented him from kissing her more than chastely, which was well, for the servant returned shortly announcing the arrival of a party of elves.

            “Tell them I am indisposed,” said Aragorn.  A few minutes later he returned, saying that the group wished to discuss the planting of trees in the City as a gift to the new King.  Aragorn weighed the matter in his head for a moment.  “These elves do not wish to disclose their names, do they?”

            “No, my lord, but I can tell you that the Lords Elladan and Elrohir are not among their number.”

            “And the Lady Galadriel?”

            “She is not among them either.”

            He breathed a sigh of relief.  “Send them in.”

Éomer had to congratulate his sister for devising, albeit by chance, such a fine test for her betrothed.  He was a fine judge of character; indeed, he had adjudged the Lord Aragorn perfectly when he first laid eyes upon him.  But the Renewer of Middle-Earth was one thing and Éowyn’s husband was another.  He had not seen anything he disliked in Faramir, mind, but their meetings thus far had always been at an equal footing, if not higher; for Éomer was a guest here and Faramir was not.  No, if you truly wished to learn what a man was like, see how he behaved in humiliation, if not actual defeat.  And Éomer could think of nothing more humiliating than that evil thing the Steward was wearing—unless it was going for a ride on the Pelennor in that ridiculous excuse for a saddle that only Gondor could spawn, and being forced to endure him.

Faramir was keeping up remarkably well, even though Éomer was certain he had had no experience with that method of riding; and his horse showed an astonishing amount of forbearance as well.  Most horses with such an inexperienced rider would balk, especially at the pace Éomer had picked.

“If you wish for a more accurate demonstration of the side-saddle,” wheezed Faramir, “you could go a little closer to a walk.  If the ladies of the City need to travel more quickly they go by coach.”

“Forgive me, Lord Faramir,” said Éomer.  “I could not hear you; you were lagging so far behind.”  This was, indeed, the truth, but he guessed by dint of Faramir’s quietness the nature of the complaint.  He reined in Firefoot and turned around just in time to see Faramir, in the midst of a valiant effort to catch up, slump over in the saddle in a dead faint.  Amazingly, he did not fall.  Instead his horse gently slowed, halting only when it was certain its burden would not tumble.  Éomer trotted over to look upon the Steward’s unconscious form.  After a few moments Faramir started up again.

“Forgive me,” he said, “I am not used to the constraints of this outfit, especially upon my breathing.”

“The bond between you and your horse is… startling,” said Éomer.  “I had not thought to find it among your folk.  How long have you had her?”

Faramir, slowly finding the energy to sit upright again, patted his mare’s neck.  “Less than three months; my old steed was slain during the retreat from the Pelennor.”

Éomer was impressed, but, rather than expressing such, found a way to bring the conversation to meatier matter.  “I would think that one with such an innate mastery over beasts would find a woman, even one such as my sister, not too difficult to control, or at least influence.”

Faramir turned to look at him, and the keenness of his gaze made Éomer wonder if he already knew where he was attempting to guide their talk.  “I think it hardly just to compare one such as the White Lady to any creature, even one so fair as a horse; but even if the analogy were apt I would still seek no control over her.”

“Indeed,” said Éomer, “given the current state of affairs I would say that she has gelded you, if you do not mind the expression of a horse-breeder.”  He coolly watched Faramir’s face to see his reaction, but if there were any he must have masked it.

“Let me remind you that I entered into this agreement of my own free will, and I may yet have bested the Lady Éowyn in swordplay had I allowed myself to strike her.”

“I thought that the purpose of honor among Gondorians was to raise their nobility, not to unman them.”

“You are deliberately trying to provoke me, Éomer, and I understand your reasons for doing so.  No doubt there is still some part of you that finds this entire affair worthy of laughter.  In that case, I say to you that I would not have let myself get entangled in this affair if I were not deathly serious about my intentions toward your sister.”

“Oh, I doubt you not, Faramir;” said Éomer, “I only doubt your ability to make her happy once the two of you are wed.”  There was still no visible reaction.  Curse these Gondorians and their ability to hide their feelings!

“Only time will tell in that matter,” said Faramir.  “She has been content up to the present.”

Éomer nodded, and came to a decision.  If Faramir remained aloof at attacks such as this, there was one more boundary he could cross.  “Only time will tell,” he assented, “and perhaps you both will be content.  Or perhaps you will prove to be more like your mother and fade away in the onset of her glory.”

Faramir’s face darkened, and Éomer saw that he had struck true.  Perhaps, he now thought, he should not have struck so hard, but if anything would get Faramir to retaliate, this would.  “If I believed that you made that statement for any reason other than to elicit a reaction from me, I would bid you fetch your sword,” Faramir said, and the ice in his voice startled Éomer.  “As it is, I will only rebuke you: speak not so hastily of those you do not know.  If one can find a single reason for my mother’s death, it would be that she was deprived of the home of her heart: the Sea.  As for me, the home of my heart is Ithilien, which shall also be my dwelling place, and that of Éowyn, if you indeed consent to our marriage.”

“Still, there is now a matter of honor between us,” said Éomer, “and words alone will not suffice to set it straight.”

“That may be,” said Faramir.  “And now I would fain have us return to the City; we have both been gone from our duties long enough.”

Merry was entertaining a similar train of thought, having fed himself well enough that he could last until noon without serious discomfort.  He was sitting in the common room of the Horse & Rider, a fine establishment whose acquaintance he had made through association with the Rohan’s army—who he suspected had latched onto the inn simply because there was a horse carved on its wooden signpost.  At any rate, the innkeeper did not seem to be too discomfited by the raucous singing of ballads (usually in Rohirric) that emanated from the public house through the wee hours of the morning—probably because their coin was good.

It was only half past ten, however, and aside from a few locals Merry was the only customer in the Horse & Rider, and he was nearly finished.  Draining his mug, he rose to perform the one ritual that inevitably resulted from his every visit to the place: arguing with the innkeeper about who would pay for his meal.

The innkeeper was already gesticulating his adamant refusal to accept Merry’s coin as he saw him heading over to the counter and climbing upon a stool to pay.  “Please, Sir pherian, there is no need for you to pay for your meal.  We are all in so much debt—”

“To my kin and me, I know,” interrupted Merry.  “But this is the seventh meal I’ve had here by your grace and I ought to pay sometime.”  He thrust out a fist full of coins.  “Take it.”

But the innkeeper solemnly shook his head.  “Your very patronage is payment enough.”

Merry would have admitted he had a point if this were the only inn he frequented, but only someone completely oblivious to the nature of hobbits could think that, if he did go to only one inn, he would go there sporadically.  This was getting frustrating.  He could be a good haggler, but he was only just beginning to learn enough “reverse haggling” (part and parcel of being a hero) not to feel extreme guilt whenever he checked the money in his pockets.  This fellow was one of the worst ones out there—but time pressed, and Merry realized with a sinking heart that he wouldn’t be able to wear the man down enough to let him accept half price.  “I’ll tell you what,” he said, inspiration suddenly striking from on high.  “There’s supposed to be a big fancy dinner tonight for all of the delegates and such, but the City’s cellar burned down this morning.  They’re looking for an establishment to supply the wine for tonight, and I’ll put in a good word for The Horse & Rider.”

“Now, Sir pherian, there’s no need to do that—besides, our specialty here is in the ale.”

“Then I’ll put in a good word for the ale!”  And with that, Meriadoc the hobbit jumped down from the stool, exceedingly grateful for the trimmed-down trousers that prevented him from almost certain embarrassment as his pillowcase skirt flew up.

As he rode back into the city, Faramir fumed within.  He could take any insult directed at himself, even those so obviously targeted at his manhood, but there were some lines one did not cross.  He knew that Éomer was only testing him, seeing how he would react to great insult, but at the same time he was certain that some sort of contest in arms was exactly what Éomer wanted.  While such a contest would certainly be fair, it was precisely because of this that Faramir turned it down.  If Éomer was going to attack him dishonorably, he should be treated with in like fashion.

And so the smoldering of his emotions fueled the power of his thoughts, and Faramir devised to himself a plan.  If Éomer desired retaliation, retaliation was what he should receive.  Let the house of Eorl know that Faramir was the son of Denethor as well!

The King was grateful that this party of elves had chosen his own tactic for handling the strange nature of his attire: studious ignorance.  He now had so much faith in the tactic, in fact, that he had decided to studiously ignore the possibility that even now, they could be discussing him in their minds.  Again he wondered why he had agreed to see them.  He had guessed that his brothers’ mode of attack would be to let these elves lead him out of the Citadel to some “prime planting spots,” at which point he would skillfully detain them; but all that they had spoken of thus far was the kinds of trees that were suited to the climes (and soil) of Mount Mindolluin.  He had the sneaking sensation that he had just walked into a trap.

He tried to push the thought from his mind to focus on the subject matter at hand, rather than wondering with not a little trepidation what was now in store for him.  Elladan and Elrohir had taught him everything he knew of tracking, being silent in the wild, informal strategy—which, in this case, meant that they knew everything he did, and they knew him, too.  His mind raced.

They knew I would blockade myself in this room.  I thought they would try to get me to leave before they attacked—if not by smoking me out, then by enticing me.  But they knew I would think that that was their plan, didn’t they?  So they took the risk that I would let a much more anonymous party of elves into the room simply to irk them later on.

But why?

One of the elves was now talking about the thin air up in the mountains.

To distract me, the thought came.  This is not an orc’s den; there was no reason to flush me out if there were some way that they could enter here without my knowing…

No, that was impossible.  He had had his eye trained on the door the entire time, and if elves could pass unheard by even the keenest of Ranger ears, they could not turn themselves invisible.  And this was the only way into the room, unless someone were fool—or daring—enough to try scaling three stories of sheer white marble and enter through the window.  Well, those twins were certainly daring—or fool—enough, but the windows were shut and they could not have opened them silently enough to escape his hearing.  Unless…

He held up his hand for silence.  “Very well,” he said.  “The game is up; wherever the two of you are hiding, you may come out now.”

There was not the slightest raising of eyebrows among the currently visible elves; by this alone Aragorn guessed the veracity of his deductions.  Meanwhile he listened keenly and was rewarded with a slight rustling of silks, then the sound of a latch being lifted, as the twin sons of Elrond emerged from Queen Arwen’s armoire.

“I told you he’d take less than twenty minutes to figure it out,” said Elladan.

“Yes, but you thought it’d be fifteen, and he took only ten,” said Elrohir.

“Ai, once again we underestimate our younger brother’s intellect—and, I might add, his ability to make the most preposterous of garments seem… almost…comely.”

Aragorn ignored them and turned to the elves that were in his room with his permission.  “If the matter can wait, I would much prefer that you not be present while my two immature and wholly disrespectful brothers denigrate me.  I am sure that if you are truly interested they will fill you in on what words and possibly blows were exchanged, though I will not be able to guarantee the truth of their report.  Good day.”

The elves all murmured something about it being no inconvenience at all and that it was rather bold to speak of the Lords Elladan and Elrohir so, but Aragorn’s face remained stony until the last one had left the room.

“That,” said Elladan, “was quite rude.”

The King’s face had transformed into one of fury.  “And what of breaking and entering my private chambers?  Varda’s stars, you could have been…”  In an instant his anger washed away, as he realized the exact implications of his brothers’ act.  Assassins.

Elrohir clapped him on the back with a wry smile on his face.  “It’s better that we test the Citadel’s security than someone who wishes you harm.  And believe me, our endeavors would have been fruitless had the sun been shining when we climbed—or if the ledge to your window had not been as wide.  Even then we had to try several times before the grapple would hold Elladan’s weight.”

“But really,” continued Elladan, “you could not have expected to avoid us all day—we have much more experience at this sort of thing than you do.  It’s much better that you face us now.  Now, who selected this dress?”

“I did,” said Arwen, who had hitherto been content to sit in a corner and embroider.  “One of the city’s seamstresses made it in the belief that I would have hair brighter than the Sun, and it suits him far more than it does me.”

“I am compelled to agree,” said Elladan, taking a few steps back to admire the full effect of the costume.

“I particularly am fond of the elaborate… coiffure,” said Elrohir.  “Your work, I take it, sister?”

“Yes, although it had to be adapted.  It is much harder to arrange braids like that atop one’s head with so much less hair to work with.  Grandmother had three times as much when she wore her hair in this style.”

“Wait…   Grandmother?  Arwen, are you certain?”

“Need we remind you how many more yéni we have lived here, and that neither of us has seen Galadriel wearing her hair in such a fashion?”

“That is because she has not worn her hair in such a fashion since the First Age.  Surely you have heard one of the many meanings of her name—Maiden Crowned with Radiance?  Some have said—though I myself doubt it—that it was due to this very arrangement of her tresses.”

Elladan crowed.  “Ah, but that is too excellent!  And she herself passed on the instructions solely for the beautification of your husband!  I shall have to kiss her when I see her next.”

“Maiden crowned with radiance,” Elrohir was heard to mumble amid a spurt of laughter.  He knelt down in front of the King.  “My lady,” he murmured.

“I was wondering when the three of you would deign to notice me once more,” Aragorn remarked.  “I suppose you were aware of the intrusion, my lady wife?”

Arwen shook her head.  “I wondered if this was what they were doing, but I had as little information to go on as you.  And I would never betray you to them.”

“Thank you.”  While the twins exchanged justifiably outraged looks Aragorn rose to take his wife’s hand in his.

“Oh, dear,” said Elrohir.  “I sense stifling amounts of affection rising from those two.  Shall we take our leave?”

“I believe we shall,” said Elladan, and they left through the front door, bidding the guard outside—whose astonishment was made evident by a thump and a clang audible from two floors away—good day.

Thump!  Something soft ran into Faramir’s legs.  “Whoa!” said the something.

Faramir took two steps back and beheld Merry, who was looking a little stunned.  Faramir looked down at his dress, and dusted a little powder from the space where the hobbit’s face had impacted the skirt.  “Merry!” he said.

“Yes, my lord?”

“You’re just the fellow I need.  Are you busy?”

“No, I just got back from my latest meal.”

“You mean to say that you’ve been eating the entire time I was out riding?  Or have you been able to squeeze in two breaks?”

“No, just the one.  It does take a considerable amount of energy to keep looking pretty, you know.”

Faramir ignored that, too.  “So you have not been assigned any other duties to perform now?”

“No, though I shall need to see Éowyn soon and discover if I do.”

They entered the Citadel together.  “If you’ll wait just a moment, Merry, and follow me to my apartment, I have to write a few letters and I would like you to deliver them for me.  The mission is to be quite secret, and you must on no account let Éomer King know of their existence.”

“You would have me betray my liege-lord, sir?”

Faramir sighed.  “I shall explain when we are in a safer place.”

When they reached the small study that was attached to Faramir’s chambers, the Steward checked the rooms carefully and then shut the door behind him.  “He insulted my mother.”

“What?”

“He meant to test my mettle by provoking my ire.  I believe he wished for some sort of contest in strength of arms; but, if I have anything to say about it, he shall have no such satisfaction.  And if I cannot, in some way, prove to him that I am indeed a worthy man, he may not give his consent for me to marry his sister.”

“Ah,” said Merry.  “I thought men of Gondor never practiced deceit.”

“I cannot deceive a man about something of which he is ignorant.  He will learn, in due time, I assure you.  And I must confess I should have thought things through more clearly before I placed you in your current position.  Wait, half a moment—”  He rose and produced a sheet of paper, and rapidly wrote upon it.  “Give this to my Lady Éowyn; and if she gives you her consent, you should have no further qualms about the matter.  Your king has ordered you to do her bidding today, has he not?”

“He has.  Will she give me her consent?”

“I hope so.”

Though Merry knew the rules for delivering messages, his fingers still itched to open the envelope and see what Faramir’s plan was.  He decided that he would content himself with reading Éowyn’s expressions as she looked over the letter.

First, seeing the hand of the one who had written the missive, she smiled.

Then, when she turned to the letter’s contents, she turned white with fury.

A few minutes later, she stifled the urge to laugh.

Finally, when she rose from her reading, her face was set and she had a determined glint in her eye.  “You have my free and full permission to involve yourself in this matter,” she said.  “Pray escort me to my lord’s study, and we will discuss the matter there.”

When a few minutes later he returned to the study, Éowyn in tow, Faramir rose with a triumphant look.  “You have her consent?”

“He does,” said Éowyn.

“Excellent.”  He handed a letter to Merry.  Merry looked at the name to whom it was addressed, and looked up inquiringly.

“My cousin,” said Faramir.

Negotiations were to recommence after lunch, which was certainly an interesting affair on its own.

The ambassador of Khand and his retinue were able to confirm the rumor of the King and Steward’s strange attire, but they gave no reaction.

The Ringbearer and his esquire were absent, but anyone who may have been concerned could have been told that a sumptuous meal had been delivered to their lodgings.

Legolas was also absent, although Gimli could be seen giving furtive glances to Aragorn and alternately snickering and shaking his head in dismay.

Elladan, Elrohir, and a whole slew of other elves were enjoying themselves immensely.

Galadriel made it a point to reinforce Arwen’s injunction concerning her hairpins.

The Steward received from the King a list of notes from the morning’s audience, including a number of matters that would need more detailed pursuit before they could be resolved effectively.

Éowyn smiled and sat next her brother, while a young lady aged twenty observed the twain from across the room.

In another corner of the hall, Targon, encouraged by Sir Peregrin, had his sketchbook open and a piece of charcoal in his hand.

And beyond, in the Fifth Circle, the Horse & Rider’s innkeeper was telling his chief rival the extreme likelihood of his brew being used at the night’s festivities.

It is said that Melkor’s distortions only served to make the Music more beautiful.

“Is it done?” hissed Pippin.

“You said it was a good sketch you wanted, not a hasty one,” Targon muttered.  “I cannot believe that I am actually subjecting my lords to even more disgrace.  This ought to be treason.”

“You’re doing this because I wanted it, and I’m an especial friend of both King and Steward.  If they get angry, they’ll blame me, not you.”

“Yet there is a part of me that says that I am doing wrong.”

“Oh, there’s a part of me that says that, too,” said Pippin.  “I’ve just learned to clamp it up.  Besides,” he added, sobering, “I’ve made enough real mistakes before to know that this doesn’t feel like one of them.  How far along are you now?”

Targon sighed.  “Almost done, small knight.  I would finish more quickly if you were not continually badgering me.”

“Sorry.”  Pippin resolutely shut his mouth, but continued to peer over the amateur artist’s shoulder.

“And that is a form of badgering as well,” said Targon, not even bothering to look up.  Pippin sighed and turned around.

A few more minutes and Peregrin was given permission to look again. The sketch was no more than a sketch, but a marvelous sketch it was. “Targon,” he said, “I am in awe of your mighty talents.  This will become a treasured heirloom of my house.  Here.”  Pippin’s form of coin diplomacy was much more direct than Merry’s: give the fellow the money and then clench your fists shut.  He thrust some coins into Targon’s hand.  “Wait, aren’t you going to sign it?”

The look on Targon’s face baffled Pippin.  “Very well, though I feel I am signing my own death warrant,” he said.  He drew forth the charcoal once more, but just then both of them looked up to see His Majesty the King Elessar striding, dress and all, toward them both through the emptying court.  From one glance at his bridling countenance it was clear he had divined their intent.

Pippin gulped.  Suddenly he got that feeling that he had whenever he had made a real mistake.  “By your leave, sirs,” he muttered, dropping a curtsey.  Then he snatched the leaf of paper from the sketchbook, and bolted.

For a brief instant it looked as if the King were going to follow Pippin’s exodus, but instead he stopped and stalked up to Targon, who looked even more ashamed for the silver and sable he wore.

“My lord,” he said, the entire cast of his body tending downward.  “I have transgressed my line of duty.”

“Perhaps you would have,” said Aragorn, “if this day were not in complete and utter shambles as it is.  I know Peregrin very well and know that no malice was intended by this humiliating act, so I will forgive you if you will assist me in detaining him until I have time to deal with him personally.  I wish for no record of this day to exist.”

“Of course, my lord,” said Targon.  “How shall I fulfill your command?”

“Pursue him swiftly, and do not let him reach his lodgings on the Sixth Circle, nor allow him to secure the drawing in some place other than about his person.  Then you must assign him this duty for him until I am free to pursue him…”

Pippin had just gotten past the gate separating the Sixth Circle from the Seventh when Targon caught up to him.  “You people and your long legs!” he cried.  “Strider’s sent you after me, hasn’t he?”

“Who?”

“The King!”

Targon nodded briefly.  “I hope to atone for my disrespect by assisting him as I may.”

“And how are you to do that, pray?”

“Simply by reminding you that he is your liege-lord, and if he commands you to surrender the sketch and you refuse, you will be charged with insubordination.”

Pippin sighed.  “He had to pull that card, didn’t he?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry, it’s an expression.  I meant to say—he had to… er… resort to that tactic.”

“It is but a reminder.  He also told me to tell you that while duty constrains him to other tasks for some time, and thus he could not be here to tell you this in person, this does not mean that he has surrendered to your will, and he will pursue you as soon as time permits.”

“Anything else?”

“He also wished me to remind you that he is the most skilled tracker among Men.”

“Pshaw!” said Pippin.  “He needn’t have said that.  He’s tracked me once before—and under far less fortunate circumstances, I might add.”

“The rules of the engagement are as follows,” continued Targon, leading Pippin past his quarters.  “Until this afternoon’s session of court is over, you may not return to your residence, and you must keep the drawing about you at all times.  After then, if you can deliver the sketch to your room, it will be considered justly yours and you may do with it what you will, save make a copy.  Until that time, however, you will be subject to search and seizure by His Majesty.  Failure to comply with these rules will result in being commanded to yield the sketch, and the sketch’s destruction.”

“And what is my lord the King’s first move?  He must have some method of effecting my exile.”

“If the pherian will follow me, I will show him.”  And Targon led Pippin to the entrance to the Houses of Healing.

“Oh, no,” muttered Pippin.  “If he makes me work with Ioreth, I’ll…”

“You’ll what?”

“Not do anything treasonous,” Pippin grumbled.

They did not go to any of the wards, though, but rather to one of the pleasances where recovering patients and those weary of the city could rest their hearts at whiles.  There, next to one of the healers, sat a girl in a plain black dress.

“This,” said Targon, “is one of the wards of the City.  Your duty is to look after and protect her during the hours of court, then return her here to safety when that time has passed.”

“Oh,” said Pippin.  This was unexpected.  “Hello,” he said to the girl.  “What’s your name?”

The girl stole a look at him; Pippin could not tell whether she was more concerned by the fact that he was a hobbit and thus famous, or by the fact that his bare and incredibly hairy legs were exposed by an incredibly short skirt.  “Míriel, my lord,” she said.

“Oh, there’s no need to ‘lord’ me around, miss,” said Pippin, nodding to Targon that he could leave.  “Really, I’m quite unused to all this fuss about heroes and titles and all that, especially when there are thousands of folk ten times more deserving.”

“Excuse me… sir… but which one are you?  If you don’t mind the impertinence.”

“I’m Pippin.”

She gave him a confused look.

“Peregrin Took.”

“Ah!” she said.  “You’re the one that saved Lord Faramir’s life, then!”

“It was really a joint effort…”

“But I’ve heard such things—”

“If you don’t mind, Míriel,” said Pippin, “I’m asked to recount my exploits in Gondor quite a bit, and it can all be a bit embarrassing at times, so if you’ll stop with the hero nonsense and tell me a bit about yourself, then I can tell you some better tales, of the things I’ve seen in my time abroad—or better yet, about my homeland and the everyday folk there.  Are you hungry?”

“I just had my nuncheon, sir!”

“No matter—we’ve got plenty of time.  I know anexcellent pie shop in the Third Circle…”

Merry swallowed nervously as the King of Rohan shut the door behind him and then stalked around to take seat in a chair opposite the hobbit.  “My lord King,” said Merry, trying to suppress the quaver in his voice, “might I be so forward as to remind you that I am to supervise the Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn today?”

“Yet you do this at my word,” said Éomer, “and I may override mine own orders when there is a more pressing matter at hand.”

“What matter would that be, my lord King?”

“You know too well, Master Holbytla.”  At Merry’s expression he added quickly, “Nay, I do not condemn you for your feigned ignorance, for I would not envy you your place, stretched taut between two such fearsome rivals.  Lord Faramir is planning something, for I caught the glint in his eye this meal past; and I would know his intent if I may.”

Merry sighed, for he had known all along that he would have to say this.  “I will do as my liege-lord commands,” he said, “for I do know somewhat of this business; but before I tell those parts of the tale I know, may I first hear how it started from your own lips?  I fear I have only Faramir’s testimony thus far, and it was not kind to you.”

“It was rightly so,” said Éomer with a rueful chuckle, “for I do confess that I was dishonorable toward him.  You must understand—it was for the greater purpose of testing the man’s mettle; for if the man is to wed my sister his worthiness must be proven to me beyond all doubt.  I goaded him, but for long he gave no answer; and that bodes ill.  The men of Gondor may be grave and slow to anger, but we of the Eorlingas do not hide our passions; and I began to fear for the truth and strength of Faramir’s love, and for his power to defend my sister against all ills.”

Merry thought that Éowyn did not particularly need defending against anything, but wisely kept this to himself.

“And so,” continued Éomer, “I goaded him further, until by an insult to his mother’s memory I rendered him unable to remain silent without dishonoring her.  Even then, though, he would not challenge me to a contest of arms.  Yet when I beheld him at the noon meal I saw he intended some sort of reprisal.”

“He does,” said Merry.  “He has written a letter to one of his cousins, which he had me deliver shortly before luncheon.  He is planning something, though I do not rightly know what it is, and he wishes to involve me in the matter.”

“A cousin?” said Éomer, leaning forward.  “That would be one of Imrahil’s sons, then, I deem; and who better to draw into a matter that concerned Imrahil’s own sister?  Still, I am disheartened that he has sought the help of others if he wishes to achieve satisfaction in this matter.”

“But I don’t believe he is going for satisfaction by way of arms, my lord,” Merry added.  “He is far too subtle for that.  He told me that I should say nothing to you of the letter to his cousin, and moreover he said that I should try to get you to escort a lady at the feast tonight—which really confused me, but as I told him I wasn’t going to lie to you for his own plans—not that you wouldn’t sniff me out anyway if I tried—he said that I may as well go to you and tell you all.”

Éomer pondered this new set of information for a few moments.  “Then I will try to read his actions as I may; for though I have only been lately crowned, still I have had dealings with such wizardry.  I hope that Lord Faramir is indeed honorable enough not to stay you from your lord’s will and command.  At least he must know that you would go to me and tell me aught that he told you—in which case your news is not to be trusted.  It could be that this letter of which I am meant to know nothing is naught more than a glamour to turn my eyes elsewhere.  And moreover he knows that, though valiant your heart, you are not a counsellor to bid me how I shall act.  Any attempt to change my actions you would tell me immediately, as you have done.  So he must have guessed at this in advance, and intending me to keep myself from womanly company, told you to advise me to do the opposite.  Do you follow me?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Merry.

“Then it remains to be seen why he would do such; for I had always thought it wiser to keep myself from the claws of the court until such time as I had found a suitable lady to woo.  These are matters too great for man’s knowledge; perchance Éowyn will tell me of the workings of the court and I may learn more of his intentions.  I thank you for your telling me these things, Meriadoc, and command that you do not relate these dealings to Lord Faramir.  I regret that you must be so pitted in this struggle between us both.”  And with that, he left the room, and Merry to wonder what he was to do next.

But as soon as Éomer was out of sight, Merry felt incredibly sorry for him.  For while Faramir and Éomer may be match for each other both, Éowyn was on Faramir’s side, and she was more than a match for the two put together!

Having set the wheels of his scheme in motion, Faramir proceeded to attend to the duties set before him during the noontide meal.  He let out a sigh of relief when he saw that, as often was the case in these new days of the King, they would require a trip to the Archives.

He supposed that it would have been far more efficient if he simply put his requests to one of the many assistants who located manuscripts, codices, and scrolls, and let them bring them to him.  But Faramir knew these stacks intimately, and there was something in the dusty air that cleared his mind, surrounded by the testimony of the ancients.  So it was that he found himself wandering among stack after stack of parchment, hunting down the elusive records in the most beloved forest of his youth.

After locating and pulling out the material that was easiest to find: old treaties, settlements of disputes, court minutes—he looked over the King’s injunction on the small list once more, at the case that he personally found the most fascinating:

Also, if you have the time for it, take a look through the edicts from the time of the Kings and see if there is anything on the topic of women and begging.  A merchant from this morning’s hearings claimed that it was illegal for women or girls to beg in the White City (which claim I rather disbelieve), and although such a law had not been enforced for many years, it was still in effect.  Why he would want such a law to be enforced now I can only guess, but I should still like it if you could find out whether his claim is true or the mere wishful thinking of the Merchant’s Guild.

Right, thought Faramir, who could also only guess the reasoning behind the merchant’s mention of the rumored law.  The war had brought many orphans to the City.  Faramir had heard of it a number of times, of course, always from Merchants, but because the law had fallen into such disuse, no one thought there was sufficient precedent for bringing it back.  Now that the King had returned, however…

He sighed.  The sheer self-centered idiocy of some people made him worry for the fate of Middle-earth, at the end of days.  Then he shook his head.  If this was the largest of Gondor’s worries now, it was a sign for better times ahead.

In the months after the war had ended, the Chief Archivist had suggested a renovation of the Archives, with the intention of putting all of Gondor’s long history within easy reach and not just those portions which were useful in maintaining the day-to-day business of a realm at war.  That renovation had not yet begun, however, so Faramir had to make his way through a back door into an old dusty room that contained Gondor’s earliest records.

The afternoon sun streamed in from a skylight, lighting a pathway to the heavens on the dust stirred by his opening the door.  Faramir could not help but sneeze.

A law prohibiting women’s begging… he thought through his history and tried to imagine a King who would pass such a law.  Atanatar Alcarin, under whose reign Gondor’s wealth merely covered the stench of decay and corruption, might have thought it a euphemistic way to ban—or at least cover—some of the more common crimes of decadence.  And he would be a one to pass it without regard to the penury that caused some women to turn to such a road, or to the possible abuses of the law.

Of course, during Alcarin’s reign the King’s House was still in Osgiliath, but Tarondor had made sure when moving to the White City that almost all laws and edicts concerning Osgiliath would henceforth apply to Minas Anor.

He located the stacks of surviving records from Osgiliath.  The dust was thicker here and he sneezed again.  Of course, no one had yet had the time to put these in any sort of order, so this might take time.  All the better; the more time he could spend in private, without prying eyes peering in at him the happier he would be this day.  He could dedicate at least an hour to hunting down this elusive record—if indeed it did exist.

One of the stacks seemed to have a preponderance of records dating Alcarin’s reign.  He began to leaf through them.  Unfortunately, the limited space meant that he had no place to set those records he had read, except atop another pile.  Placing an edict concerning grain taxes on an already unwieldy pile, he looked on in horror as it leaned first one way, then the other, and finally toppled over in a heap of dust in spite of his attempts to steady it.  He sneezed again, once, twice, then…

Came to surrounded by a flurry of parchment.  He thanked the Valar that the recordkeepers of these times had used material that would not decay easily, even after rough handling.  As sheepishly as the time that his father had caught him here at the tender age of eleven, he gathered the documents together and loosely returned them to the stacks, taking care not to make any pile excessively tall.

As he did so, his eye landed on the parchment on the top of the stack that had fallen.  The tengwar on it were faded, but the words were unmistakeable.

Resolved on this day of 26 Nárië 1178

That any woman or girl found to be begging or otherwise soliciting the attention of men with the intention of gaining money, except in exchange for legitimate services, shall be publicly whipped and fined a sum no greater than 2 tharni  for the first offence, no greater than one castar  for the second, and gaoled upon the third.

The wax of the seal had long worn off, but the scribe who had originally written it—for this was a copy, someone’s thankless task during the long years of Gondor’s history—was in service during Alcarin’s reign.  Taking up the parchment, Faramir blessed his intuition and cursed the instrument of torture that restricted his breathing so.  If he ever had daughters he would see to it that the fashion of corsetry never entered the fair land of Ithilien!

“Hullo, Bergil!”

“Hello, Sir P—not you, too!”

“Not me, too, what?”

“I had heard tell of the King and the Lord Faramir taking leave of their wits, but—”

“And why not?  A little madness—” Pippin broke off.  “A little harmless madness never hurt anybody.  If I’d known that you’d object so, I wouldn’t have tried to find you.”

“So you mean to… to what?”

“I have a ward of the City under my care.  I thought she might miss some of the company of her fellow youth.”

“She?”

The clump of lads with whom Bergil had been playing caught sight of Míriel, her hands folded placidly in front of her.

“Oh, come!” one of them groaned.  “A maiden?”

Pippin stood stock still.  “Hador!” he barked.  “Are you not of a family that has served Gondor faithfully for years untold?  Have you not been instructed in the principles of chivalry that are part and parcel of being a man of Gondor?”

The lad flushed and slunk to the back of the group.  Pippin surveyed them all with a wearied eye.  “Since none of you seems to know how to treat a fair maiden properly, it seems that I must needs teach you.”

At this there was a small amount of laughter.  Pippin allowed for a moment of reflection and realized that he must look something foolish for this.  But no matter.  He turned to Míriel and bowed low, took her white hand in his and touched his lips to it.  “If my lady would have the honor of a dance?”

He looked up mid-bow to wink at the maiden.  Míriel flushed a pleasing shade of pink, her eyes twinkling with new mirth.  “I would indeed, my lord, if I knew how.  And where is to be the music to accompany our endeavor?”

The lads looked among one another.  “Does anyone know ‘The Last Guardsman of the Tower’?”

“That’s not a dancing song!”

“Can you think of anything better?”

After a few more minutes of squabbling one of the lads began to sing something that was somewhat danceable, at least as far as Gondorian dancing went.  He would make it work.

“Now,” Pippin said, “this is one of the couples dances from my homeland, and if you’ll just follow the lead of my woolly feet…”

There was a smattering of applause when they had finished the set.  Pippin bowed to the ward again.  “Who wants to take her next?” he asked the lads.

There was no one who did not want to dance at least one set with Míriel, even though the dance itself was one unfamiliar.  But Pippin was in an indulgent mood and declared that Bergil should be the one to go next.

“Be kind to her,” he whispered to Bergil before handing the maiden off.  “She has lost much.”

Bergil caught Pippin’s eye, and the light of understanding flashed between them.

“Are you quite certain,” said Éowyn, “that Faramir does not wish you to escort anyone to the feast tonight?”

“He planted information in Meriadoc’s mind, knowing that the holbytla would disclose all to me.  What else am I to believe?”

“That he would assume that you would come to the conclusion that you have come to.”

“In which case…  Ai, I am not used to dealing with the subtleties of Gondor!”

“Say rather of Mundburg, Brother.  But know this—as soon as you make yourself open to the court, you will receive no peace.”

“No peace from Gondor, you mean.  And we are to leave this land soon enough for that to matter little.”

“And yet are not Gondor and the Riddermark bound even closer than before?”

Éomer looked at his sister; the color in her cheek and the way her dress flattered her.  She was right, of course.

“There are two ways that you might go about this,” said Éowyn, slowly, deliberately.  “Either you thwart Faramir’s plan by escorting no one, or you willingly walk into his snare but bend it to your own ends.”

“If indeed his plan is to twist me into getting an escort.”

“If it is.  There would be no dishonor in the first path, for Faramir has chosen to play this game by a different set of rules, one of guile rather than of strength of arms.”

“And yet if it is the path Faramir wishes me to take, I shall be prey to whatever thing he has planned for me next.  One thing he cannot be expecting: that I would select an escort according to my own wishes, with the intent to foil him.  If I could find someone suiting, I could even tell her of his plans.  Surely two would stand a better chance of outwitting him than one.”

“Whom would you choose, then, my brother?”

Éomer sighed.  “I do not know the ladies of the court; indeed, I tried my best not to know them for fear of their honeyed fangs.  And there are few I trust for such a weighty matter.  Éowyn, you must know more of them than I, and you know my manner well enough to choose someone who would be apt to listen to me.”

“I would attend you myself had love not got in the way.”

Éomer chuckled ruefully.  “Find me a lady suitable, Éowyn, if ever you prized my love for you.  I fear this is a foe beyond my reckoning.”

“I will try,” said Éowyn.  “I fear I have been avoiding the court myself; the women of Gondor have little patience with the untamed Eorlingas.  And yet I can think of a few who might fit this purpose.  I will speak with them, and let them know of your predicament.”

“Thank you,” said Éomer.

As soon as he left Éowyn could not but let out a grim smile.  The young stallion had edged forward, close enough to lick the salt rock in her left hand.  He could not see, behind her back, the halter clenched firmly in the right.

“I believe,” said Pippin confidentially as he escorted Míriel through the gate to the Houses, “that when the time comes you will have no difficulty in securing yourself a husband.  Your powers of charm exceed even mine, and believe me, that is a high compliment.”  Bergil and his friends had insisted on nothing less than a full escort, as with one of the Queen’s maidens, back to the Sixth Circle.

Míriel laughed faintly.  “Nay, it is I who am in your debt, my lord.  It was you who managed to shame them into some semblance of nobility.”

“Yes, and they shall need little shaming as they grow older, if they were raised properly.  You shall do well, I assure you.”  He bent over and kissed her hand.

“You will let me thank you in this, however,” said Míriel.  “For a few brief hours I forgot my grief, and that was through no doing of mine.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, and his face clouded over.  “Well, let me assure you, I’ve had plenty of experience in that this past year.”  Then he brightened.  “I am glad I could help.”

Just then he heard the peal of bells from the Citadel.  The delegations were over.  “And that, fair Míriel, is my cue to leave you.  I wish you well in all your endeavors.”  Then, with a bow, he darted away.

There was only one gate to the Houses of Healing.  Pippin crept up to it as silently as he could, even though he knew that Strider had ears almost as good as an elf’s.  Nothing.

He leaned forward to peer around the gate, fully expecting a fell hand to descend upon his ear at any time.  Again, nothing.  Somehow he doubted that the King would be able to conceal himself in that gold dress, so thatwas not a concern to-day.  With a sigh, he stepped back inside, and exited the gate.

That was odd.  There was nothing out of the ordinary—except, of course, for the stares, which were actually normally quite normal for the Halfling heroes.  So, thought Pippin, either His Majesty has something else up his sleeve, or something else came up in the meantime and he cannot yet give me chase in person.  If the former, he was a dead hobbit anyway.  If the latter…

Pippin broke out into a trot down the street, hoping against hope that his lodgings would not be guarded.

“A problem with what?” Aragorn hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose.  It was getting difficult to concentrate in this garb.

“With the inns, taverns, and public-houses, my lord.  I encountered at least five of their proprietors on the way to the Citadel, and they were all very irate.”

“Irate?  What about?”

“That, sire, it would be best for you to find out yourself.”

“Faramir, I have a very pressing matter at hand.  One Peregrin Took has in his keeping a record of this day and I must eradicate it.  Could you not just tell me?”

Faramir sighed.  “Very well.  Apparently word of our predicament with the wine got loose, only somewhere along the way it transformed into a predicament with spirits in general, and now every single establishment in the City that sells anything fermented is demanding why we are using one place’s stores and not another.  You may have another audience on your hands, Aragorn, whether you want one or not.”

The King pressed his lips together in frustration.  “Then I am delegating such an audience to your capable hands.  Precious time is already slipping, and I have had entirely too much of audiences today.  I trust you will be able to handle these warring factions well, and on a day as madcap as this I crave the simplicity of a hunt.”  He turned, ready to continue stalking from the emptying hall, but paused.  “One more thing—were you able to find those documents?”

“Indeed.  They are sitting even now upon the desk in your study.”

“Good.  Perhaps we will have the time to review them once I am finished with this business.”  With that, Aragorn left the Hall and had soon passed into the open air on the way to the hobbits’ dwelling.  An escort silently formed around him.  It was good his legs were so long; he did not know if he could run with his breath restricted thus.

Drat!  Four guards stood barring the entrance to the guesthouse.  Usually there were only two.  And Pippin would not dishonor them by playing the “distract the guard” game and throwing a stone or two into a nearby alley.  Casually he tried walking nearby and peeping in at a window.  Inside he could see Frodo bent over some papers; it looked as if Sam was talking to him.  A pang of jealousy smote his heart, but Pippin tamped it down.  Frodo was getting his work done, and he was a good deal happier than he had been the past few days, and that was what mattered.

Slowly he turned his head to look at the guards.  One of them was glaring at him.  No, he thought, definitely not welcome here.

From behind him he heard the plod of heavy boots.  More guards.  And at their head, likely, Strider, who would be striding most purposefully in his golden dress.  Panic gripped his heart, and he dove behind a shrub beneath the window.  If only these Gondorians had thought of windows that opened, instead of just glass that permits light but not air!  With the faintest of rustles he turned to survey the street.

The booted feet stopped.  Among their number he could see a pair of rather oversized ladies’ shoes, mostly covered by the hem of a golden dress.  The skirt swished, and Pippin felt the King’s gaze on him.  With a cry he broke free, turned a corner, and dashed down one of the alleyways.  The booted feet tramped behind him in pursuit.

“What was that?” said Sam in the midst of his dictation.

Merry burst into the courtroom just as the innkeepers were about to settle.  “There you are!—my lord,” he blurted lamely, only just noticing that Faramir had taken seat in the Steward’s chair and had in his hand the rod of his office.

“Meriadoc son of Saradoc,” said Faramir, “It would please me if you would delay your message until I have dealt with this pressing matter.  I should like to salvage some appearance of formality.”

Merry immediately bowed.  He had not seen Faramir testy before (though upon reflection he’d be testy, too, with his belly bound in like that), and the sight unnerved him.  “The message I bear comes from the Lady Éowyn, whom as you know I am bound to serve this day.  Forgive me mine importunity.”

Faramir nodded.  “It is not held against you.”

“Permission to observe this meeting and attend upon you, my lord?”

“Permission is granted.”

Merry made his way to a spot a few steps to the left of the chair, where he had seen Pippin attend on the King.  He schooled his expression into calmness and hoped that it would suffice.

It was odd, watching this rather informal and certainly most unexpected meeting.  As far as he could tell, the Gondorians never did things by halves, which meant that there should always be at least one recorder, one page, and several guards in attendance.  But the guards were fewer in number and were far more discreet, and the petitioners did not seem terribly keen on following the normal order of the meeting.

“Forgive me, goodmen,” said Faramir, “for you have requested this audience at an unforeseen time, and thus Elessar himself is not able to deal with your concerns.  Yet he has given me authority to deal with the situation that has arisen, and I trust that you will not let strange garb overrule sound judgment.  Because this meeting must needs be informal, I suggest that we adjourn to the council room.”

Merry trotted behind Faramir to keep up.  “What message?” said Faramir quietly, without looking at him.

“Success.”

A thin smile graced Faramir’s lips.  If Pippin had been there he would have seen his father in him.

The council room was long and thin, and mostly taken up by a table of similar dimensions.  For a moment the alien shapes assaulted Merry’s eyes, though he had been abroad for eight months now.  The walls pressed in on him, while the ceiling soared free above.  It felt like a room for war.

He blinked and all was right.  The innkeepers had filed in and were seated in varying degrees of deportment around the table.  The Lord Faramir rested his hands upon the chair at its head.  He hurried behind.

“Now,” said Faramir, “would one of you pray tell me the specific nature of your grievances?”

Three men spoke at once.  Faramir merely gazed at them, waiting for the effect of his words to sink in.  The innkeepers looked at one another warily.  Finally, one of them spoke.

“Well,” he said, “I’d heard tell about the disaster on the First Circle, and I got to thinking that the fine folk in the Citadel would want some sort of refreshment for the feast tonight—”

“—and then up comes word that the Horse & Rider has been preferred, only everyone knows they don’t serve wine, and who would serve ale at such a place—”

“—and if ale, why not the Setting Sun’s, says I—”

Faramir held up a hand as the landlords again began to interrupt one another.  Merry’s first thought was, That dratted innkeeper talked!  His second was, This is all my fault.  He had only said it to be nice, really, although he was going to put in a good word for the establishment.  After all, it was unfair to get so much on credit, credit which the Horse never expected to be repaid.  Faramir was now explaining how so much of this was a rumor, but Merry knew that there was not enough drink to be found in the Citadel’s stores.  Any later discreet purchases, he suspected, would later be found out.  And Faramir probably knew it, too.

He could think of only one solution.

“If ever we do need to make purchase of any of your stores, we will contact you ourselves,” said Faramir.  “Please do not presume upon vague rumors, even if they did originate with one of the esteemed pheriannath—which I doubt.  It is, I trust, getting closer to evening—surely a time to look after your own affairs?”

The men took the hint and left the room.

“My lord,” said Merry.

“Yes?”

“Forgive me.  I am afraid that the rumors did originate with me.  I was only trying to—”

“Peace,” said Faramir.  “I believe that crisis is averted.”

“Well, I did say I was going to put in a good word for the Horse and Rider’s ale, so—”

“Duly noted, Meriadoc.”

“Right,” said Merry.  He shifted on his feet.  “You know, if you’re not sure about which establishment to use, and how to best be political and equal-minded about it…”

“Yes…”

“Have you ever heard of a pub crawl?”

The terrible thing about living in the heights, Pippin mused, was not so much the thinner air or the fact that if you looked down at the wrong time your stomach lurched—through, true, those were some pretty wretched things.  No, the terrible thing was that you couldn’t rely on roads to go where you thought they would!  What should have been a perfectly reliable alley had turned into a twisty little path with far too many Man-sized stairs for his comfort.  And there was no time to decide which way to go when it reached a street again.  Biting back a few choice words, he turned left and blithely plowed through a few groups of upright citizens to help shake off the pursuit.  It reminded him—he realized with a pang of homesickness—of getting into mischief on Market Day when he was a child.

He sighed, or he would have sighed if he weren’t panting with the exertion.  Merry was always the one with the head for directions.  If he could just get far enough ahead to hide himself better, or maybe duck into an inn and weather things out…

No time for that, though.  “Make way for the King!” he heard, cried out behind him.  He couldn’t help but smile, just a little, at that.  Then he passed an inn that looked remarkably familiar…

And realized he was headed straight for the Citadel itself.  That was a dead end, unless…  Suddenly his mind hatched a plan.  He hoped that Merry was going to be easy to find.

“Make way for the King!”  Aragorn had been burdened, and had run in far stranger circumstances before.  There was a certain way to breathe, to conserve one’s strength, and apparently not all the guards knew it.  It had only taken a moment to judge the way the crowd stirred to know which way Pippin had turned.  Up, towards the Seventh Circle and the Citadel itself.  Cornered, he thought grimly.  Although—and perhaps Pippin was banking on this—within the Citadel itself it would be much easier to hide.  No matter, though.  The chase was not up until the sketch was safely lodged back in the hobbits’ Guest House.  And all he had to do was find Pippin to be rid of it.

Plus: thought Pippin, as he blurted the “Don’t you dare ask me what I’m doing” password to the guards.  There are far more places to hide in the Citadel.

Minus: he added after making a hard right.  There aren’t many ways out.  Skidding to a halt, he asked another one of the guards—he recognized this one from Beregond’s company—if he had seen Meriadoc lately.  “Sir Meriadoc is in the Council Room with the Lord Faramir.”

Pippin bowed his thanks before dashing off in the direction he thought the Council Room was in—he would not waste time by thinking, and he could always double back later.  He thought—he thought—the Council Room was to the right of the throne room, which meant that if he could pass through one of the side hallways usually meant for servants—or pages, he thought with a wry smile—he might be able to find them.  Finding a door to his left that looked discreet enough, he opened it and slipped inside.

Drat—broom closet!

A few more steps brought him to another door, though, and this one proved more fruitful.  He followed it down a narrow hallway until he came to another door—and from this one he could hear Faramir and Merry talking.  They were talking about—inns?  Carefully he opened the door and stepped in.

“Merry!” he said.  “You’re just the fellow I’m looking for.”

“Still on the run, Peregrin?” Faramir said coolly.

“What?” said Pippin.  “No!  Strider already caught me and now I want to talk to Merry.”  He gave Merry what was supposed to be a disarming smile.

“What is it?”  Merry did not look particularly disarmed.

“Sam’s concerned that Cousin Frodo is over-working himself,” he said.  “He wanted one of us to check in on him, only I’m expected to help with the feast tonight.”

“When?” said Merry.  “I’m rather busy at the moment.”

“Not right now,” said Pippin, “but soon.  I’ll see you soon, I’m sure!” and he darted out and into the throne room.

“That was a very impressive lie,” said Faramir, once Pippin had left.

“I know,” said Merry.  “How could you tell?”

“They say I am a good judge of hearts.  You?”

“I’m a good judge of Pippin.  I had better go after him and see what he’s really on about.  Do you understand my plan?”

“Yes, and I think it may work.  You have more than atoned for your misstep earlier.”

“Good.”

Merry found Pippin in the King’s study, standing on a stool and bending over the desk in such a way that Merry was quite relieved he had come up with putting trousers underneath the pillow-skirt.  He cleared his throat.  Pippin jolted bolt upright, spun around, and nearly lost his footing.

“Oh!  It’s you, Merry.”

“Was it the powder that clued you in, or was it my height?”

Pippin jumped down from the stool.  “I thought you were busy.”

“Not too busy to look into cousinly mischief.  What have you gotten yourself into this time?”

“This time?  I’m hurt, Merry, that you would leap to such a conclusion!”

Merry checked a sigh of exasperation.  Pippin knew full well that his innocent act didn’t work on him.  “Then why did you ask me to look in on Frodo earlier?”

“Because,” said Pippin, “he needs looking in on!  I shouldn’t have to lecture you on that!”

“Look, Pip, Faramir’s not here, so if you’re worried about him overhearing, you needn’t.  What is going on?”

Pippin smiled sweetly and put his arm around Merry.  “My dear cousin, nothing is going on, just as I am at the moment slidingnothing into the seat of your pants.”

Merry’s eyes widened as what felt like a loose roll of paper was pushed down his waistband, whence it coolly settled against his buttocks.  “I really think you should tell me…”

“See?” said Pippin brightly, clapping him on the back.  “Nothing going on!  Now, don’t you think you had better see how Frodo is?”

“Yes, Pippin,” Merry said flatly.  “I had better.”  He turned and stalked out of the room, trying and utterly failing to ignore the sensation that something which had no business being next his bum was currently making itself quite at home there.  On his way out, he saw guards rushing in, and decided that he really did not want to know.

You owe me an entire yard of beer at the Golden Perch when we get home, Pip.

Pippin only realized that he was making his way to the kitchen when he had left the main corridors of the Citadel and couldn’t turn back easily.  “Stupid habits,” he muttered, and decided it was best to press on.  Harder to be pursued in a clutter, after all, especially a clutter full of folk cooking for a very important feast that night, and he doubted Strider, at least, would be the type of insensitive clod that would interrupt a busy cook.

Clang!

…Unless, of course, he was feeling very upset, and, come to think of it, Pippin had given him reason to.  Pippin burst into the kitchen, and, apologizing as quickly as he could to everyone he bumped into (a hobbit, at least, remembered his manners to the folk that fed him), ducked and wove his way around legs, kettles, tables, and a few rather large-looking fires until he had nearly made his way to the back door—

And felt a Mannish hand grip the back of his shirt.

Pippin turned around slowly, holding his hands out a distance behind his back.  If it wasn’t the very fellow he and Merry had woken at four in the morning! he thought quietly.

“If I recall what you told me of your people,” he said slowly, “disrupting my kitchen like this—not once in the day, but twice—is considered most rude.  I might add that it is unbecoming of a man of Gondor.”

Pippin swallowed, as he saw guards—and the King—enter the kitchen from behind.  If he was supposed to be the great hero all the folk here thought he was, how was it that a man in an apron with a wooden spoon could make him feel like he was ten years old and face to face with the Thain all over again?

Aragorn strode up to Pippin, thanked the cook for his service, and then asked Pippin to hold out his hands.  In one of them was a roll of parchment.  He took it, and without so much as a second glance, cast it into the fire.

“Well,” said Pippin glumly, though his heart was still racing, “I guess that’s that.”

Frodo’s desk was littered with stacks of notepaper, to the point that two auxiliary piles had been formed on the floor and were in constant danger of being kicked over.  Sam was on his seventh glass of water.  “And you said it was the end.”

“And then what happened?”

“Then?  Then I woke up.  I don’t remember much else as what happened on the rock; I don’t think I cared much at that point.  I was there, and you were there, and the Ring was gone, and that was that.  I think it went dark on me, all slow-like—and then it was light again and I thought everything was a funny dream.  I don’t see why you want me to go into all this detail this time around—you were there, too, Master.”

“So I was, but my mind was clouded by despair.  You saw hope where I saw vanity—but you, not I, were correct.  I’m trying to see everything that happened through your eyes, which aside from being far easier on my nerves, is a lot kinder to anyone who will bother reading this story.  I’m afraid that after a certain point people will just see me as ‘poor old Frodo.’  They feel for you better than they would me, because back there you still felt.”

“Master, that’s not fai—”

“Samwise, I do wish you would quit interrupting my keen, insightful commentary with meaningless self-denial and elaboration upon my merits.”

Sam regarded his master with a slow, long-suffering, black look before turning away and bowing his head.  “Yes, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo laughed.  “I was teasing you, Sam.”  He clapped an arm on Sam’s back.  “Both of us know what things were really like back there.  But each of us prefers to paint it in his own light.  You have my free and full permission to rebuke me the next time you honestly and objectively feel that I am mischaracterizing myself.”

“Only once?”

“Well, I shan’t be able to shut you up if I let you do it every time, shall I?  Anyhow, I think we should call it a day’s work and prepare for whatever festivities the King has in order.”

“The festivities?  They sound like a mess, Mr. Frodo.”

“I think this matter of business is the only thing accomplished today that isn’t a mess.”

He stood up from the desk, inadvertently brushing one of the taller heaps to the floor.  As Sam dove in vain to catch it, the papers scattered all over the floor, until the last leaf gently settled on Frodo’s foot.  They laughed.

Frodo went to his bedchamber and rooted through in his clothes press for a slightly nicer waistcoat.  “Sam, I have one more favor to ask of you tonight.”

“Anything, Master.”

“I want you to stay as sober as possible.”

“Of course—why?”

“I have a feeling Merry and Pippin will be wanting to have more than a little fun this evening, and we’re going to need someone there who can keep both eyes out for them.”

“What will you be doing?”

Frodo shrugged.  “I shall be enjoying myself as well.”  It had been a long time since he had had more than a usual quantity of ale, but he had managed to make the matter into a science.  “You shouldn’t have to worry about me—I know my own limits when it comes to drink—but I may not be quite in a state to help them.  Just don’t give them anything in the morning to cure their splitting headaches.”

Sam gave a little chuckle, but his face was shadowed with concern.  “Are you sure you’re all right, Mr. Frodo?”

“I’m doing better than I have been for weeks, Sam.”

Merry pushed the door open to the guesthouse, still shaking his head, and found Frodo and Sam, side by side, picking up sheets upon sheets of paper.

“Ah, Merry!” said Frodo, looking up.  “Aren’t you back early?”

“Pippin wanted me to look in on you,” said Merry.

“That’s odd,” said Frodo.  “He should know I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

Merry and Sam both gave little coughs.

“At least I am when the lodestone for all things evil isn’t hanging round my neck.  Which it isn’t, so my point stands—good heavens, Merry, what are you doing?”

Merry had put his hands beneath his waistband to remove the offending paper from its hiding-place.  He held out the paper by way of explanation.

Sam gave a little sigh and turned back to Frodo’s fallen notes, as if to say that his father had foretold this exact fate for him as soon as he started mixing with his betters, and maybe Sam should have listened.

Frodo took the paper from Merry.

“You probably don’t want to know,” said Merry.

“Actually, in this case, I rather think I do,” said Frodo, and he unrolled the paper to see what was there.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” he said, rolled it back in place, and handed it to Merry.  “I do hope you’ll wash your hands!”

Éowyn found her betrothed standing in the back ways to the Citadel, monitoring the passage of several barrels within.  It was not, precisely, the most honorable place for lovers to meet, but she was functioning mainly as a conspirator today, and the level of traffic made impropriety impossible.  Faramir noticed her walking toward him, but he held up his hand and then went to a man who was ambling alongside two barrels being rolled up the slope with some effort.

“Only one barrel will be necessary,” he said firmly.

“Aye,” said the innkeeper, “only one barrel per ‘the best we’ve got,’ and we’ve got two best, an ale so pale and clear, one sip will take you to the crest of—”

“One barrel.”

“—And the other one, brown and rich, practically a meal in and of itself—”

“Good master, we are only paying you for one barrel.”

“Well, then, t’other is on the house!  And when word gets out—”

Faramir sighed, thanked the innkeeper for his generosity, and returned to his former place.  Éowyn laid her hand on his arm.

“Given this day’s penchant for chaos, and innmen’s penchant for exaggeration, I thought it best to supervise this aspect of the preparations myself.”

“Was that a tactical withdrawal, then?”

“Those occupying the highest positions must never turn down a gift,” he said.  “They must only find ways to put them out of the way quietly, when the giver is not looking.  Fortunately no one has yet tried to flood the entire party with his own wares.”

“Yet,” said Éowyn.

Faramir nodded.  “Thank you for managing your brother for me,” he said.

“It was my very joy to help you,” Éowyn said coldly.  “And not solely because you wanted it.  Whatever lesson Éomer King learns tonight will be his desert.  I’ve alerted your cousin, and she spent the last half hour telling me what she meant to do.”  Her lips curled into a thin smile.

“Should I be concerned?”

Éowyn shrugged.  “You know her better than I do.”

“I should be concerned, then.”

“If you do not think you will like the outcome, then perhaps you should not have involved her.”

Faramir shook his head.  “No.  That insult reached far beyond me.”  He turned to her.  “Might I ask what her plans are?”

“Now, my lord, that would hardly be fair.  If you cannot guess, perhaps you should take it as a lesson.”

Faramir cast her a querulous glance.

Éowyn sighed.  “Even in the Riddermark,” she said, “so many ways of waging war are barred to women.  I fought it one way.  Lothíriel fights it another.”

Lothíriel had chosen the ivory dress with the wide neck.  She did not know what her escort would be wearing, but white had a better chance of matching a king of Rohan than blue or grey or black.  Her fine hair was delicately pinned up, and she was just clasping her mother’s pearls around her neck when she heard a tap at the door.  She rose smoothly and took a deep breath.  “Come in,” she said.

Éowyn stepped in, her brother in tow.  “Éomer,” she said, “this is the Lady Lothíriel, who is staying Minas Tirith while her family…”  She paused; Lothíriel could tell she did not have as much experience in this kind of talk.  Good thing it’s Faramir marrying her, then. “Her family helps the rest of Gondor accustom itself to having a king.”

Lothíriel swept a curtsey, bowing her head at just the right angle.

“Lothíriel,” said Éowyn, “this is my brother, Éomer, King of the Riddermark.”

Éomer bowed.  “Your face is not unknown to me, my lady.  Have we met before?”

“Indeed we have, my lord,” said Lothíriel, “though surely you must have been introduced at least twice to every single lady in this city.  I first was introduced to you, and to Elessar, and many others, shortly after my arrival here.  My father Imrahil wanted all his family to become acquainted with the heroes of the War.”

Éomer froze.  It was only years of practice that kept Lothíriel from laughing aloud—did all the Rohirrim wear their thoughts thus?

“I should have remembered,” Éomer said, “for I know your father well.  If his daughter is half as gracious as he, I shall be in good hands indeed.”  He shot a glare at his sister.

Lothíriel stepped forward and rested her hand on his arm, keeping her eyes low and demure.  “I am not one to judge my own merits, or their lack, my lord.  I can only hope that my company this night is what a king such as you deserves.  I hope I prove worthy of the trust the Lady Éowyn has put in me.”

“She?” said Éomer, still wary.

“She is the one who arranged this match, is she not?”

Éomer visibly relaxed.

Lothíriel suppressed a smile.  Tonight was going to be most diverting!

Indeed, the nobility of Gondor noticed the diversions as soon as they entered the banquet hall.  Normally the walls of Merethrond were lined with chairs, so that when the tables were taken away for dancing, the guests would have a place to sit.  Perhaps there would be a few tables with wine upon them, but that was all.  By contrast, tonight the dining tables were pushed together in the center, to allow for a large promenade around the perimeter of the room.  There, against the walls, were so many casks of wine and ale that taking even so much as a sip from each would make a full-grown Ranger feel quite merry.

The whole room was aglow with conversation by the time the King and Queen stepped in to explain the change in function.  Aragorn looked entirely recovered from his earlier jaunt through the City, and his wife, in an act of pure diplomacy, seemed to be genuinely unaware that there was anything out of the ordinary at all.

“As some of you may know,” said the King, “the Citadel’s store of spirits was destroyed this morning.  Fortunately, the good inns of the White City have been gracious enough to resupply us, and in order to showcase what they have in store, they have each contributed a barrel of their best item.  To encourage our guests to taste all that these fine establishments have to offer, the Lord Faramir requested this arrangement of the room, so that you may move freely from one sample to the next.  Tonight is designed to be a less formal occasion, and we hope that you will all enjoy the opportunity to relax from the normal strains of the court.”

“He doesn’t seem to be doing much relaxing,” said Merry.

“Yes, well, who would, with his insides being clenched up like that?” said Pippin.

“Eh?” Frodo said.  “I thought that dress was a little thin for him, but who would—”

“Mannish custom,” said Merry.  “I was surprised by it too—like the bodice, but on the inside, and apparently a lot more painful.”

“We have them in the Shire, too, you know,” said Pippin.

“What?”

“I mean, not that anyone uses them often, because it’s easier having it outside than inside, but that’s what lasses wear underneath all that get-up on their weddings.”

“Really?” said Merry, in the exact tone of voice that implied Pippin was not allowed to know things of that nature without engaging in some kind of dastardly or possibly rakish behavior.

Pippin rolled his eyes.  “I have sisters.  Older and married ones.  These ones look more painful, though.”

“Please don’t tell me you’ve tried on a bodice,” said Merry after a long pause.

“Right, then,” said Pippin.  “I won’t.”

Frodo was staring at the meniscus in his wineglass, in an obvious attempt to keep from smiling more than he already was.  “How old were you?” he finally said.

“Frodo.  What part of ‘I won’t’ don’t you understand?”

“You wouldn’t be.  You’d only be implying, which you already have.”

“Well,” said Pippin, “I think if I were dressed in one of those things, I’d be tense too.”

“That wasn’t quite my point,” said Merry.  “You remember what I told you about my kissing the lasses back home?”

Frodo sat bolt upright and fixed his best “I am your elder cousin and I am disappointed in you” glare at Merry.  Sam raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.  Pippin immediately leaned forward and said, “Who was it?”

“They get faint of breath,” Merry said, plowing forward despite his comrades’ disparate reactions.  “I suggested it to Éowyn, and Faramir fainted, and what’s more, he’s done it twice more during the day!  Whereas Strider hasn’t even had to stop to catch his breath!”

“You had better not tease Faramir for it,” said Pippin.

“I wasn’t planning on it!  Faramir’s a good man.”

“I’m a good hobbit.”

“No, you’re not,” said Merry and Frodo simultaneously.  Merry added, “And, even if you were, you’re family.”

“Faugh!  Why do you two always team up on me?”

“I’m not going to tease Faramir, Pip,” said Merry.  “I merely want to rectify the great injustice that has been visited upon him, by the fact that he has fainted and your King has not.”

“Oh!”  Pippin paused.  “Do you want any help?”

“No, but if you insist…”

Pippin drained his glass, stood up, and brusquely pulled Merry out of his chair.  “How are we going to make Strider faint?”

“Oh, I hadn’t figured that out yet,” said Merry, “but I have a feeling that some here might help us out…”

Frodo watched their departure for a good minute.

“Do you want me to look after them?” said Sam, who had refrained from joining in the conversation (Frodo suspected) because he was so utterly out of his depth.

“No,” said Frodo.  “You’ve hardly eaten yet.  Wait till they start running around armed with peacock feathers.”

“Peacock feathers, Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo rubbed his forehead.  How had he known that?  “Call it a guess.”  He rose to refill his glass, reminding himself of exactlywhat caddish behavior Merry had admitted to doing, and made a mental note to Have Words with him on the morrow.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” Lothíriel said sweetly, “how skittish you have been, my lord.  Is there something the matter?”

“Yes,” said Éomer grimly, “but it concerns you little.”  Of course, if she was the cousin that Faramir had had Meriadoc deliver his letter to, it might concern her much, but this was a private quarrel!  No.  His sister had made this match, not Faramir, and he ought not doubt one who was, most likely, an innocent woman.

“You are, of course, free to keep your secrets.  But every lady in Minas Tirith knows how you have avoided our company, and Éowyn told me still more when she spoke with me earlier.  Surely the man who has faced death and slaughter cannot be intimidated by mere women?”

“Things are different in the Riddermark,” said Éomer.  “The only one whom anyone could ask to seek a woman’s hand out of love is the King’s heir.  I had never had reason to think people would want me to woo anyone on their terms and not mine.”

“So the fault lies with us, for not stirring your heart?  But you have done little to let it be stirred!”

“Lady, my uncle is lately passed, and I have not even returned to my homeland and my people.  Now is hardly the time to court a lady.”

“And yet,” said Lothíriel, “here you are.”

Éomer sat bolt upright.  “Éowyn could not have told you that I was here to woo you!”

Lothíriel gave a small smile.  “I distinctly recall her telling me the opposite.  Have no fear, this is strictly an escort of appearances.”

“Good.”  He was skittish, he thought.  Even if Faramir had done nothing, he would be revenged by all the turmoil Éomer was going through now, just wondering.

“Still,” Lothíriel went on, “it would have been better if you had started this earlier.  We are bound to cause talk.”

“I know,” Éomer said through gritted teeth.  Had he done the right thing? 

Lothíriel was heedless of his discomfort.  “People will be wondering what caused you to change your mind—politics, perhaps, or did I simply happen to be prettier than the rest?  I took on no small risk agreeing to this, you know.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to turn it to good effect,” Éomer said, and hoped that she would drop the topic.  The third course was brought out, and much was he relieved for the distraction.

Yet as soon as the servants had left the table, Lothíriel leaned towards him conspiratorially and whispered, “So, what did make you change your mind, my lord?”

It was going to be a long night.

“How are you holding up, my love?” said Arwen at the main table.

“A Ranger learns to deal with discomfort,” said Aragorn.  “This, though—I should call it torment did I not know better.”

“You are bearing it admirably.”

“You know, had you wished, you could have let me change into normal stately wear.”

“And leave poor Faramir to suffer alone?  You know we could not bear that!”

“He could have been permitted to change as well.”

“That is the difficulty, though.  The agreement between him and Éowyn expressly said ‘for the duration of one day.’  The sun has not yet gone to her rest, so he—and, therefore, you—are obliged to wear this till then.  Afterwards,” Arwen said with a glint in her grey eye, “you may wear whatever you wish.”

“Cold comfort for the unwed man,” said Aragorn, glancing over at Faramir, who was acting quite naturally.

“I am certain Éowyn will make it up to him later.”  She paused.  “You know, there is one advantage of this over your normal stately wear.”

“What would advantage would that be?”

“It does not chafe.”

“True.  It also does not operate under the delusion that air is optional.”

Arwen let out a small laugh, then leaned across to kiss her husband on the cheek.  “You’re doing quite well, Est—”

“What is it?”

“Keep calm,” said Arwen, “and look over there.”  She pointed away from her, so that when Aragorn turned his head she could see the full array of his hair.

“Is there aught the matter?” said Aragorn warily.

“Nothing… too serious,” said Arwen, counting quickly.  “You merely appear to have misplaced one of my grandmother’s hairpins.”

Aragorn snapped his head back around.  “It could have gone missing any time this afternoon!”

“Or tonight.  There is, of course, the small chance that she will not notice until you have had the time to find it again.”

“Small.”

“Infinitesimally small.”

“I shall take that chance.  Will you take a turn around the hall with me?  A King ought to sample his city’s finest wares, and so lead his court by example.”  He rose, and offered Arwen his arm.

She joined him.  “You just hope that the rest of the court will become so enamored of drink that they forget this evening entirely.”

“I had not planned it to be so, but it would be a beneficial consequence…”

“Good evening, little masters,” said Elrohir.  “Is there something we can help you with?”

“Yes,” said Merry.  “I should like to invite the two of you into a minor conspiracy.”

Pippin scoffed.  “Does every one of your clever plans have to be called a conspiracy?”

“Well, it’s better than your clever plans’ names.”

“What does Peregrin call his clever plans?” said Elladan.

“Nothing,” said Merry.  “But afterwards, everyone else calls them disasters.”

“Oi!” said Pippin.  “Enough from you already!  And I’ll be pleased to note that today, at least, has not ended in disaster.”

“Today has not ended,” Elladan said mildly.

Pippin glared at him.

“Come,” said Elrohir.  “If this truly is a conspiracy, I trust that it cannot be spoken of in the open.  Let us visit the Court of the Fountain and discuss it there.”

There, looking out over the City in the light of late day, Merry told the sons of Elrond his concern in the quietest voice he could manage.

“I can’t hear you,” Pippin said loudly.

“We can,” said Elrohir.  “Still, it is unconscionably rude to exclude one of your conspirators, even if the need for secrecy is utmost.”

“Thank you, Elladan,” said Pippin.

“Elrohir.”

“Right.”

Merry gave Elrohir a look and spoke a little louder.  “I was just telling the sons of Elrond that Strider hadn’t yet fainted, and since Faramir had, it was quite boorish for him to go along not fainting.”

“I know,” said Pippin.  “I just don’t know how possible it is.  The man did chase me halfway through the city, and he didn’t even look winded when he burnt my decoy.”

“Your decoy?” said Elladan.

“Just something off the desk in his study.”  Pippin shrugged.

“After he smuggled the original out by means of my bum!”

Twin elven stares fixed themselves on Merry.

“Long story,” said Merry.  “That,” he said, “was Pippin’s plan.”

“And this,” said Pippin, “is Merry’s, and I’ve already explained why it won’t work.”

“Not so,” said Elladan.  “Meriadoc was right to come to us, for we have known Aragorn since he was Estel, growing up in Imladris heedless of his true name or destiny.  During that time, we learned a good many things about him—his strengths…”

“And his weaknesses,” said Elrohir.

Merry looked at Pippin smugly.

Each of the twins bent down and whispered something in each hobbit’s ear.  Their eyes widened, and they stared at each other.

“You know,” said Pippin, “that actually might work.”

“Of course, we’ll have to corner him and get him to stay still long enough to remove those ridiculous slippers of his, but after that, things should be quite easy!”  Merry swung a low bow; Pippin jabbed him in the elbows and made sure he watched his curtsey.

“My lords,” said Merry, “we are greatly indebted to you.  If there is anything we can do—”

“The sheer rapture of seeing the King of Gondor and Arnor fainting in a paroxysm of laughter will be payment enough.”

Aragorn had to admit there were limitations to his capacities as a Ranger.  He could not, for example, track priceless hairpins from pre-drowned Beleriand, much less look inconspicuous while doing so.  Things were not improved by the number of people who wanted to speak with—or rail at—him.  Honestly, if a day like this shattered the decorum that the nobles of Minas Tirith were so proud of maintaining, then a good many of its ills would be automatically redressed.  He wished that a requirement of high rank were the ability to laugh at oneself.

He certainly would laugh tomorrow, if he got through today alive.

If he did not find the pin, he had some slight doubts regarding that.

“A little help, beloved,” he murmured to his wife, and Arwen managed to produce a handkerchief from nowhere, and drop it, in one fluid motion.  He frowned—he had never seen her, nor any other elf, for that matter, carry a handkerchief—then bent down to pick it up, making certain to scan all over for the missing hairpin.  He saw a pair of elvish feet—not his wife’s—next to him, and dropped prone.

Arwen bent down and pushed his ankles together.

Ah, came a voice, boring into his mind.  Estel, I am disappointed in you.

Aragorn suppressed a shudder, stood up, and met Galadriel eye to eye.  “Keen are the eyes of the elves,” he said coolly.

“And keener their tempers, still, when someone has trifled with them.”

“Come, dear lady,” said Celeborn, gliding in from nowhere to Aragorn’s relief.  “You know that statement applies in chief to the Noldor.”

“Celeborn.  He lost one of the pins.  The ones you gave me.”

Celeborn turned to Aragorn, looking utterly furious, but his wrath soon turned aside.  “And who let him wear them, all for a granddaughter’s lark?”

Galadriel opened her mouth, then shut it firmly, and (so far as Aragorn could guess), turned to silent discourse with her husband.  The King of Gondor saw his opportunity and bowed to make his exit.  “I will not rest until I have found it,” he said.

“No,” said Galadriel, turning back to him, and the light of the Trees was blazing in her eyes.  “You shall not.”

The meal was over, and servants were standing discreetly around the tables, ready to remove, or at least rearrange them, as soon as they were emptied.  There were no directives from the royal hosts tonight; they seemed to be caught up in matters far more pressing.  Merry had suggested that, in lieu of dancing, the hall be strewed with tables and chairs to lend an atmosphere reminiscent of an alehouse.

Éomer caught a servant staring holes into his head, and took note of the fact that they were probably barring him from his duty.  Lothíriel seemed to notice the same, for she said, “Oh, look at all those barrels—like a market, only for drink!  Have you ever seen the like before?”

“Not all in one place,” said Éomer.  “Shall we make a round?”

“I should be delighted to.  You know,” she said, smiling coyly, “my parents always told me that beer was not a lady’s drink.  I’m glad the King appears to think otherwise.”

Éomer snorted.  “In the Riddermark, a lady may drink whatever she pleases without fault.”

“And so, it seems, in Minas Tirith—at least, tonight.  I shall be most interested in furthering my education, for it is difficult in Dol Amroth for a lady to obtain unladylike beverages.”

“I should be happy to teach you.”

Slowly they made their way around the perimeter of the room, stopping at each barrel and pulling at the tap.  Lothíriel would take a sip, remark on it, and then hand her cup to Éomer and ask his opinion on it.  After a brief discussion, she’d move on, the cup still in Éomer’s hand, and she flitted from barrel to barrel so quickly that Éomer found himself with the happy chance of having to finish it off so it would be ready for the next sample.

When they were almost done with one of the walls, Lothíriel stumbled for an instant and had to lean against one of the barrels.  Éomer belatedly realized that he should have tried to catch her, but there was no reproach in her eye.

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “My, this—this hasn’t happened to me since Erchirion’s wedding!”

“Are... you not well?”

“I’m fine,” said Lothíriel, “but I shouldn’t have more.  Do you mind if I lean on your arm a bit?”

Éomer nodded, though, truth be told, he did not feel entirely steady on his feet, either.  He normally only went the pace Lothíriel had set him when he was with his men.

Lothiriel clutched his arm and patted it.  “Your tutelage was much appreciated, my lord.”

Éomer looked back at the line of casks.  Surely she could not have drunk that much!  “Perhaps I was right about Dol Amroth women,” he muttered.

“What was that?” Lothíriel said, looking at him with open curiosity.

“Nothing!” he said, a little too loudly.  “Nothing.  I was thinking aloud.”

“About Dol Amroth women?  Surely you were not acquainted with us before!”

“I was not.  ‘Twas just something rude I said to the Lord Faramir earlier…”  Éomer dimly realized his tongue was running far ahead of his wits and snapped his mouth shut.

“Rude?  That is an odd thing to say.  The Rohirrim are uncouth, surely, but rude?  What did you tell him?  I shall take you to apologize to him now!”

“No!” Éomer shouted.  “That… won’t be needed; I only said it to test his mettle.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing.  And so I fear his revenge.”

“But Cousin Faramir is a gentle and kind man!  Surely you must know that!  What did you say to upset him so?”

Even now, Éomer knew that to answer her question was folly.  But ale was in his veins, and he was tired of playing these courtly games, and just then Lothíriel looked up at him so sweetly…  “I hinted that his mother’s early passing was due to her own weakness.”

Lothíriel gasped, and dropped his arm in shock.  “Éomer!  You couldn’t have!”

Éomer averted his gaze.

“Was—was that why you have been so nervous all evening?”

Éomer nodded.

“But you said it concerned not me, when clearly it did.  She was my aunt!”  Lothíriel turned from him and ran outside, to the Court of the Fountain, weeping a torrent.

Éomer gazed after her, slack-jawed with horror.

Someone had started up a song.

This was not an uncommon occurrence in any land that considered itself friendly with the Elder Race, but the song—for once—was thoroughly mortal.

Don’t be silly, Frodo thought.  Have you heard every single Elvish song?

…Did the elves have drinking songs, for that matter?  Did the elves even drink?

Galion did, you lummox.  Hm.  He’d have to ask his uncle if they ever sang anything like what he was currently hearing from the other end of the hall.

“Mr. Frodo?”

“Sorry, Sam,” said Frodo, snapping back to the present (which entailed standing right next to a barrel holding a beer uncannily similar to the one he’d left behind in Bag End).  “I was woolgathering.”

“It’s funny, sir,” said Sam.  “I was starting to think these folk didn’t know how to make merry.”

Frodo smiled.  “Have all the feasts hitherto not convinced you as much?”

“Well—what I mean to say, Master, is that those are different.  They’re—pure, so to speak, just praise and glory and trumpets.  This, on the other hand—this is different.”

Frodo nodded.  “Not quite like home, I daresay, but it does make me miss it in a way the others didn’t.”

Sam looked away, as if the Shire wasn’t something to be discussed at the moment, and Frodo suddenly remembered the secret Sam had carried with him all the way to Gondor.

He’d only been betrayed by a dream.

“Me, too, sir,” said Sam, finally.

Frodo nodded to himself.  “Now that I’ve finished my notes, I can beg the King our leave.”

“I’d like that,” said Sam, after another pause.  He refilled his cup and drank.  “You know, if I’d a-known this would be here, I wouldn’t have been half as happy to watch over your cousins for you.”

Frodo eyed the barrel for a good moment, then refilled his own cup.  “You’re a stout fellow, Sam.  I daresay you can handle another.”

Sam shrugged and took a long pull.  “Really, though?”

“What?”

“Peacock feathers?”

“I don’t know why I said it; it just slipped out of my mouth.”

“Where would they even get—”  Sam stopped, raised both eyebrows very slowly, and then jerked his head in Frodo’s direction.

Frodo turned around.

There, clear on the other side of the hall, Merry and Pippin were talking to a short, stout lady who, had she been a hobbit, must have reached her century ten years ago.  She was wearing the most ludicrous headdress, from which protruded, like a fountain of garish eyes, three peacock feathers.

She reminded Frodo of no one so much as Lalia Took, whom he’d had the singular misfortune of knowing before she died.

And yet, here she was, stooping over and pulling two of the feathers from her hair, and handing them to Pippin!

How does he do that? thought Frodo, vaguely disquieted.

“Sam,” he said, “I think you’d better keep a closer eye on them now.”

Sam nodded and left, and Frodo mused upon what he would do next.

Filling his cup once more, he made his way over to the singing.

“All right,” said Pippin, fingering his feather.  “That was the easy part.  How do you reckon we should get at his feet?”

Merry was chewing his lip and looking off into the distance with an air of abstraction.  There had to be some way…

Pippin tweaked his nose.

“Hoy!”

“How do we get at his feet?”

Merry frowned at Pippin as sternly as he could manage.  “I don’t know yet.”

“Don’t frown like that; you look like a frog who’s just learned his mother died. You really don’t have a plan?”

“No—for one thing, he’s stronger than we are, even in a corset, and for another, his legs are very long.  I don’t see how we can do anything at the moment.”

“But you always have a plan!” Pippin hissed.

“Yes, well, the chaos of this day makes planning particularly difficult, so if you’ll just give me a moment’s peace…”

“Why, Merry, you goose, you’re going about it all wrong!”  Pippin grinned.  “Remind me—do you plan better with or withoutbeer?”

“Ugh, don’t try to get me drunk on top of everything else!”

Pippin only grinned wider, and ran to the nearest barrel.  Merry followed him.  “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

Pippin was tapping into the barrel with such zeal that Merry refused to gratify him with an answer.  He pressed a cup into Merry’s hand.  “You implied ‘without beer,’ so I figure wine’s our only option.  Drink up.”

Merry handed the cup back.  “No!”

“Really, it’s quite simple.  The day’s gone mad, so to accomplish anything worthwhile, you have to go a little mad yourself.  Fortunately, his Majesty has provided us with the means.”  He gave the cup back to Merry.

“You’re already mad!”  Merry tried to hand Pippin the cup of wine, but Pippin had clenched his fists shut.  “By that logic, you should have tonight figured out down to the last letter.”

“Don’t be so rough with the wine, Merry; you’ll spill it.”

“Take it, then!”

Pippin took it, but handed it back to Merry before he could put his hands away.

Merry stamped his foot, and immediately regretted it.  Pippin was making him act like a ten-year-old…

Which was probably his point.  Merry took one sip of the wine, and then—carefully—set it on the floor.  “You’re distracting me, Pippin.  One can go a little mad without risking a hangover, as you well know.”

“Case in point,” said Pippin, nudging Merry and drawing his attention to Gimli, who was striding angrily towards them, hefting his axe.  “What do you think we did?”

Merry took a long, hard look at Gimli.  “I don’t think it’s us he’s upset with.  He wouldn’t be quite so violent.”

“Indeed not,” said the dwarf loudly.  “This is not some minor slight, but a grave injustice.  And it concerns not you.”

“What happened?” said Pippin.

“The fairest lady that ever walked on earth—you know of whom I speak—has a number of ornaments for the hair—”

“Oh, dear,” said Merry.  “Don’t tell us he’s lost one of them?”

“The tale is known to you?  Good.”  Gimli nodded.  “I go to see Aragorn—either to help him find it, or else avenge its loss.”  He slapped the axe into his hard hand.

Merry swallowed.  “Any chance you could knock him down?...”

Gimli eyed them suspiciously.  “What game are you playing at?  This is no time for games!  The King has given insult to my lady…”

“And so, you must knock him down,” said Pippin, nodding.  “And preferably, unshoe him as well.”

“No,” said Sam from the other side of the barrel, “you mustn’t.”

Pippin jumped a full six inches.  “Sam!  What are you doing here?”

“Listening in,” said Sam sternly.  “And keeping an eye on you, as Mr. Frodo said.”

Pippin jabbed Merry with his elbow.  “Take your ‘grim, disappointed father’ cues from Sam.  He’s much better at it than you.”

“Mr. Pippin, listen to me.  Don’t do anything as you’ll wish you hadn’t later, especially tonight.”

“Oh.  Did Frodo tell you to say that?  Why do we need you to keep an eye on us, anyhow?”

“Pippin!” said Merry.  “Do you really need an answer to that question?”

“Oh, dry up, Merry.”

“Mr. Frodo,” said Sam, “wanted to enjoy himself as well, enough that he couldn’t keep an eye on you.  He asked me to help.”

“Well,” said Pippin, “that’s a very noble thing and all, but seeing as Frodo is currently climbing upon a table, don’t you think he rather needs looking after more?”

Sam spun his head around to where the singers had gathered, and saw, with growing horror, that Pippin had not lied.  He turned back to Pippin and hesitated.

The far end of the hall, where the King had been, erupted in a stentorian “Khazad!”

Merry and Pippin shared a glance, then ran in pursuit, leaving Sam behind, bewildered, to ponder what he should do next.

A corner of Frodo’s head registered that he was somewhat drunker than he had intended.  He must be, otherwise he wouldn’t have gotten on the table in the first place.

Inevitably, his mind went back to the last time he had been standing upon a table and expected to entertain a sea of drink-addled faces.  Of course, then, he had only been pretending to be drunk, and there were the two minor matters of keeping Pippin’s tongue from running and that horrid thing he’d kept fumbling with in his pocket…

Well, there was nothing in his pockets tonight, not so much as a loose string, so things could hardly go worse than then.

“My lords and ladies,” he said, bowing deeply, “I am most honored by your attention.  How may I be of service to you this evening?”

“Song!” came the immediate cry, as it generally did.

Frodo tried to recall what would have happened next in the days when he was the sort of fellow who didn’t mind dirtying the table with his feet and belting out a tune, but that had been so long ago, and it had never been with strangers…

Suddenly Frodo felt very small, and seriously contemplated getting back off the table.

Coward.  “Er… what sort of song?”

There was surely a smattering of different responses, but they were all drowned out by one cry in the back from a very red-nosed lord—was it Húrin of the Keys?—“Bawdy song!”

Frodo stammered and vainly attempted to explain that the Shire did not exactly have a tradition of venereal humor—or, at least, one that spread beyond the bedroom to bachelors’ ears—but suddenly all eyes were fixed on him as what felt like the entire court of Minas Tirith began to speculate on a hitherto irrelevant aspect of Halfling nature.

He was not the right person for this.

In desperation, he cast around for a song that had a prayer of fulfilling Lord Húrin’s request, and more importantly, got everyone’s thoughts thoroughly off the topic at hand.

He settled upon the first one he could recall.

There was a lass from Delving,

Who longed the world to see

She wished a situation

To let her travel free.

She spoke unto the Mayor,

And with him struck a deal,

And now she roams the Farthings Four

The hearts of lads to steal!

Oh, the postal lass from Delving,

Who works the world to see

She’ll take your hand and sweetly say,

“Come! You’re the lad for me!”

Tam worked a farm near Frogmorton,

His hungry self to feed.

Relations sent him letters, but

He’d never learned to read.

The postal lass from Delving said,

“I know just what to do!

You lay your head upon my lap,

And I’ll read them to you!”

Oh, the postal lass from Delving,

Who works the world to see

She’ll sigh your name and sweetly say,

“Come! You’re the lad for me!”

“Where are you taking me?” said Faramir.  Éowyn had him by the hand, and she was leading him outdoors.

“Do you not wish to see the fruit of your labors?” she replied gravely.

“Yes, if they are the fruit of my labors alone and not Lothíriel’s.”

“Then, do you not wish to see how clever she is?”

“I already know how clever she is.”

Éowyn just tugged at him.  “Years later, we shall all sit back and laugh at my brother’s folly, and you will regret not having seen it firsthand if you do not see this.  Now, come, let us find some place where we shall not be observed.”

Faramir complied.

Leander was a gentry lad,

Who’d never worked a day,

He roamed the pubs of Oatbarton,

And fed his pony hay.

The postal lass from Delving said,

“You’re looking rather bored!

Come ride with me for half the day,

And you’ll get just reward!”

Oh, the postal lass from Delving,

Who works the world to see

She’ll take your arm and sweetly say,

“Come! You’re the lad for me!”

Sam ran along, reassuring himself for the twelfth time that, yes, Mr. Frodo could in fact handle himself even if he was singing a pub song on a table in front of Gondorian nobles.

Ahead of him were Messrs. Merry and Pippin, manically brandishing their feathers, and ahead of them was Gimli, manically brandishing his axe, and ahead of him was Strider, for whom Sam had nothing at the moment but utter sympathy.

We must look a lot of tom-fools right now, he thought, running like this.  They’d fortunately left the hall, but not after running right across it so every last lord and lady could behold the spectacle.  Now they were in the wings of guest rooms, and Sam had no idea what the King was playing at.  Surely he had something up his sleeve, but the rooms were locked and the hall was coming to a dead end…

Strider stopped at the last door ahead of them and began to pound upon it.  Surely that wasn’t Mr. Gimli’s room?

Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Legolas all day!

Gimli had caught up to Strider now.  “Turn round and face me like a man!”

At last the door opened to reveal Legolas—

who went pale as a sheet when he saw the tableau in front of him.  Sam stopped his ears in fear of the inevitable.

“AIIIII!”

Now, Aldo was a bachelor,

Down in the southern parts.

He tutored niece and nephew

In all the learned arts.

The postal lass from Delving said,

“How many books you own!

Have you one with love-poetry

For us to read alone?”

Oh, the postal lass from Delving,

Who works the world to see

She’ll bat her eyes and sweetly say,

“Come!  You’re the lad for me!”

Éomer had finally summoned the nerve to follow Lothíriel, come what may.  He hated to think himself so debased in her sight, but, upon further thought, he realized that all the blame lay with him.  “Better to face one’s problems than run,” he told himself, and so he was.

She was leaning against the balcony, weeping into her hands, and the golden light of the setting sun was around her.  Tentatively he laid his broad hand on her shoulder, and she turned to him immediately and buried her face in his chest.

Feeling rather awkward, and telling himself that this was just like when he and Éowyn were young, he placed his arms around her.

“Will you forgive me?” she said, when she was finished.

“What?” said Éomer.  “What wrong have you done?”

She pushed herself out of his arms and turned away.  “Éowyn did arrange the match, but Faramir sent me a letter first.”

Éomer started.

“He told me what you had said to him, and asked that I, on behalf of all women, avenge my aunt.  I agreed, for I did not know you.  And so, I fear, I deceived you, but now that I do know you, and I know that you are a good man…”  She trailed off in another fit of weeping.  “Can you forgive me?”

“Lady,” said Éomer, in his gentlest voice, “look at me.”

She turned and looked at him, and he noticed for the first time how beautiful her eyes were.  “I hold you blameless in this matter,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Lothíriel.  “It is a weight from my mind.”  She took a small step closer to him, almost shy, and tipped her face up at him.  “I find myself growing rather fond of you, Éomer King…”

This close to him, he could smell her, jasmine and half a dozen other exotic flowers.  He opened his mouth to reciprocate her statement, but words had fled him.

So he kissed her instead.

The dashing Bounder Bandy

Was watching the Far Downs.

He’d left his post to flirt with girls

From all the nearby towns.

The postal lass from Delving said,

“I’ll show you how it’s done!”

She kissed him fully on the—

Slap!

Frodo reeled from the unexpected blow, slipped, and hit his head hard on the table.

Several things happened in quick succession on the threshold of Legolas and Gimli’s apartment.  Aragorn clapped his hands over his ears at the pierce of Legolas’ cry.  Gimli seized the opportunity to half-leap, half-dive into a full tackle of His Majesty, knocking both him and Legolas over.  Merry and Pippin soon followed, and then gleefully pulled the slippers off his feet and set to the soles with their feathers.

Sam arrived at the scene last, shaking his head, just in time to see Aragorn laugh so hard that he fainted.

“Victory!” cried Merry, loud enough that Sam began to wonder how much he had enjoyed himself prior to this… whatever it was.

“Are you quite done yet?” said Sam.

“Yes,” said Merry.

“No,” said Pippin.

Sam sighed, and hauled them from the scene of carnage by the backs of their shirts, allowing Gimli to pick himself up from the prostrate King and Legolas to slide out from under the dead weight.  Legolas, having recovered from the initial shock of seeing a corseted king, an irate dwarf, and two mad hobbits at his door, walked calmly to the window and opened it, breathing the late day air.

Just then, with a noisy squawk and a ruffling of the air, in flew a magpie.  It landed half a foot away from the King’s head and delicately pulled out another one of the hairpins with its beak.  The strange occurrence seemed to mesmerize them all, for no one thought to do anything about it until the bird took to the air again.

The King stirred just in time to see it fly out the window.  “After it!” he cried.

“How?” said Gimli, even as Legolas leapt onto the windowsill to quarry the magpie with his eyes.

“He is entering an apparent crevice in the tower wall some twenty feet below us,” said Legolas.  “It does not lie directly below the window, but it is not far.”

“Impressive,” Gimli huffed, “from the fellow that was wailing our ears out mere seconds ago.”

“Why?” said Legolas, jumping back inside.  “Are dwarves not made of as stern stuff?”

Sam took the liberty of the distraction to remove the peacock feathers from Merry and Pippin’s possession.  Fool as he was to keep on worriting about Mr. Frodo like this, he knew what had happened the last time he’d gotten on a table in a crowd.  He bowed to Aragorn, who was now sitting on the floor in a most unladylike pose, and said, “You’ll keep an eye on those two, won’t you?”

“As best as I can,” Strider said wryly.

Sam thanked him and hurried back to his master.

Éowyn had clapped her hand over Faramir’s mouth.  No, he wouldn’t have spoken, nor cried out, but he understood why she wanted to take precautions.  His cousin was kissing the king of Rohan quite passionately, and she was enjoying it too much for her own good.

When they had stopped, they stared at one another for a good long moment, gazing at one another like lovers.  If they hadn’t only met that evening, Faramir would have been quite touched.

Éowyn had not removed her hand, though.

He had to strain to hear what Lothíriel said next.  “I would advise you to stop your ears.”

“Stop my—why?” said Éomer.

Lothíriel screamed by way of response, and then slapped him hard.

Sam returned to the hall to find Mr. Frodo leaning against the table rubbing his head, a faraway look in his eye.  He did not look entirely right.

Sam ran up to him.  “Mr. Frodo?  Are you—”

“It’s fine,” said Frodo, batting him away.  “I deserved it.”

There was a very large, red handprint on his cheek.

“Deserved what?”

“I sang ‘The Postal Lass from Delving,’ and one of the fine ladies here took it the wrong way.  I’m still not entirely sure how, mind…”

“It’s quite simple, master pherian,” said the lady in question—the one, Sam realized with horror, that Merry and Pippin had squirreled the peacock feathers out of earlier.  “I do not know what the standards are in your country, but in Gondor, one simply does not sing of fallen women in polite society!”

What in the Shire is a fallen woman? thought Sam.

A light of realization was dawning in Frodo’s eyes, however.  “My lady,” he said, bowing low, “my deepest apologies.  In my country, we have no such standards, because we have no such women!  The lady in question was—a courier, nothing more, and I assure you that she did nothing beyond innocent flirting and one kiss that got her in trouble later.  In fact, if you had let me finish the song, you would have seen what would have happened once all her beaux ran into each other at the Free Fair.”

“But the song said she worked the world!”

“No,” Sam put in, “She worked, the world to see.  She worked to see the world.”  What would working the world even mean?

The lady puffed herself up like a peahen.  “Well,” she said.  “I still do not approve of the song, and I do not regret putting an end to it!  You’d think the whole City had gone mad.”

“It has,” Sam muttered.

“And don’t think this is over, either, sir!  I’ll tell the King!”  She nodded.  “Which one do you serve, again?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Frodo.

“Rohan or Gondor?  Which one?”

“Neither,” said Mr. Frodo.

“Ma’am,” said Sam, “I think you’ve gotten my master confused with someone else.  This here isn’t Mr. Merry nor Mr. Pippin, it’s Frodo Baggins, the Cormica…”

“Cormacolindo,” Frodo supplied.

“The Ring-bearer.”

“Oh,” said the lady.  “Then who were those two other Halflings I met earlier?”

“My two cousins,” said Frodo, sighing.  “One of whom is sworn to Gondor, and the other to Rohan.”

“My lord,” said the lady, curtseying deeply, “please forgive me!  If I had known…”

“If you had known,” said Frodo, “you still should have behaved as you did.  The song I sang was indeed disrespectful, and not even kings should be immune from justice when they insult the fairer sex.”

Just then, the door to the hall boomed open, and in stormed the lady of Dol Amroth, Éomer King in tow.  She looked every inch a damsel in distress, while he looked furious.  “Father?” said Lothíriel, her voice rising hysterically.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Merry said for the seventh time.

“Yes, Merry,” said Pippin testily.  “I’m the lightest of the bunch, I’m not quite as scared of heights as you, and I’ve got deft fingers for fishing out magpies.  And we’re doing two ropes, so even if something strange happens and one person lets go, I still won’t fall.  It can’t be any worse than leaping over a crevasse in Moria.”

“No,” said Merry, “it can’t, but I’d still hate to report your demise to the Thain, after all you’ve been through, because you wereretrieving jewelry!”

“Oh?  And how were you going to explain Frodo’s demise?”

Merry went white.  “Considering,” he said coldly, “how very close I came to having to report just that, I shouldn’t joke about it if I were you.”

“All right,” said Pippin, suddenly feeling very sheepish.  “Too soon, I guess.”  He sighed.  “If you don’t want me to go…”

“No, it’s all right,” said Merry.  “I’m just being silly again.”  He double checked the knots on Pippin’s bedclothes harness, though, just to be sure.  Pippin climbed up the windowsill, still facing everyone else, and gave one slow nod.

In truth he was more nervous than his bravado let on; there was something quite worrisome about feeling the wind on the soles of your feet.  But he’d faced worse before, he told himself, and if all went well it shouldn’t last very long.

Aragorn, and Gimli began to lower him over the edge.

About twenty feet down, Legolas called for them to stop.  Pippin peered far to his right, but he couldn’t see the nest from there.

“All right!” he called up.  “I’m going to start swinging!”

His heart was hammering, and his palms were starting to sweat, and his entire lower half felt much too cold in the wind.  He would not look down yet.  He began to propel himself along one side of the tower wall—it was too smooth for him to climb, so he had to push himself off the wall one way, and let his momentum carry him in the other direction.

The harness was getting very tight against his armpits.

At last he was able to spot the crevice, and he jammed his hand in.  Immediately he drew it out again, bleeding—that blasted bird had bitten him!

On the next pass, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin, shoved it in the nest, and immediately flung it as far away as he could.  “Catch that, you daft bird!” he cried.

The magpie would not budge.

“Stupid bird,” he muttered.  He didn’t think he’d have the nerve to do this a second time, so he had to think of something…

He got out another coin.  They were the only shiny things he had.

This time, he offered it to the magpie, who delicately accepted his offering with its beak.  While it was doing so, he got his other hand in the crack.

“Now, listen,” he said to the bird, looking it in its black eye.  “You’ve gotten the King in a lot of trouble today”—not entirely true, but close enough—“and if it weren’t for him, you’d be roasting on an orc spit by now.  Let me clear out your hoard, and I promise I’ll get you a reward.”

The bird looked at him once, clicked its beak, and flew out of the nest.

Pippin sighed in relief.  He didn’t think that would work!

With his free hand, he gathered up his skort, and then pushed the contents of the nest, fair and foul, into it, like a hobbit lass gathering apples.  Then, he tugged once on the makeshift rope, and was pulled back to safety.

“What is the meaning of this?” said Imrahil.

Lothíriel began to weep again.  “Father?  You heard not my scream?”

Faramir had followed them inside—he felt he had a responsibility to—and so he caught the brief, knowing look that Imrahil flashed at his daughter before taking her hands in his.

“Lothíriel,” he said gently, “I heard something but faintly, and I did not realize it was you.  Tell me, what could have happened to you to make you so distressed?”

Amrothos, Elphir, and Erchirion had all gathered behind him, and were casting intimidating looks at Éomer.  Faramir felt pity for him.

“He kissed me,” said Lothíriel, “when I did not give my consent to be kissed, and has so maligned my honor…”  She tugged the collar of her dress back in place—she must have bared her shoulder when Éomer was not looking, for Faramir had not seen his hands on her—and buried her head in her hands.

Imrahil put his hand firmly on Éomer’s shoulder.  “We shall discuss this matter in private, Éomer King.”  His voice was laced with steel.  “In private,” he repeated to his sons, “though if you three wish to hold similar conferences after we are done, I will not bar you from it.”

He began to lead Éomer from the room.  On the way out, Éomer opened his mouth, but Imrahil stayed him.  “Were I you,” he said, “I should not say what you are about to say.  My daughter is an honorable woman, and nothing she could do would induce such behavior as you have demonstrated this evening.”

Éowyn put her arm around Lothíriel’s.  “Come,” she said, not unkindly.  “I would lief ease your pain.”  Together, the two of them left the company, where, Faramir was sure, they would both burst into peals of laughter.

“My lord?” said one of the lesser ladies—he believed she was from Lossarnach.  “Did the King Éomer really just do that?”

Faramir looked at her gravely.  “My cousin does not lie,” he said.  Excusing himself from the company, he went back outside and folded his arms grimly.  His father, he hoped, would be proud of him for the way he had handled this day’s affairs.

And as for his mother—her memory would be satisfied if Éomer learned from today never to underestimate a woman again.

The sun was setting, and almost all the court had retired to bed—the night’s festivities were considerably rowdier than most of them were used to.  Frodo himself was ready to sleep, although that perhaps was not surprising.

“I am sorry, Sam,” he said, as they made their way to the main table, where the King, Gimli, Merry, Pippin, and assorted elves had gathered.  “Either my memory is going, or else the Ring has affected my tolerance.”

Sam only snorted.  “Don’t you go about blaming it on that, sir,” he said.  “It’s more like to have been both of us starving half to death, and not quite yet recovered from it neither.”

“Did you notice any changes in yourself?” said Frodo.

“Maybe,” said Sam.  “I don’t keep watch for that sort of thing.  Can’t begrudge you making yourself a little merry, though.”

“Thank you,” said Frodo, and that was all that needed to be said.

At the main table, Pippin and Aragorn were sorting through the contents of his skirt, which seemed to be a good deal of filth, and—gold?

Pippin held up one of the coins.  “Do you think this is the mystery thief?”

“Eh?” said Frodo.

“We spent this evening tracking down a particularly malicious magpie,” Merry said by way of explanation.

“Yes, and coin’s been going missing from all the stalls, and the guard hasn’t been able to catch it!  That magpie’s terribly clever, you know.  She understands speech.”

“I’m sure it does,” said Merry, rolling his eyes.

Galadriel pulled out from the mess not one, but two hairpins, and held them triumphantly to her husband.

Celeborn shook his head once.  “Clean them first.”  Then, deliberately, he pulled the rest of the pins from Aragorn’s hair.  Aragorn heaved a sigh of relief and shook his hair free.

“Letting your hair down, love?” Arwen murmured to him.

“The sun has nearly set,” said Aragorn, catching her hand and kissing her on the wrist.

Gimli made a noise of disgust.  “Newlyweds.”

“Tomorrow,” said Aragorn, “I shall wear the most comfortable clothing I own, barring my nightshirt.”  He caught his wife a meaningful look.  “And I hope you will wear—”

“The red dress, yes, but only in private.”  She whispered something further in Aragorn’s ear that made them both laugh.

“Well,” said Merry, “I’ll be happy to go back to trousers myself, even if Pip and I didn’t make ourselves faint-prone.  My lady Arwen, we simply must tell you about that singular victory…”

“Tomorrow,” said Arwen.  “And what of you, Peregrin?”

“Oh,” said Pippin, “I’m thinking of doing this all over again, just to confuse everyone twice over.”

Aragorn blinked.  “You’d spend another full day in a skirt?”

Pippin only grinned and lifted the article in question.  “Oh, it’s not a skirt, my lord!  It’s a skort!”

Frodo was awakened the next morning by his stomach—always a sign of a good day.  The minute he sat up, though, his head throbbed.  He sighed—what a pity he’d gotten himself injured last night, for at least he’d know then how much further he’d taken things!  As it was, he could not tell how much of his headache was due to drink and how much was due to the nasty bump on his head.

Merry, he was pleasantly surprised to discover, was not hung over from the previous evening, but Pippin had drunk enough for both of them and was not particularly happy.  Sam was, as usual, a marvel, giving him and Pippin both some kind of tea for headaches (drink-induced or not) and toast until they were well enough for a proper breakfast.

“You didn’t make good on your promise, Pippin,” said Frodo.

“What?”

Frodo pointed to his trousers.

“Oh, right!  I had seriously thought of it, but I’d have to have washed it first; you wouldn’t have believed the filth that was in that nest!”

Merry turned to Frodo and mouthed, “Burn it!”

Frodo just shook his head.

Over breakfast, the four hobbits exchanged their accounts of the prior night’s escapades, and Merry and Pippin were only too happy to fill in everything else.

“And what of the progress you’ve made?” said Merry.

“You saw how much of it there was yesterday,” said Frodo.  “Suffice it to say that, thanks to Sam, I shall never have to revisit those vile memories again.”

“That’s good.”

“Would—would you care to have a look?”

Merry and Pippin hesitated.

“I wouldn’t mind,” said Frodo.  “It’s a saner accounting of things than I could have given, and, truth be told, than I have.”

“We’d love to, then,” Merry said fervently.

“Not for too long, though, begging your pardon,” said Sam.  “Afore any of you was up, one of the King’s messengers came by and asked us to go and meet the Khandis in half an hour.”

“The Khandis?”

“He and his men asked to be let in at sunup.  Thought you’d rather sleep than see it.”

“Thank you, Sam,” said Frodo.  He pushed his empty plate away.  On the way to the study, though, he took Merry by the arm and said quietly, “I haven’t forgotten.”

“What?”

“The rules for proper conduct towards ladies.  Specifically, the rule that goes, ‘don’t kiss anyone you’re not intending to marry.’”

“Honestly, it wasn’t anything like th—”

Merry faltered at the look in Frodo’s eye.  “I’m sorry?”

“We’ll discuss this later.”

“I thank the Powers,” said Aragorn, “that the Khandis was not here yesterday.  That is the only way that that could have been made worse.”

“There were some brighter moments, sire,” said Faramir.  He had spoken with Éomer early in the morning.  No one in the Court would touch him (except for Imrahil’s sons, who would only touch him with a blade), and his only comment—after muttering through gritted teeth that yes, Faramir’s honor was satisfied indeed—was that Lothíriel was a deceitful, conniving she-cat whom he wished no man would have the burden of wedding.

They were in the King’s study prior to the meeting, and Faramir was briefing him on those documents that he found which might be useful in dealing with Khand.  They had not changed much from the previous two days.

“What of that decree that the merchant spoke of?” said Aragorn.

“What of it?  I told you I put it on your desk; I assumed you had already seen it.”

“I have not seen it,” said Aragorn.

For a few minutes together, they searched for the missing decree, then Aragorn stopped and looked keenly at the Steward.  “You said that Pippin had met you before you realized he was still fleeing.  Where was that?”

“‘Twas in the Council Room.”

“The paper I burned in the kitchen did not burn like paper,” said Aragorn.

“You destroyed an ancient document from the time of the Kings?”

“A grossly unjust ancient document from the time of the Kings, but yes.”

Faramir frowned.

“I do regret it,” said Aragorn, “but I fail to see how we can rectify the matter now!  What am I to do, tell Master Heledir, ‘Yes, such a document existed until I burnt it, mistaking it for an incriminating sketch of myself in a dress’?”

Faramir sighed.  “I see what you mean.  What were you planning on doing with it?”

“Changing it,” said Aragorn, “with as much politicking as would have been necessary to accomplish it.  Now it seems I do not need to do more than to inform him that if the Archives ever had such a document, it does not have one now.”  He sighed.

“I shall have to speak with Peregrin about this,” said Faramir, shaking his head.  “Records exist for a reason.”

“Later.  For now, we must go to court and assess the full nature of yesterday’s damage to our reputations.”

The procession that morning had not been nearly as flashy.  The same wildly colored silks brightened the somber streets of Gondor, but the men walking alongside looked straight ahead, bearing covered tents on their shoulders.  Each of them bore a sword at his side, and looked as if he knew how to use it.  Behind, followed the wagons—enough that some doughty men bristled at the insult to Gondor’s hospitality—and then, nothing.  If the Khandis had indeed come to parley, why did the people of Khand take so little pride in their own king?

Now, ten minutes past ten o’clock by the hobbits’ reckoning, the whole court of Gondor was assembled, and the Khandis had not yet appeared.  Arwen had gently reminded her husband that different cultures reckoned time differently; Aragorn replied that he equally could be using this as an opportunity to display power.

The speculation was cut short by the entrance of a solitary figure: a woman, richly clothed in purple and veiled in gold.  Rather than making the obeisance of the ambassador, she walked directly to the dais.  Guards hurried to block her.

Arwen whispered a word to the king, and he waved them aside, though both he and Arwen sat guarded on their thrones.  Faramir, too, shifted closer to them.   The woman ascended the steps until she was eye-level with the queen, and then slowly unwound the veil from her face.

“Only equals may behold me thus,” she said in a low, musical voice.  It was heavily accented, but not unpleasantly so.  “You have extended that honor to your people, for allowing them to behold me at all.”

Arwen rose, descended to the woman’s level and took her hands in hers.  “Then I thank you for that honor,” she said.  “May I ask you, Khandis, why you deem me worthy of it?”

A murmur rose amid the court.

The Khandis paid it no mind, and though she spoke only to Arwen, her voice carried enough that the Queen knew she meant for all to hear.  “I was pleased at the reports I had received two days ago, of a single word from you calling your consort from his business.  That was naught compared to the pleasure I felt from the reports from yesterday.  The two most powerful men in your land, garbing themselves as your women, because you told them to, the king of your ally brought to disgrace on a woman’s word, your consort forced to flee upon the loss of a pin, even your great hero laid low, by a woman, because he offended her sensibilities…  It seems that the notion that men rule your country was another of the Deceiver’s lies.”

At Arwen’s querying look, she continued, “Sometimes alliances are made of prudence rather than love.  We sent him the least valuable people to fight for him, and he never knew.  I am gratified to know that your supposed lordship of men is merely a show, though I had suspected it, for men have not the capacity to govern.  When shall we discuss the terms of peace?”

“Give me until after the noon-meal,” said Arwen, “for me to gather my ladies, so that all parties in Gondor may be well-served.”

“We shall meet then,” said the Khandis, “and I shall bring my advisors.  I look forward to a long, and fruitful, peace for us both.”

“As do I,” said Arwen.

The Khandis wound the veil back around her head, and departed.  Immediately thereafter the court exploded into conversation, which was only quieted with much effort.  Arwen had returned to the throne to see that her husband looked utterly gobsmacked.  She patted him on the hand.  “Did you truly not know?”

“What?” said Aragorn.  “That Khand is ruled by a woman?  You could not have known that till now!”

“Nay, not Khand,” she said.  “Gondor.”

And so, that afternoon, Arwen, Éowyn, and a good many ladies of the court met with the rulers of Khand to discuss peace, and while most men would be put out, Aragorn and Faramir took it as a reprieve from the pains of yesterday, and they knew that the negotiations were in good hands.  Sam had tracked down the pub with the Shire ale (as he called it), and hobbit, man, elf, and dwarf alike talked, and drank, and laughed long and deep.  After tea, though, Pippin excused himself to track down one more friend.

He found him eventually, at the balustrade where he and Beregond had luncheoned so long ago.  What he was thinking about, Pippin couldn’t say, but probably no one could say what went on in the mind of a wizard.  He stood next to Gandalf in silence for a few minutes, waiting for him to finish whatever it was he was doing and talk to him.  Eventually, Gandalf filled his pipe, lit it, and gestured for Pippin to do the same.

“You wished to speak with me, Pippin?”

Pippin nodded.  “I just wanted to ask… did you know?”

“Did I know what?”

“That Khand was ruled by women?  That the Uncatchable Thief was a bird?  That somehow, the priceless document that I shouldn’t have swapped and let Strider burn was in fact an unjust decree?”

Gandalf looked down at Pippin shrewdly.  “My dear Peregrin,” he said, “you give me far too much credit.”

“Then why did it turn out that way?”

Gandalf shrugged and puffed on his pipe.

“I thought you were supposed to be more forthcoming with answers now, not less!”

“You are assuming, my dear hobbit, that I have the answers.  You seem remarkably worried for someone who’s just had everything go right.”

“But Merry says things don’t actually work that way!” Pippin blurted out.  “And it got me to thinking,” he continued, quietly.  “About Moria, and about the palantír, and those things were so dreadful but the alternative could have been worse…”  He swallowed.  “What if my luck runs out?”

Gandalf chuckled.  “Pippin, if the continued survival of all good things in Middle-earth depended on something as slender as your luck, we should all be in a sorry state indeed.”

Pippin sighed.  Gandalf was right, of course, but what was he leaving out?

Gandalf rested his large hand on Pippin’s head, brushing it affectionately.  “Even the Wise cannot see all ends,” he said.  “If we are allowed to see even some of them, we are blessed beyond blessed.  Not,” he added, “of course, that you are one of the Wise, or ever shall be, Peregrin Took.”  He looked sharply at him.  “So I don’t know what it means in your case.”

Pippin snorted.  “You know, when I’m old and grey, I’ll write a book of aphorisms, just to prove you wrong.”

“Will you now?”  Gandalf looked wistfully out over the fields of Gondor, then blew one smoke ring south to the Sea.  “I should like to read it some day.”

“My lord,” said Faramir, “I think this is one you should deal with personally.”

“What is it now?” said Aragorn.

“The Keeper of the Privy Purse is reporting that there has been a bird fussing at the Treasury door since dawn.  No one has been able to make it leave.”

Aragorn sighed.  “Would it, perchance, be a magpie?”

The sun had now long ago sunk below the horizon.  Estella had her head on Merry’s lap (the act of laughing having taken up so much energy), and was looking at the stars.

“Well?” said Merry.

“Well, what?”

“What did you think?”

Estella squeezed his foot.  “What became of the magpie?”

Merry laughed.  “She wouldn’t leave until Strider talked to her and promised her she could watch the treasury for him and attack anyone who broke in.  She thinks it’s all hers now, of course.”

“And everything worked out all right in the end?”

“Yes,” he said, “even for Éomer King.  Lothíriel’s his wife.”

“Is she now?”

“Yes, but he makes her ask him every time she wants him to kiss her.”

“Really?”

“He claims so, anyhow.”

Estella laughed.  “D’you know what I think?”

“What do you think, my heart?”

“I think, love, that the women of Gondor are all the cleverest folk I’ve ever heard of.  If the Queen, or the lady Éowyn, evercomes up here, you must take me to her that I may make her acquaintance.  And,” she added, laying her finger on his nose, “I also think that this story was perfectly all right to tell under the context of marriage.”

Merry laughed.  “You—you realize I’ll never tell this to anyone else?”

“Yes, of course.  I only request that when your dear cousin Pippin finally marries her, I may tell Diamond the full tale.”

Merry could not help but smile at the thought.  “Better yet—we’ll make him tell her!”

“Why, yes—that would make things so much easier.  Now, I’m thinking of a dark green gown for you and perhaps something pink for him…”

Merry paled.  “Estella, you wouldn’t...”

This story has been a long years' labor of love.  The first germs for it came in the summer of 2004, evolving from the private jokes of a few friends about the sheer humor of watching the Manly Men of Minas Tirith being so thoroughly humiliated.  The "It's not a skirt; it's a skort!" line, and accompanying skirt-flipping action, dates to this time and is, alas, not mine.

I wrote the first scene for it (Eowyn dressing Faramir) either that fall or the fall after, and began to show it to more friends.  Believe it or not, Faramir was even more of a drama queen in the first draft.

Drafting began in earnest around 2006, and in that year I got as far as Faramir digging his way through the manuscripts.  A few summers later I got as far as Pippin's Mad Dash Through Town--the rest (some 15,000 words) is new material written for the LotR GFIC Big Bang Challenge.

With such a long history, the list of acknowledgments I have for this fic is great.  Everyone who listened to me read excerpts aloud, read copies of cookies, and otherwise encouraged me to write this crack: Angie, Chrissy, Jessy, GoldVermilion, Raksha, Thundera, SkuldNevermore, and Dreamflower--without your tireless work this fic would not be what it is today.  Especial thanks to Thundera, my beta for this fic, who pointed out some endemic problems in the scenario and gave me last-minute comments, to GoldVermilion likewise, and to SkuldNevermore for drawing me a brown-eyed Pip.  ;)  Thundera is also responsible for the second title of the story,Real Men Wear Corsets.

References and allusions:

"I'll eat my head" - Mr. Grimwig in Dickens' Oliver Twist

"The Queen would have you in her closet" - adapted from the Reduced Shakespeare Company's Compleat Wks. of Wm. Shkspr. Abridged

Arwen's red dress - straight out of movieverse

the Khandis - a phonetically fiddled version of Candace (at least, if you pronounce it like an American), the ancient title of the Queen of Ethiopia