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The Lord of Aglarond smoothed the sheets of paper on his desk and squinted at them again. He drew the oil-lamp closer - a simple but efficient affair of plain copper; despite the wealth of the Glittering Caves, Dwarves saw no point in wasting good bullion on something that was worked best and most elegantly in a humbler material. He sighed.

Since the return of the King and the addition of Aglarond to the Dwarvish trade routes that ran from Rhovanion to the Blue Mountains and all parts between, traffic between Rohan and the Shire had increased year by year. Among its many benefits was much better and more frequent word from Gimli's friends in the Shire, some more comprehensible than others. He reflected occasionally that it was quite astonishing that Dwarves had gone to and fro through the Shire for centuries (even after the retaking of Erebor!) without learning anything at all about Hobbits. The younger, more adventurous Dwarves were starting to amend this, but even so Gimli was still considered (somewhat disapprovingly, among the more conservative element) the xenological expert among his people.

Of all Gimli's Hobbit correspondents, Pippin's letters were the most work to decipher. Sam Gamgee's hand was laborious but correct, his style courteously terse; Merry's script was as elegant and precise as his language. But Pippin's rapidly moving train of thought, combined with his appalling, schoolboy scribble, made him difficult to understand at the best of times; and when he was labouring under some strong emotion (which was frequently) it became an exercise in cryptography that might daunt the most experienced Dwarf.

Gimli gave up. The paper was different from earlier letters, he noticed. Good, strong stuff; he remembered Merry telling him about it as a new export. He made a mental note to order some for the Glittering Caves, drew his writing tablet to him and began the rough draft of a letter in response.

My dear Merry,

I have received a somewhat mysterious communication from our friend Pippin. Its subject is not entirely clear to me, but I could make out the word "mushrooms" repeated frequently throughout. If you are aware of what our friend's concern might be....

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In six months camped on the borders of the Shire, Master Engineer Halgund of Pelargir had learned to both like and respect the Hobbits. They were likeable folk, amiable and easy-going as their Brandywine river (and he appreciated the pun), but like the river, their current could run deep and in unexpected places.

The village of Haysend, for instance, a small, indefinably peculiar settlement at the confluence of the Brandywine and one of its eastern tributaries. Some odd things had been happening there to Halgund’s engineers while they were surveying the banks. Nothing apparently serious, but enough for Master Halgund to send a message to the local authority requesting advice and assistance, and bring Meriadoc Brandybuck to this obscure corner of his territory on a sunny, summer day to investigate for himself.

In courtesy to the new Master of Buckland, Halgund entertained his guest to the best cooking that his commissary could offer (which was very good indeed; Nettleweb Maggot, the eldest Maggot daughter, had been hired to run it) and broke out some of his jealously-hoarded store of Gondorian confectionery, which was also appreciatively received.

"Master Halgund," the Hobbit said over tea and candied citron, having heard the whole tale, "You and your men have done excellent work on the barrage below the Bridge. We appreciate your help and are glad to have you here. I will deal with this problem, do not worry."

"But", he waved an admonitory finger, "Please remind your men not to go swimming in the Withywindle!"

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Gimli had been as good as his word, and the master-craftsmen of Erebor (and the new Dwarf-hold of Aglarond) were busy with the work on the new Great Gate of Minas Tirith (1). A special workshop had been built for the purpose outside the wall(2), with Gondorian guards stationed outside to shoo off the curious (both for their own safety and to protect the Dwarves’ secrets). At Their Majesties' personal request, however, Master Gimli had agreed to allow a certain amount of latitude for visiting dignitaries, and the occasional educational tour for children.

The VIP guest this morning was Master Legolas of Ithilien, who was in the City with word for Her Majesty from his royal father in Greenwood the Great. Trade secrets not being an issue in his case, he received Master Gimli’s personal attention. Throughout the tour and the excellent lunch that followed, Legolas listened with every appearance of interest as the dwarf spoke eloquently of cube volumes, stress tolerances, the properties of the different grades of steel and mithril and how they would be used in the Gate both structurally and decoratively, the peculiarities of Numenorean systems of measurement and Gondorian engineers' hidebound reluctance to convert to a sensible decimal system. Every so often he smiled, nodded and made appreciative noises.

After a while, it occurred to Gimli to ask, "Is any of this making any sense to you?"

Legolas said, apologetically, "I'm afraid my own work has been more in the area of cellular-scale, organic structures, rather than metallurgy. The synthesis and modification of giant-spider silk for construction use, specifically. Very handy for quick, light, tree-top shelters, you understand. Though I am also involved in an ongoing breeding programme for oaks and other forest trees to modify branch structure and increase load-bearing capacity. For winter snow-load, you know."

He looked a little wistful. "I don't know if the project will continue, though. It began as a response to the climatic changes after Sauron returned to power in the Third Age, so they might not see a need for it now."

. . . . .

(1) The King Under The Mountain’s coronation present to Queen Arwen and King Elessar, expected to more than repay its vast cost through future favourable trade terms with the Reunited Kingdom.

(2) The Steward’s Council, Minas Tirith’s main administrative body, was already manoeuvring genteelly over who would get to use the space once the work was done. The Treasurer was putting up a good fight in favour of a storage and inspection area for incoming goods, in alliance with the Secretary, who wanted a secondary, extramural office for the logging and reception of official gifts. The smart money however was on the Prefect of the Watch, who wanted it for an additional stable (since horses were not allowed within the City) and guardhouse to keep an eye on the ever-increasing number of suspicious foreigners wanting entry into the City now that peace had broken out.

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Faramir flinched slightly at the bellow of distress and wrath, amplified by the passage to a great booming roar. The temporary stables were specially reinforced and carefully ventilated, but both the stink and the echoes were still overpowering. Mablung looked embarrassed.

“It’s all right, Sir,” he said, straightening from the traditional Rangers’ slouch to something approximating parade rest; Commander Beregond did actually appreciate the Rangers, and had found that a carefully cultivated sense of rivalry with the Tower Guard worked (relative) wonders for their presentation.

“It’s nearly feeding time, they get a bit frisky when they’re hungry.”

Of all the horrors that the Men of Gondor had found in Minas Morgul, Sauron's fell-beasts had actually been among the least appalling. On closer inspection they had turned out to only be animals, however bizarre and hideous; and their keepers, who had clearly been Men rather than Orcs, had kept their quarters in fairly decent order. Despite the creatures being also bad-tempered, exceedingly ill-smelling , and apparently permanently hungry, a few Rangers had conceived an inexplicable fondness for them. Faramir had wondered if this was some strange new symptom of battle-shock or even the Black Breath (Minas Morgul had been very bad, in some ways even worse than Barad-dur), but the Warden of the Houses of Healing had said not.

The upshot was that both the Queen and the King agreed that they were now his responsibility.

"I am willing to accept that these are, in theory, innocent creatures and, in theory, tameable with decent treatment and proper care," he said patiently to Mablung, who had been the ringleader of the successful effort to persuade Their Majesties not to have the creatures slaughtered out of hand.

"I accept that they might even have promise as a messenger service in the future. I have no objection to your plans for their maintenance and, er, possible breeding. The budget looks manageable, and I will leave the logistics to you. I have my doubts as to whether they will be any improvement upon the mumak project, but let that be for now."

A few of the surviving mumakil had been rounded up after the Battle of the Morannon, and some enthusiastic farmers in the south were having a go at using them for draught and forest clearance. Faramir had decided that those were the Lord of Lebennin’s problem, not his.

On one point at least he was quite clear.

"My lady is most certainly not going to let you quarter them in the caverns under Emyn Arnen. Find somewhere else."

Chapter Text

"Hmm."

Merry Brandybuck suppressed the desire to scratch his head. The heir of Buckland was required to mind his manners at all times.

"Really, I'm not sure what the problem is, Maggot. Why not just uproot it and be done? It's not supposed to be on this side of the High Hay, let alone this side of the River."

Farmer Maggot nodded gloomily.

"No sir, that it's not. Specially not this kind."

"But it was that there Bombadil that brought it to me the other day. Said it was poorly and needed a change of scene. Well, you can see it's a sickly thing. A good shove from one of my boys would knock it clean off its roots."

Merry eyed the willow sapling with disfavour. The Maggots had given it a temporary home in an old sack filled with earth and propped up with bricks, but even taking this into account it was a limp and unenthusiastic specimen. Every so often a sapling from the Old Forest still popped up on the wrong side of the High Hay, though not usually as far as the wrong side of the Brandywine; they were normally uprooted and burned without further ado. But Bombadil’s involvement changed things. The Maggot family’s association with him was of long standing, going back generations. If Tom Bombadil had entrusted the sapling to them, he had had a reason. Though, Merry reflected (he had made sure after the Return of the King to be on regular if infrequent visiting terms with the Master of the Forest), not necessarily one that would make any sense to anyone else. But that could wait until the immediate problem had been dealt with.

"Very well," he said briskly, making up his mind. "Farmer Maggot, you are charged with the care of this, er, tree, until Master Bombadil chooses to reclaim it. You might want to remind him about it occasionally. However, in the meantime we will not court disaster by letting it root on Shire soil. A nice big pot, that's the ticket. There should be something suitable in Brandy Hall if you don't have one to hand."

“And,” he gave the sapling a hard stare, "Mrs Maggot has my full permission to turn it into willow-bark tea if it is any trouble at all."

Chapter Text

It was a fine spring day, and the pennants of Gondor flapped briskly from the Tower of Cirith Ungol, now fumigated, rehabilitated and restored to its former allegiance and a reasonable state of repair. In view of the other calls on Faramir’s budget, basic clean-up, the removal of all Sauron-related additions and the installation of a bare-bones garrison had been all that was feasible.

Most of the available funds had gone to the Dwarven engineers working on the present project, which Faramir had decided was a sufficient security risk to warrant their involvement. Even with Master Gimli’s goodwill discount, Dwarves did not come cheap, but Faramir had decided, and Their Majesties had agreed, that the cost was worth it. Merely filling in and sealing the Undergate and its passage had taken months. Then there had been the digging of the new access a (hopefully) safe distance outside the fortress, and the vital calculations to ensure that they did not simply bring the whole Tower down on themselves, which would have mostly solved one problem, but created several, more expensive, others.

Today Faramir would find out if his first big project as the Prince of Ithilien was going to be a success. The sensation was, he found, not unlike the tense moments before his first engagement with the Enemy as a young Ranger. He adjusted his borrowed and unfamiliar armour. Around him his men, and the Dwarves of Master Gimli's crew were doing the same. The armour was of Dwarven make, and as nearly fireproof as anything could be; they might need it this day. There was an air of tense expectation about them all, as they waited.

At his side, Master Gimli grunted, and a subdued cheer broke from the men of Gondor as several figures both short and tall clambered out of the fenced-off sinkhole that was the new entrance to Shelob’s Lair. All were coated in muck and spiderwebs, but their torches and lanterns were held high, and they seemed unhurt. Several bore spears and axes and others dragged a long cord. Dwarves ran forward and took it from them, connecting it to various peculiar devices.

Faramir did not let his relief show at his men’s safe arrival. The dangerous prelude was done, but the equally dangerous second phase was yet to come.

"It was rough going in there, sirs," Captain Mablung said, answering his prince’s unspoken question. He had insisted on being one of the men to go through. Despite Master Samwise's account, no one had been sure that Shelob was not still lurking in ambush in her noisome hole in the passage. "But we ran the powder down as many of the side-branches as we could, and dropped three canisters into that..."

"Pit," one the Dwarves with him said. "A vile place."

"It will be mended soon," Master Gimli said. The grim spirit of the Dwarves shone in his eyes, and those of his people. Faramir had realised, during the planning of this operation, that such a creature as Shelob was a particular offence to the Dwarves, a defilement of clean stone. Death by rockfall or gas or the other hazards of the underground they understood and accepted. The monstrous vileness of the Spider was another thing.

The Gondorians withdrew to take cover behind a prepared shelter of wet hides, at what Gimli had advised would probably be a safe distance away. Only a small group of Dwarves was left, fiddling with their instruments; then they left them, and came jogging swiftly to join the Men. There was silence, then a sudden spark from the devices, bright as the sun, and all covered their eyes. Then came a hiss that grew swiftly into a great roaring, and when Faramir could see again, the mouth of the sinkhole showed a blaze of fire, hot enough to scorch his face despite the distance and the shelter.

"Get back further!" Master Gimli ordered, and the Gondorians obeyed without cavil. The roaring grew louder and louder, until they could no longer hear speech above it, and then came a great thundering crash from far within the rock. The ground shook beneath them, and the pennants far above wavered, not from the wind, but the Tower held (Faramir had made sure that the contract with the Dwarves included inspection and any necessary post-operation repairs to the fortress).

"That was the pit!" another Dwarf cried. "We've done it!"

"Maybe", Master Gimli said. "Wait."

It was more than a day before the fire cooled enough for them even to approach the site. From the condition of the road, the tunnel had collapsed completely. When the Dwarves brought tools to probe the wreckage, they saw that the rock even a little way in still glowed red hot.

Shelob's Lair was cleansed, at least for a while.

Chapter Text

The Ambassador of Far Harad sat by his fishpond and contemplated the reflection of the summer stars, shining in the black water. His staff had been given the evening off after the general observance at sunset; they knew what he would be about tonight, and would make sure not to come home until much later.

He liked the Embassy, a large, pleasant mansion with its own garden, high enough to catch the breeze even at mid-summer. The house had been empty when Gondor offered it to the Confederation of Clans for its Embassy, the line of its former inhabitants long failed. The garden had been equally neglected, but was now, he thought, becoming beautiful. The open blossoms of sweet-scented water-lilies shone white and perfect, and the night air was warm and sweet on his skin.

It was the second anniversary of his arrival in Minas Tirith, a new and drastically promoted Ambassador, hiding terror behind the mask of self-control and a hastily-cultivated beard. His first year had passed in a whirlwind of work and grief and more work and the steadfast, painful avoidance of hatred (the strictures of the Sons of the Wind, inculcated from before he could walk, suddenly had point and bitter meaning). Fortunately, the last act of his superiors before their execution had been to requisition a substantial proportion of the funds that the Army had been carrying with it, so at least the Embassy had been spared the shame of having to beg from the Gondorians.

He poured a full cup of his best wine onto the grass, and spoke the names, and remembered.

The broken field of the Black Gate, with its treacherous sinks and landslips. The vinegar stench of the casks containing the heads of men who had been his superiors and colleagues, and in one or two cases his friends. The sharp hurt of his wounds, the sharper shame of surrender, and the slow burn of infection in the dust and poison of the land. The blurry agony of the surgeon's excision. He no longer had the arrowhead, but the scar in his side would be reminder enough for as long as he might live thereafter. The injury had troubled him for many months, until the Queen had laid her healing upon him. What was it like, he wondered absently, to walk in such strength that your very presence could enthrall all around you?

He wondered if he should feel guilt that on this night, dedicated to his dead, he should instead be thinking about an alien Queen. He decided not. The Queen and the King of Gondor were, for now, the future of his people. The Haradrim had been there before Numenor came. That grim day by the Morannon it had become his life's work to ensure that they would be there when Numenor was forgotten.

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"Fire was a good beginning," Arwen said, "But I fear that nothing but time will truly purify this foul place."

She sat her horse at the western mouth of the Morgul Vale, looking across to the grim fields and the polluted river, and the ghoul city beyond. It was spring again, but no life was waking from the earth, only a stink of rot released by the warming air, as if the very earth were decaying into filth. The fields were barren still, even a year after the Army of the West had burned them. A thin film of mould was all that grew on the dead soil.

The White Company was mounted around their Queen in full array, with other soldiers of the City. She herself rode helmed and armoured in a coat of mithril mail, with a sword at her side and daggers at wrist and hip. A bow hung cased and strung at her saddle, in the fashion of Rivendell. Their horses shifted uneasily, but the Queen’s reassuring presence prevented outright panic. Even after the fall of Sauron, the Men of Gondor had had great difficulty persuading their mounts to tolerate the Morgul Vale at all. And the effect on the Men had been hardly better, for the city itself seemed to exhale horror. The ruin of Barad-dur, sinking gradually in its lake of fire, had strangely been less dreadful to the spirit than this corrupted city that had once been their own.

"The Men of Gondor entered Minas Morgul as soon as we might after the Fall of Sauron," Faramir said quietly beside her. "Lest there might be captives still living. There were some, but...none who could be rescued. And while the city stands it will be a canker on the land."

"I rode with my father and grandmother to the taking of Dol Guldur, in the year of the Dragon's fall," the Queen answered in the same tone. "Well I remember what we found there."

Faramir nodded. "And so I wished to consult your wisdom, Lady, concerning the best course to take. It cannot be left unattended."

The King was in the South, engaged in delicate negotiation with wary delegations of Haradrim. The tribes that had surrendered at the Morannon had not been the only ones, and the deaths of their leaders in that battle had precipitated destabilising internal conflicts in both the Kingdom of Near Harad and the Confederation of Tribes of Far Harad, not to mention the ever-egregious Corsairs. Arwen had remained in Gondor, Aragorn having decided rather heartlessly that the Lords of Gondor needed to get used to being ruled by a being out of legend sooner rather than later. Her mere presence was also having significant impact on the envoys trickling in from the lands further East.

In the meantime, the carcass of Minas Morgul was abandoned, its warrens empty and its machinery of war and torment silenced. But its walls still stood, an intolerable threat to the Reunited Kingdom, if they were ever manned again by enemies.

"Yes," the Queen said at last. "Having looked upon this place, I agree. It is time that it is unroofed, that Sun and weather may aid in the cleansing. I have not my grandmother's might, to cast down walls with only my unaided will, but what I have is yours. Let your people walk within unafraid, and let them leave no stone standing."

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Not long after taking up his duties as Steward of the Reunited Kingdom (having by mutual agreement left Ithilien to the Lady Eowyn's entirely competent rule), Faramir had informally inserted into his regular schedule a period for what he mentally classified as "Odd Things". Minas Tirith, like any other great city, produced a regular stream of peculiar happenings to keep the lives of its administrators interesting. But since the Return of the King, it was as if time itself had hiccupped, and things (and creatures) of legend seemed suddenly as common as cups in the City.

Every fortnight or so, the Captain of the White Tower and the Prefect of the City Watch (which for law enforcement purposes included all the lands within the Rammas Echor) and sometimes the Secretary of the Steward’s Council, would drift into the Steward's office together at the close of the day’s business. As the season recommended they would sip wine, tea, ale or (after the coming of Aunt Adili's Haradren Chocolate and Confectionery Shop) hot chocolate. They would chat casually to the Steward about those doings and happenings that were for various reasons unsuitable for the regular formal meetings of the King and Queen’s great officers. Sometimes they brought him things.

On this occasion, after the tea (it was autumn and growing cool) had been poured and minor gossip had been exchanged, it was the Secretary who had something to show. He was, among many other duties, in charge of the Office of Gifts, which dealt with official presents to and from the King, the Queen, the Lord Faramir and the Lady Eowyn. This was not the sinecure that it might seem. Gold, jewels, exotic artifacts and horses from Rohan were straightforward to deal with, and in the case of the gold, jewels and horses always welcome. However the baby crocodile presented by the Royal Envoy of Near Harad to the Lady Eowyn had required some considerable discussion (and had grown to a fair size) before it reached its eventual home in a handsome enclosure attached to the Pelargir Academy of Natural Sciences.

This time, the object of concern seemed entirely innocuous, though to Faramir’s accustomed eye the Secretary himself was showing a certain twitch of suppressed excitement. The smallish, oval box of some unfamiliar but nicely-figured, golden-brown wood sat on Faramir's desk in a completely unrevealing manner. When Faramir unlatched it and lifted the hinged lid, he found nothing more alarming than a round teapot and five cups, with lids but no handles in the East Rhunen style. He took a cup out of its place and examined it with care and pleasure. It was very smooth and comfortable in the hand, of the delicate white porcelain known in the City as eggshell-ware. The light glowed through it when Faramir held it up against the lamp on his desk to see the pattern more clearly - a simple, self-coloured design of cherry blossom in low relief.

"Fine work," he said, an understatement. Even the best work out of the Uttermost East (sold as a side-line by Aunt Adili’s) did not match this. He raised an eyebrow at the Secretary. The Secretary said, "This was a gift to Her Majesty from a new potter in the townlands," and then, most uncharacteristically, fell silent and looked at the Prefect.

The Prefect said, "Master Lang, the potter at Chestnut Ford village, retired last year to Belfalas to live with his daughter. Both of his sons were killed at the Morannon. and he had no other heirs."

Faramir offered a courteous murmur of sympathy. The Prefect continued, "Before he left, he brought in a new man to take over the pottery. Lang's pottery supplies cups and dishes for Chestnut Ford, and more importantly, jars and bottles for almost all of the villages in the Pelennor. Oil, wine, vinegar, pickled eggs, salted vegetables and all manner of other products are shipped to the City or out to Anorien in their jars. They’re a major local business. Still, it is not something that we would normally take an interest in, until the new man sent this gift to Master Secretary's office."

Faramir turned the cup in his hand over. The maker's mark was punched neatly on the bottom and coloured scarlet. A simple device, an eight-pointed star. This time both eyebrows went up. The Captain of the Tower took another cup from the box without fuss, held it out at arm's length and dropped it. The Steward's office was floored with a rather beautiful mosaic of small, square, black and white tiles of stone, set in elegant, geometric patterns. When porcelain hit mosaic there should have been a crash and a lot of shards. Instead, the cup produced a genteel, chiming sound, as it bounced twice and then settled on the tesserae, smugly unscathed.

The men contemplated it in silence.

"I see," said Faramir.

“Master Secretary and I tested it on the quiet. Heat, acid, knives and other etching tools won’t touch it,” the Captain said. “Nor sledgehammers.” His tone was distinctly morose. “I suppose tossing it into Mount Doom might have some effect, but that would need Their Majesties’ authorisation, considering what happened the last time.”

It was not widely known that among the duties of the Captain of the White Tower was the oversight of Gondor's intelligence service. Denethor had relied on his own resources and the role had fallen into disuse in the later years of his reign, but the King and Queen had preferred to revive it, rather than trust the proven unreliability of the pálantir. Insoluble mysteries were professionally distressing.

“The pot keeps the tea hot beautifully,” the Secretary said, rather wistfully. “And not stewed. And the spout doesn’t dribble at all.”

"We rode out at once to take a look ourselves," the Prefect said, bringing the discussion back to present practicalities. He had the least Númenorean ancestry of any of them, being descended from the stolid yeomen of Anorien, and had achieved his rank by unflappable and effective command of the City’s fire-fighters during the Great Siege. But even his marmoreal calm was showing cracks.

"A completely normal place, to all appearances," the Prefect went on. "The pottery is keeping Lang’s name and maintaining production as it did under his charge. The villagers are happy about that, since a lot of them work there. The new master potter is reasonable and respected, though considered somewhat standoffish. The invincible crockery is a special line."

"Very special," the Secretary put in. "It's three hundred times the price of the normal ware."

“I’d like to show it to Master Gimli,” the Captain said with more animation. “The Dwarves might be able to duplicate it for us. For a lower price, too.”

Faramir became aware that for some reason his men were avoiding the main issue. They did not normally waste time pirouetting around the point like Khandish dancers. That was interesting in itself, so he let it continue, knowing that if it was important enough to bring to him they would get to it eventually. He looked at the maker’s mark again.

"Is the potter of the Eldar?" He knew that there would be more to it than that. Master Legolas and his folk came and went between Ithilien and the City often enough. A mere Wood-elf who had however eccentrically decided to take an interest in commercial pottery, rather than silviculture and hunting, was certainly not going to unsettle the senior officers of Minas Tirith to this extent.

It was the Prefect who came to the point in the end. "Looked like it, sir. And not one of Master Legolas' folk either. The same looks, black hair, pale skin, grey eyes, but...different.” He frowned, trying to find the words, then gave up. “A tall fellow, taller than the Queen (1), even. High Elf, it seemed to me. Much like some of those who came with the Queen and Master Elrond.".

"Bright eyes," the Secretary said. "Very bright. And rather... daunting in manner, though perfectly gracious. He was very firm about refusing to consider any, er, military applications for his work."

Faramir was beginning to suspect who and what his men had met in Chestnut Ford. The study of the Elder Days was popular in the Reunited Kingdom now, and thanks to the new block-printing machines from the East, Master Bilbo's works were ever more widely circulated(2). Previously obscure tidbits of lore were now the common knowledge of the Kingdom. Children played at Turin and the Dragon and learned their Sindarin from the bilingual edition of The Lay of Leithian. The Captain’s young daughter had named her pet rabbits after the Sons of Fëanor. Epic poetry about Their Majesties' ancestors was discreetly discouraged at court (His Majesty liked comic songs and traditional lays, and Her Majesty preferred dancing) but disfigured the parties of the nouveau riche. Highly-coloured romances of the Elder Days made printers and booksellers rich.

The Captain, who of the three had the strongest strain of Numenorean ancestry, said soberly, "I have not felt such power since the Coming of the Queen and Master Elrond, sir. When we all met Lady Galadriel."

And this time he had clearly not experienced the joyful awe that the Lady had elicited in all who came into her presence.

"His name," Faramir prodded, not quite losing patience.

The three looked at each other. "The villagers call him Master Káno," the Secretary said at last. "It’s in the Archives’ Concordance to the Red Book."

There was a short silence as Faramir digested this. It was both wildly unlikely and completely unsurprising.

“They know something of course,” the Prefect said, experienced in the ways of witnesses with things to hide.

Faramir’s tone sharpened. “Are they in fear?”

“No, nothing like that, sir,” the Prefect said quickly, “But they know he’s ... out of the normal run of things and the better-educated ones know their Baggins. If they don’t know for sure, they can guess. But they keep his secrets, and they bring their babies for his blessing.”

“Which he grants with good grace,” the Captain said. “It happened while we were being given the tour of the kilns. For the rest, the village feels... well. Healthy, clean, well-fed, cornfields(3), cattle and olive-groves all in good order, everything tidy as Periannath. No taint of the Dark that I could feel.”

“They told me that he sings sometimes,” the Secretary said, visibly thinking of returning to Chestnut Ford to take notes.

“Perhaps later, sir,” the Prefect said in a polite but quelling way.

Looking more closely, Faramir realised that the flowers on the cup were not cherry blossom. They were the flowers of the White Tree. He put the cup back in the box. The Captain retrieved the one on the floor and replaced it as well. The Prefect sat back in his chair. The Secretary fiddled with his note-tablets and stylus, looking both keenly interested and slightly nervous. They drank their tea, in the manner of men who have successfully passed a problem too big for them to their superior.

Faramir considered the significance of the gift. Not a ring, or a sword or a harp or a mithril corselet. A tea-set. A harmless, civilised present, suggestive of pleasant sociability and peaceable intentions. And of alien origin, unbreakable strength and arts beyond the reach of Men. Typically Elvish, in other words, saying at once ‘yea’ and ‘nay’, and possibly also ‘maybe’. In these diminished days, was a tea-set reasonably to be considered a possible sign of Doom? He sipped his own tea, now rather tepid, then did his duty and made a decision.

"Master Secretary, you may leave the tea-set with me. Captain, please file a full report at once. I will bring it to Their Majesties’ attention myself, with the tea-set, and ask for their instructions, which we will then follow. With luck, we shall not be required to throw it into Mount Doom. I shall also upon my own authority request the Lords Elladan and Elrohir to send us any information that may be preserved in Rivendell on ...Master Káno. Prefect, you may withdraw your watch upon him unless we are instructed otherwise by Their Majesties.” It went without saying that a watch had been set. But realistically… “It is unlikely to make any difference anyway."

"Yes, my lord."
"Sir."
"Sir.”

All three looked relieved. The Prefect did not so much as twitch at the suggestion that his carefully-trained watchmen might not be of much use against Minas Tirith’s latest notable immigrant. The Captain, a cultivated man, glanced at the large red-bound volumes in the bookcase next to Faramir’s desk. He too knew that there was no hiding from reality, not in a realm whose Queen was the grand-daughter of the Evening Star.

“We’re all living in Translations From The Elvish now, aren’t we, sir?”

Faramir sighed. “When were we not?” He closed the lid of the box. The latch was of finely-worked bronze in the shape of a pair of leaves, stylised but still recognisable as the leaves of the White Tree. “At least it seems to be one of the quieter bits, so far.”

. . . . .

(1) Look at her immediate ancestors. There is no way that Arwen was short.

(2) The royalties go to Sam.

(3) Naturally I use “corn” here in its original sense of “any edible, cultivated grain”.

Chapter Text

"Yes," the Ambassador of Far Harad said, in a tone of modest self-congratulation, "I think that we have done good work in bringing these artists here."

Master Samwise took a deep, pleased breath. This was his first visit to Aunt Adili’s Haradren Chocolate and Confectionery Shop, a new establishment in Confectioners’ Street. As he cautiously sipped the eponymous chocolate, a mysterious but intriguingly-scented dark brown drink, he thought that it might not be his last.

Arriving in the City for his first visit since the departure of Master Frodo over Sea, he had been astonished at how much things had changed in just seven years. His assigned household staff (much to his embarrassment, the Mayor of the Shire, Ringbearer, Counsellor of the Reunited Kingdom and Hero of Gondor had his own cook, squires in attendance and guards to escort him when he went about the City) had told him about the exotic foreign Big Folk whom he had noticed here and there in the City.

The resident Ambassadors had all been presented to him (the Ringbearer, Hero, Counsellor etc having precedence in the Reunited Kingdom above everyone except Their Majesties themselves), and a small flood of invitations had duly followed. The Queen had advised him to simply accept the ones that looked interesting, and so far he had not been disappointed.

The Haradren drink was strongly-flavoured but tasty. A rich, complex flavour, slightly sweet, with an agreeable tang and an interesting fruity quality. The big kitchen was well-lit and shone with cleanliness; slim, brown-skinned Big People with black, curly hair, rather like the Ambassador himself, (though noticeably shorter) bustled about, doing culinary things in what he could see was a practiced and well-ordered way.

The Ambassador waved an airy hand at the busy work-benches.

"Your friend Master Gimli came by the other day and was most helpful. He noted especially the casts and the moulds that they use, and has given them the names of some reliable suppliers. It amused him, I think, to find that this art shares a vocabulary with his own. What they make here is "tempered" too, just as metal is. They have devised a new decorative stamp for the New Year production, especially in his honour."

Aunt Adili herself, who was in fact a lady of Easterling extraction, introduced to Sam as Mistress Innin, came up and presented Master Samwise with a box, wrapped in delicate, artfully-folded paper. He bowed and thanked her in Haradic, which elicited a smiling bow in response, and giggles and cheerful comments from her workers.

"You are privileged," said the Ambassador. "That is their most select and expensive assortment. The Gondorrim have really taken to this, though we find that they prefer the drinking variety."

Master Samwise weighed the box of chocolate in his hands. It was small but solid, and that faint, really quite delectable scent rose from it, even through the paper.

“What is this made from, ma’am?” he asked, in Westron.

Mistress Innin looked pleased.

“The fruit of a tree that grows in the hot rain-lands, far in the south, beyond the lands you call Far Harad. The seeds are fermented, roasted and ground to powder, which can be mixed with spices as a drink, or with sugar as a sweet.” Her Westron was perfect, though strongly accented; her voice was deep and pleasant. He had also heard her speaking Elvish to his squire Master Borlas and Master Angrim the guard.

“I have a young specimen growing in my garden here, if you would like to see it, Master Samwise. As a curiosity only, since it does not like cold.”

Mistress Innin was quite unlike both the Gondorians and the Haradrim, being only a few inches taller than Master Gimli. She was as pale as the Gondorians, or the mumak-ivory bracelet that the Ambassador wore, but her face was round, with prominent cheekbones and her narrow eyes were black and bright. Her thin lips smiled constantly, with a slightly unnerving cheerfulness.

Sam was already thinking of his greenhouse, and the cozy warmth of Bag End, and how much light the chocolate tree might need…

“I’d be delighted to see it, ma’am, if you have the time to accommodate me.”

“I would be honoured, sir,” Mistress Innin said. “All who come in peace, freely and of their own will, are welcome in my garden.”

Chapter Text

Faramir read the memorandum from his office again, and the extremely comprehensive letter from the Mayor of the Shire attached to it. Official missives from the Shire were rare, though personal correspondence was not, and given highest priority as a matter of course. As the Captain of the White Tower had remarked, in his capacity of head of intelligence. "They found the One Ring. Who knows what they will get hold of next?"

Today's matter, luckily, was not quite of that scale of seriousness, though certainly not a small thing, taking the long view. Master Samwise's prose style was plain but lucid, and he had covered every point with great thoroughness. Faramir thought over the Hobbit's account, and decided that the issue was within his jurisdiction, and the King and Queen did not need to be troubled by this unpleasant matter, except with the knowledge of its resolution.

Faramir summoned his secretary, dictated a swift order, and when the two fair-copies (one for action, one for the Archive) arrived on his desk, sealed them with the Steward's Seal, and then both the King's and the Queen’s Seals, a warning of its signal importance. The order would be copied and disseminated throughout the City by nightfall; it would then go out through the Kingdom to all local administrators and the Steward of the North, as fast as the King's couriers could ride (he thought for a moment of Mablung, and the apparently unending Flying Beast Project; the promise of ultra-high-speed communications was the only thing keeping the Treasury on side when it came to budget-approval time). There would be heavy penalties for non-compliance, including large fines, confiscation, and in egregious cases, flogging. The order sent off with his secretary, Faramir picked up his own pen and began to write on a fresh sheet:

Faramir son of Denethor and Finduilas, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor, Arnor and the Western Lands, greets his most honoured friend Master Samwise, Mayor of the Shire and Counselor of the Reunited Kingdom:

Dear friend, I hope that this finds you well. I have received your letter of 6th October, and thank you most sincerely for drawing this extremely regrettable business to my attention. I apologise that I did not become aware of this sooner, and that you were therefore forced to write to me. It should not have been necessary, and for my neglect I can only plead the press of recent events to do with His Majesty's campaigns in the East. It is a poor excuse, but I hope that you will find my response satisfactory. I am of course wholly in accord with you concerning the impropriety of allowing hawkers to sell souvenirs marked with this alleged “emblem of Master Frodo”. All potters, woodcarvers and other manufacturers throughout the Kingdom have been prohibited from making any item purporting to be connected with the Ringbearer, other than the authorised educational material that has already been approved. The sale of such items has also been forbidden, on pain of heavy penalties, which I assure you will be enforced with enthusiasm.

My greetings and good wishes also to Mistress Rose and your daughters and sons.

Faramir

Chapter Text

Really, Celeborn remarked via osanwe to his wife, if I had known that this visit was going to be one extended interrogation, I would have stayed at home.

The loremasters of Gondor knew a historic opportunity when it came their way, and every one of them, from the oldest, most long-retired archivist to the most recently recruited junior library assistant, had been called upon for the occasion. The entire Elvish delegation (except Elrond, who was spending his time uninterruptably with Arwen ) had found itself essentially under siege by eager scholars. Celeborn was currently trapped in the Archives, being plied with refreshments (it was always easy to tell folk who had been dealing with Hobbits) and questioned about everything from pre-solar Beleriandic vegetation to Gil-galad’s supply-chain arrangements during the War of the Last Alliance.

Galadriel snickered heartlessly in his mind. I am with Master Gimli at his workshop she said. We are having tea, and a very interesting chat about the excavation and construction techniques used in both Nargothrond and Menegroth, and how they differed from those of Moria. He is also showing me some excellent designs for the new Gate; he is very talented.

Well, her husband responded resignedly, At least we aren’t the only ones…

"The riddle-game is of great antiquity, of course," the Chief Archivist (Retired) was saying. "But I am particularly interested, Master Frodo, in your esteemed kinsman's choice of riddle, and the order in which he chose them. Could one perhaps interpret this as significant in some way?"
Her clerk, a junior assistant librarian requisitioned from the archives for this purpose, dutifully took down the question in his neat scribal shorthand and waited, pen lifted, for the heroic Halfling to reply.

The Chief Archivist (Retired) had taken advantage of her seniority to invite all four Hobbits to her pleasant house for extensive interviews (and lunch, tea and dinner). On this occasion, however, her current guest was beginning to flag.

Frodo had been with the Chief Archivist (Retired) for more than an hour, this time telling her about the beginning of the Baggins family's fateful entanglement with Gollum/Smeagol and the Ring. The interview was taking place in her little garden, a calm, cosy space planted with lavender, rosemary and other scented herbs. Her tea was excellent and plentiful, as were her pine-nut cakes, sandwiches and cold venison pie, but Frodo was beginning to wish that he had taken up Gandalf’s offer to arrive after half an hour with “an urgent summons from the King”.

"Well, you know, ma’am, my kinsman was in a very tight spot at that moment," he said, improvising. "He was alone in the dark, his senses were disordered, he was quite rightly afraid that he would be throttled at any moment...probably the riddles he chose were simply the ones he knew best."

"Ah, of course," the Chief Archivist (Retired) said. "The historical relationship between the Halfling versions and their obvious cognates here in the South is quite fascinat..."

"These little cakes are delicious," Frodo said, interrupting ruthlessly. "I would be very pleased if your cook would be so kind as to let me have the recipe."

Chapter Text

Faramir looked at the Chief Archivist's report, and then at the Chief Archivist.

"Isn't this a little late?" he enquired.

The Chief Archivist of Minas Tirith (and ex officio therefore the Senior Loremistress of the High and Reunited Kingdom) was a correct and dignified lady of middle years and high Numenorean descent. She did not blush or shuffle her feet, but there was nonetheless a certain metaphorical scuff of slippers in the atmosphere.

"Yes, my lord. We discovered the oversight while preparing the biographical note on Lord Glorfindel for the Secretary’s briefing to Their Majesties. While this is clearly of historical interest, we would not normally do more than leave a note in the file. However, in view of Lord Glorfindel’s presence, and kindness in allowing the Archives to interview him so extensively, and in justice to the memory of His Late Majesty..."

Faramir sighed, filled his pen and signed the report, restraining the remark that the issue could just as well have been dealt with by an article in Annual Proceedings of the Standing Historical Review Commission of Gondor Volume 3034.

"Very well. The Archive of Gondor formally apologises for misfiling the written record of the Lord Glorfindel's prophecy concerning the final fate of the Witch King of Angmar, thereby regrettably making it unavailable for inclusion as a reminder in the brief to His Late Majesty King Earnur before His Late Majesty's final departure for Minas Morgul. So noted. I will inform Their Majesties and Lord Glorfindel."

Chapter Text

The Dwarves' bargain with Eomer of Rohan was simple: in exchange for the cession of the Glittering Caves to Durin’s Folk in perpetuity, there would be friendship and alliance between Rohan and the Deeps, assurance of mutual aid in times of war or dearth, and the Dwarves would make the Hornburg a fortress upon which armies would break like water.

"It's terribly impressive," Merry Brandybuck said, as Gimli guided him around piles of masonry, towers of scaffolding, scurrying builders both Dwarven and Mannish, and seas of mud. Rohan was a green land even in barren winter; spring brought a rainbow of colour as the plains bloomed. The main colour around Helm's Deep, however, remained mud. Plank walkways were laid everywhere, but Merry still needed all his hobbit's agility both to keep his balance and to dodge the many dangerous objects found on a major building site run by two species significantly larger than his.

Behind him, Legolas was talking about horses with their Rohirric escorts; the Elf had stopped by on his way back to Ithilien from Mirkwood, to advise on highland agriculture for the new Dwarfhold. Pleasant chat about poultices, purges and the floating of teeth drifted over Merry's head from time to time as Gimli explained the changes that had been agreed for the fortress.

"Men always think in terms of concentric layers of defence," Gimli was saying, waving a hand at the walls. "But we have found that a spiral plan is structurally more resistant, and in many ways tactically superior."

He lowered his voice tactfully, “And we’re excavating different accesses to the Caves, of course.” Having the entrance to Aglarond stuck at the back of a Mannish fortress was awkward but currently unavoidable, given the formal agreement with the Rohirrim and the present state of works. Once Aglarond was populated, and trade and normal life got going, it would be untenable for daily use; both Gimli and the Marshal of the West-mark agreed on this. The caves immediately behind the Deeping Wall would remain dedicated to storage and refuge for the Rohirrim. There had also been mutual agreement on a fortified internal barrier further in, since neither the Marshal nor Gimli had any desire to leave open back doors into their respective territories.

“Lord Erkenbrand has been extremely generous and co-operative about letting us farm the upland valleys behind the fortress. In exchange for security assurances and a percentage of the crop, of course.”

The Rohirrim, a nation of horse-traders, had won the grudging respect of the Dwarves for their astuteness and tenacity in bargaining. For a suitable price, Dwarvish surveyors had been allowed to work unhindered around and about the highlands above their new realm. The high, narrow valleys would be terraced for crops, to feed Aglarond and, eventually, Gimli hoped, be traded with both Rohan and Gondor. The dwarves, naturally, got the mineral rights, subject to a very good long-term deal on weapons and tools for the Rohirrim.

"I’m glad that the agreement is working well," Merry said sincerely. He had been involved in the negotiations, appointed by King Thorin Stonehelm and King Eomer jointly (at the informal suggestion of the King and Queen of Gondor) as a neutral expert consultant acceptable to both parties. While the situation of Bree was rather different, the rules governing the co-existence of Men and Hobbits there (with which the Brandybucks were naturally familiar) had proved quite useful as a basis for discussion.

He thought about the vagaries of Brandy Hall's ground plan, or lack thereof, which even a Dwarf might find interesting. He also considered the Scouring of the Shire, not so many years ago. Pippin might be interested too. He and Diamond had been making noises about the need to renovate the Great Smials, especially the library and archives. These peaceful times might be a good opportunity for both Tooks and Brandybucks to prepare for the future. Sunny days were best if you wanted to dig up the roof.

"Perhaps, Gimli, when you have some time, you might like to come and visit Pippin and me in the Shire."

Chapter Text

It was dark under the trees, even though it was a sunny summer day outside. Or at least, it had been sunny when the hobbits entered the Old Forest early that morning. It had been getting noticeably darker, even though it was only around mid-day, by Merry's reckoning. While the trees had been in a moderately amiable mood so far, Merry was certainly not relying on it lasting, particularly considering what he and Pippin were doing. Several hostile-looking bushes had already turned up along the way, spiteful thorns at the ready. Merry fingered his pruning-knife and his tinderbox, and glowered meaningfully at a root that had thrust its way across the path. It held still, and he stepped over it with a polite "thank you".

"Pippin, what on earth made you agree to this? We could just have asked Sam to give us something, you know. That new strain of nasturtian he’s got is lovely, and the Númenóreans introduced it to Middle-earth, so it would be very suitable. "

"Well," Pippin said rather defensively, "The honour of the Shire was at stake. We’re all supposed to be great gardeners! Not just Sam! And all the foreign envoys were making contributions, even the Haradic ambassadors."

“Really?” Merry asked, distracted by interest for a moment. “Actual specimens? Not just seeds?”

“Yes, some sort of river grass from Near Harad, and some herb that looked a bit like wild carrot from Far Harad. It was very small, but the Ambassador said that it will grow quite large.”

He was behind, pruning-knife in hand. His knapsack, like Merry’s, bulged with specimens. The branches overhead rustled in a nasty way, and one fell with a crash across the path a little ahead of them. Merry had a definite feeling that the trees' fragile tolerance was ending.

"Enough, Pippin!" he said. "Time to head back! And the next time the Warden of the Houses of Healing wants cuttings for his research garden, tell him to come and get them himself!"

Chapter Text

The Ambassador of Far Harad was not enjoying himself. He was realising that neither his extensive education in the House of the Wind nor his sudden field promotion from junior secretary to Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary(1) had properly equipped him for his first private audience with HM The Lady Arwen, Queen of the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor, Lady of the Western Lands, and (literally!!!) grand-daughter of the Evening Star.

There was nothing otherwise unusual about the situation. As the regional powers picked themselves up after the political and strategic earthquake of Mordor’s fall, foreign envoys had flocked to the Court of the White Tree. King Elessar had ordered that the normal protocol should henceforth include the offer of separate audiences with the King and Queen, as well as the formal audience in full court. The Ambassador suspected privately that the former was a test of the envoys’ nerve, if nothing else; the rumours about Elessar’s Queen had spread far and wide, even in the few months since her arrival in Minas Tirith. One particularly tactless ambassador(2) had even, it was said, asked her her age outright. The rumoured answer (which the Ambassador fully believed) had not been reassuring.

The Lady Arwen smiled, and offered him sections of some obscure northern fruit on a silver plate, sliced and presented with little silver picks in the southern style. The Ambassador managed to smile in return and take some; he was pleased to note that his hands were not shaking too much. The autumn air was pleasantly cool, and the audience had been very civil so far, but he could feel the sweat trickling down his back. His wound was now fully healed thanks to the intervention of the Queen and her father (the son of the Evening Star!!!) but was starting to ache again from sheer nerves.

The Queen was neither cruel nor stupid; he thought, with what wits he had left, that she might actually be quite kind. Their conversation had proved her alarmingly well-informed about the Haradrim and surprisingly sympathetic. He supposed that she was beautiful; though he found himself thinking of things like stars reflected in still water, or the high, glowing clouds of sunset in summer. No word that Haradic had for the beauty of a woman or a man seemed remotely applicable.

The sheer weight of her presence was oppressive and frightening, as if he were a small creature lost and alone in the unknowable vastness of some great hall. Her lucent, piercing gaze made him want to squirm like a criminal on the stake.

He decided that he really did not want to know if it was true, as the Gondorians said, that her great-grandmother was a goddess.

(1) After the removal of his surviving superiors' heads and their presentation to King Elessar as a peace-offering. This had been an impulsive and unwise decision by the junior military officers left in charge of the remnant forces, their own leaders having already fallen. The new Ambassador had made sure to report this to his own headquarters at the first opportunity, and the persons concerned would not have long to regret their actions once they returned home. The treaty that protected the Sons of the Wind, the only neutral mediators among the quarrelsome tribes of the Confederation, was the most ancient known among the tribes, and the one that was least often broken, for basic reasons of self-interest.

(2) The Variags of Khand were in exceptional disarray, after the death of their King and all his royal sons before the Morannon. The current round of blood-letting at court had taken its toll on the talent available for diplomatic positions.

Chapter Text

It was full summer in Gondor, and the Sun was clearly in a bad mood as She blazed down. The stones of the training-yard were as hot as griddle-pans, and the smell was as awful as nothing else on Middle-earth. It was an acrid, pervasive, very-dead-meat mixed with blood, iron, cleaning vinegar and dung-of-something-with-a-nasty-diet stench, and the nose did not get used to it.

Faramir wiped sweat from his forehead with the third handkerchief of the morning and concentrated on what Mablung was trying to tell him. It was difficult. The flying-beasts (Mablung had been quite firm on that: "...not 'fell beasts', Sir, they're ours now; just animals, not monsters.") were noisy at the best of times, but this one's screeching was eardrum-piercingly loud and did not appear to require breath. The four stable-hands had it roped, but were still half-running around the yard to keep up with it. One stumbled and the rope slipped in his hands. The beast gave a victorious shriek and leapt for freedom, and without thinking about it, Faramir flung himself forward to catch the rope before it slipped completely.

Close up the creature was terrifying in its size, strength and overwhelming strangeness. It was hampered by the ropes in using the bone-breaking force of its clawed wings, but the one rope round its neck was barely restraining the vicious stab of its beak. Faramir hung on grimly while the other man found his feet and his grip again, and hoped very hard that Mablung and Diriel knew what they were doing.

"One more!" Diriel shouted. Mablung joined the fray and sent another noose spinning out, to land neatly around the beast's shoulders and pin its wings firmly. "Thanks Sir! Thanks, Captain! Watch it, watch it, you lot, gently now, mind that sore tendon!"

The additional weight on the ropes was finally too much for the beast. Its shrieks faded to a series of mournful yarps and the frantic hops slowed to a manageable shuffle. Diriel ducked the slashing beak and managed to fling an arrangement of straps that turned itself into a muzzle. "There, there, that's a good girl, now, calm now, we aren't going to hurt you, there, there,... you'll have a nice, rotten rabbit soon...there there..."

Apologetic guardsmen relieved Faramir and Mablung on the ropes, and Mablung drew his Prince over to the welcome shade of the wall. A young stable-hand trotted up with mugs of beer, cool from the ice-cellars of Emyn Arnen. Diriel was rubbing some sort of ointment onto the now-quiescent flying-beast's left wing, gently crooning the tune of what Faramir remembered from his cadet days as an exceptionally filthy ballad.

"So you see, Sir," Mablung said, still panting slightly with exertion and the residue of terror at what might almost have happened to his Prince and (still and always) Captain, "we really do need a full-time, properly-trained veterinarian."

Chapter Text

Merry had never known summer in Rivendell when Elrond dwelt there. But he remembered the golden autumn before the Quest of the Fellowship, when hope and despair had danced on the knife-edge of the days, and he could tell the difference between then and now. The River Bruinen ran with a different note and there was a cooler, sharper tang to the wind off the piney heights. Elrond was gone and the greater part of his household with him, and the Hall of Fire was quiet now more often than not.

But Rivendell was still an Elvish place and where Elves were, knowledge could be had. Rivendell under the Sons of Elrond retained its old function as a clearing-house for information from all over the West and parts East as well. Its remaining inhabitants were pleased to have company, and happy to share their wisdom on subjects that interested them.

This morning was, however, one of those when Merry wished that they were not quite so forthcoming. He and Pippin had been returning from a visit to Gondor, by way of Rohan and Aglarond, and had stopped to visit, exchange news, and seek clarification on some points of information that Pippin had picked up from Gimli and was not sure he properly understood. Merry was rather regretting that now.

"So you see," Mithroval the stable-mistress was explaining to Pippin, out on the terrace after breakfast, "just as there are liquids, that is, wet things including water," she glanced at the breakfast dishes, "tea and soup and so on, there are also airy things that are not air, which are gases. And just as tea or wine or blood have each their own nature and properties, so each gas also is distinct of its kind."

Pippin nodded. "The Dwarves told me that they use this "gas" sometimes, to excavate tunnels and halls more easily."

Mithroval looked doubtful. "The Dwarves are indeed wise in their arts. But I would be very cautious, Master Peregrine. These substances are powerful, even as the air is powerful. Some gases catch fire so readily that the force of the change can move the very earth itself."

"Yes," Pippin said eagerly. "That sounds exactly what I need!”

Mithroval ceased to look doubtful and began to look slightly worried. Merry caught her eye over Pippin's shoulder and for a moment mortal and immortal shared a single, alarmed thought.

A sparrow arrived on the table to forage among the teacups. Merry brushed crumbs of toast gently in its general direction and said in a casual tone, "I think, you know, Pip, that Diamond might prefer it if you did the renovations to the Smials in the traditional way."

Chapter Text

The summer Sun blazed down outside, but within the thick walls of the King’s House of Gondor it was shady and relatively cool. In the shaded colonnade of the VIP guest quarters, Master Samwise looked at the precious things that had been sent to him: two dozen baby orange trees, in sturdy, handsome wooden trays, laid out nicely on a bench for his inspection, where the dappled sunlight could fall on them through the leaves of the quince trees that shaded the courtyard. Master Borlas, the senior page assigned to look after him, hovered by a pillar, not quite hiding his interest behind Gondorian impassivity. The junior pages waited behind him, ready to pack everything up for the long journey home.

The little trees were a farewell present from the Ambassador of Far Harad, who was very far from a fool and knew better than to judge a King's Counsellor and war hero by his height. He and Sam had become, if not exactly friends (the Ambassador was the servant of a foreign power after all, and had let Sam understand the limits of his goodwill; Sam had been Mayor long enough to recognise the real kindness in this) then at least friendly and well-intentioned acquaintances.

Master Samwise contemplated his magnificent gift. Their little leaves shone like gemstones in the clear light of the South Kingdom. Next to them stood an equally handsome box of carved dark wood, inlaid on top with the scaly skin of some exotic Southern beast. Inside it were neat, wax-sealed jars of candied orange peel, and orange conserves, and tea mixed with orange-blossom, and a smaller box that contained actual orange seeds, freshly harvested and wrapped in cotton floss. Dried orange peels filled a canvas sack tied and sealed and sitting beside the box. The scent rose swimmingly in the warm air.

...There would be room in the greenhouse at home, and surely not all of the seedlings would survive, even in the most well-built, well-padded, most draught-proof carriage that Gondor could provide…

The struggle was hard, but his conscience defeated him at last. Merry Brandybuck should have half of however many seedlings survived, just in case. Sam acknowledged freely that quite apart from the Brandybuck investments in the pipeweed business, Merry was serious about his herb-lore. The re-planting of the Shire had had a lot of help and support from him. The Brandy Hall greenhouses were nice too, almost as good as his own (Merry had of course sought advice from Sam and the Gaffer during their construction).

And there was in fact also a potential solution to hand for the immediate problem.

“Borlas, lad, I’ll be sending a thank-you note to His Excellency in a tick. And on your way back could you invite Mistress Innin to come by for a visit when she can? Tea-time tomorrow, maybe? I’d like to ask her advice about how to get these home to the Shire in good order. She likes my Queen Cakes," (a recipe devised by Her Honour the Lady Mayoress specially for Her Majesty, and now popular throughout both the Shire and Minas Tirith), "...so leave me time tomorrow morning to make some.”

Chapter Text

In which Pippin and Merry go hunting

Pippin wiped his bow crossly. He was beginning to regret agreeing to Merry's proposal of a little early-morning rabbit-hunting. The moist air of a foggy autumn morning was having a very bad effect on his gear. His bowstring was definitely getting damp, and his arrows, which normally flew true, described elegant but useless elliptical trajectories, rather than hitting their targets. The wretched beasts had all disappeared after his first flubbed shots anyway; he could almost hear them snickering in their burrows.

"You know," Merry said, "I think I know what's wrong."

Pippin's eyes narrowed. He was not in the mood for unsought advice.

"What?" he snapped. Many hobbits might have been daunted by his tone of voice. Thain Peregrin's martial temper and prowess were the stuff of much boasting by the Tooks; Bandobras Bullroarer come again, they said proudly. The Master of Buckland, however, was unmoved.

"Yes," he said, poking at the remaining arrows in Pippin's quiver. "Where did you get these arrows?"

Pippin frowned, but with puzzlement rather than annoyance. "They were in your armoury, hanging by the door. That young cousin of yours - I forget his name, Celandine's boy - said that they were the ones your people use for hunting."

Merry grinned. "That imp Doro! I'll clip his ears properly when we get back. You'll never get anything with those. We made them for fun, out of the prunings from Farmer Maggot's willow tree. Whatever you hit, it won't be what you're aiming at."

The story of the willow tree had made the rounds of the Shire shortly after its arrival. In the years since it had become something of a feature in that part of the world, and Mrs Maggot had made a good thing out of cream teas for the visitors who came from all over the Shire to look at it.

Pippin growled, snatched an arrow from the quiver at random, set it to the string and loosed into the mist without looking. The bowstring thrummed, and from the mist came a thump and a squeak as it hit home, and an unlucky rabbit perished.

Chapter Text

It was spring in the North, to Faramir's mind its loveliest season. And here in Rivendell (Imladris of his dreaming, ancient legend made truth beyond all hope) it was lovelier still. A brisk wind sent white clouds puffing across a pale blue sky, but the sun shone gently warm on his skin. Sunlight danced among the waterfalls and the sweet scent of pear-blossom rose from the orchards. After the still-barren wilds of Eriador, the flooding tide of life in this last of High-Elven strongholds struck him like the Great Wave of his dreams, transmuting terror into poignant joy.

Until he learned why the King and Queen had sent their Steward so far from home, trusting him to choose again rightly, as he had chosen once, long ago. Springtime in Ithilien the beautiful was not in fact so remote from springtime in Rivendell, as far as sheer loveliness went. And the memory of that moment of fear and resolve was not far away at all.

Faramir sat on a small, private balcony overlooking one of the valley’s many waterfalls, and looked, a little dazed, at the fearsome thing that Elrond's sons had put into his hands. It looked harmless enough. A small book bound in grey leather, cracked and darkened with age despite the spells of care and preservation laid upon it. A binding elaborately tooled in a complex, radiate design, inlaid in untarnished silver. No, not silver. Mithril. A single, simple device at the heart of the pattern, that filled his heart with both wonder and fear.

"We found it in our father's library," Elladan said quietly. He sat nursing a cup of mead between his hands, though it was only a little after breakfast. Faramir had arrived at mid-day the day before, and the Sons of Elrond had refused to disclose the reason for their summons, saying that he should enjoy the day and the evening first. And he had, receiving in utter astonishment and gratitude the treasure of music and lore poured out for him in the Hall of Fire that night. The tales of the Elves, of glory beyond mortal glory and darkness beyond mortal knowledge of darkness. Or so he had thought then.

Elrohir said, "There was no record that we could find of how it came into his hands. But it was well-hidden; he laid spells of ward and guarding upon it that a dragon would have been proud of." He was drinking tea.

Faramir opened the stiff covers. The book was written in Quenya, the hand ornate but clear. Faramir read, slowly and carefully, and his hands shook.

"We sought the counsel of the King and Queen, as to what should be done with this," Elladan said. "We do not feel ... competent to make this decision. They have sent you to speak for them. Judge this matter for us, Steward of the Reunited Kingdom."

Faramir looked up from the page into two pairs of grey eyes, steady and bright. The Half-Elven were kin to the Men of the West (or the other way about) and Faramir might have been looking at his own brothers. The pang at that thought was familiar; time had dimmed it but would never wipe it away altogether.

In the end, the decision was easy, as his decision in Ithilien, faced with the Ring and its bearer, had been easy. There was simply no other path to take.

"This knowledge has already proven itself perilous beyond all measure," he said quietly. "Though there may be none now with the power to make use of it, still I do not dare to let it remain in Middle-earth."

The opening of trade to East and South and North had brought some startlingly swift changes to Minas Tirith. New tools, new inventions, new knowledge, a lot of interesting new food (Faramir was wholeheartedly in favour of this last). Freed from the crushing weight of endless war, endless fear, the children of the West could now study other arts besides those of combat. Elves and Dwarves and Halflings and strange Men (once enemies and now, hopefully, merely competitors) now walked in the streets of Minas Tirith. Where it would all lead no one knew.

But of this thing before him he was sure. There was no being in Middle-earth, Man, Elf, Dwarf, Hobbit, Wizard, Ent (!) or any other yet unknown, now or in years to come, to whom he could or would trust this power.

The Half-Elven sat straight and attentive, unsurprised. Faramir drew a steadying breath.

"Yet it is not for me to say that it should be destroyed, for that is a matter too great for me or any mortal. So I charge you, Sons of Elrond, to see this book sent over the Sea and beyond the Circles of the World, to those who may hold it harmless. If its maker lives again in the Undying Realm, perhaps he may make better use of it there than he did here. This is my judgement, in the name of Elessar and Arwen, King and Queen of the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor, Lord and Lady of the Western Lands."

He closed the book with Fëanor's Star on the binding and gave back into Elladan's hands Celebrimbor's account of the making of the Rings of Power.

Chapter Text

The waters of Lake Nenuial were rising slowly but steadily. This was rather unexpected. Although it had rained solidly for the past three days, it had now stopped and the sun was actually out, luring young hobbits to the lake in search of adventure. Which they had found.

Elanor Gamgee and her friend and partner in crime Fastred (a distant Baggins connection from the Greenholm branch of the Tooks) clung nervously to the branches of the tall white pine. They had been out early, before second breakfast, hunting for amber along the shore, after listening to the Elves' stories of the great pine forests of Beleriand the night before (several contingents of Elves had joined the King and Queen along the way from Rivendell, Ithilien and Greenwood, and several had come to visit from Lindon as well). The tree stood at the very brink of the Lake, on a little island, joined to the shore by a mess of fallen branches. It had looked promising, and they had clambered over to explore.

The islet had turned out to be larger than it looked, with interesting plants, rocks and an enormous black salamander with red and orange spots (though no amber). When they had noticed their feet getting wet, the tree had been an easily accessible refuge. The island was now mostly underwater, and quite definitely cut off from the shore.

"Are we going to drown?" Fastred asked. He sounded both pleased and fatalistic.

"No", Elanor said succinctly. "But we are going to be in a lot of trouble with Dad and Uncle Merry."

The waters rose a couple of feet more, still nowhere near the branches where the children were perched. Unfortunately, neither of them had yet learned to swim. That was supposed to be for their next visit to the Tookland ( Merry had offered, but Rosie had thought that a nice swimming-pond in Tuckborough was a safer place for young hobbits than the Brandywine). The hours passed and the morning waned towards afternoon. The sun was out and warm, but the breeze on the lake was strong and cool, even in summer, though the tree and its needles provided some protection. They waited, increasingly hungry and anxious, but still reasonably confident that they would be found.

"Look!" shouted Elanor, pointing. She hung on to the trunk and waved vigorously. "Uncle Merry! We're here!"

Merry Brandybuck it was, sculling with a single oar from the stern of a little skiff of graceful elven lines; to the children’s relieved eyes, it skimmed across the water as fast as a water-spider. He was, to Elanor's eternal embarrassment, accompanied by Master Legolas.

"You’re rescued!" Merry called. "I want to claim the reward the King is offering for the first party to find you two."

The children climbed carefully down the branches, and were lifted into the boat by Master Legolas, who in Elvish fashion seemed to have no difficulty standing upright in the bobbing skiff.

"What reward, Uncle Merry?" asked Elanor. She was both relieved that no recriminations appeared to be in store and deeply abashed that the King and Queen should know about this escapade.

"A bowl of punch, dear girl, made by his own hands. The best in the Northlands!"

He lifted the horn of Rohan to his lips and blew a short sequence of notes that echoed round the lake. From points in the distance came answering horn calls.

Master Legolas said, "The Lake rises after rain, as the waters run down from the hills. We trusted that you would have the sense to seek refuge, but it took us some time to reach this part of the shore. You went further than we expected. We have beaten Gimli, and Sam, and your Uncle Pippin as well. Mistress Rosie gave us sandwiches. Have some."

It was not the famous lembas of the elves, but in young hobbits' eyes, much better. Rosie had made the acquaintance (and gained the deep respect) of the royal kitchen staff immediately upon arriving in Annuminas. In normal hobbit fashion, she had dealt practically with her worry by ensuring that the searchers would be appropriately equipped to deal with hungry hobbit children.

Fastred said through a mouthful of thick ham, mustard and bread, "We have to come back. We didn't find any amber."

"Ah, so that was it," Legolas said. "I am afraid that my kinsmen misled you inadvertently. In these days, amber is now most easily found further north, along the shores of the Ice-Bay of Forochel.”

He noticed Merry’s frantic gestures from the stern and added hastily,

“Perhaps you should wait until you are fully grown before exploring there."

Chapter Text

"And then," raged the Royal Envoy of Near Harad, "I couldn't get the wretched little midget to stop talking about food!"

Every day in every way, thought the Ambassador of Far Hard with grim resignation, I miss your predecessor more. The previous Royal Envoy of Near Harad had been a wise and wily old courtier, scholarly, polite and illusionless. The Ambassador had admired him, been conscious of his own youth and lack of experience, and had flattered the old man with his (perfectly genuine) respect and desire to learn from him. They had got along very well. The Ambassador had been very relieved to hear that HIs Excellency's recall and official retirement had in fact meant retirement, to a comfortable river-side mansion in the country with his wives, servants and beloved cats, rather than a swift and one-way visit to the Royal Crocodiles, a fate that had befallen more than one courtier falling out of favour with the Great Royal Wife of the River.

His successor, unfortunately...

The Ambassador clicked his tongue with entirely spurious sympathy, and poured some more wine into his colleague's cup. He despised the new Royal Envoy, a bumptious, violent youth completely spoiled by his upbringing and un-mellowed by subsequent events. Every time he came to call on the Ambassador, the staff had to spend days repairing the carpets; the Royal Envoy affected spurs, despite a total lack of any cultural connection with horses (Near Harad being largely a riverine kingdom) and refused to take his boots off at the threshold like a civilised man.

From the proper, strategic point of view, in this time of turmoil in the Southlands it was far better for Near Harad to be ruled by a sensible, mature, administratively capable Queen on good terms with the remains of her army. The feckless brat that her late brother-husband had produced with his former Great Royal Wife (the present one's full sister, as it happened) would have been a disaster. While the Ambassador deplored the carelessness that had allowed the boy to both escape alive and make it to Gondor in one piece, he had to admit that appointing him her Royal Envoy had been a good recovery. It kept him out of her sandals, didn't disrespect the Gondorians with an assassination on their soil and allowed her a measure of revenge upon them, since they had to put up with him. Not to mention that closer acquaintance with him would convince a blind mouse that usurper or not, she was the better option.

It was simply bad luck that the rest of the Diplomatic Corps, lacking the King and Queen's protocol superiority and also not being as intrinsically terrifying as Her Majesty, had to put up with him too.

"He kept babbling about some foul slop called ‘ramps’ and how they are in season "back home" and how much he misses them!"

The Ambassador made a mental note to find out what a ramp might be, and if possible, to present some to Master Samwise, as consolation for what must have been a very trying meeting. He knew that the Halfling, a most cultivated and gentlemanly person, would not have been driven to such extremes otherwise. One positive effect of the Royal Envoy's rebarbative personality, he thought. Shared loathing was helping him get along much better with his other colleagues. Even the Dorwinian Ambassador, a reserved and teetotal lady of middle years, had unbent after that regrettable business with the honey-cakes.

"Then after wasting my time for an hour maundering on about his filthy foreign vegetable," Aha, thought the Ambassador, "he had the presumption to give me the recipe! As if I were a servant! Butter! I'll give him butter!"

Thought of vegetables had the Ambassador wondering whether to start receiving the Royal Envoy in the garden. Divots in the turf were much easier to deal with than holes in the carpets, and it would be acceptable under Gondorian protocol. Perhaps too much so. The Ambassador did not want the Royal Envoy to start thinking that they were household intimates.

"Ah well, brother," he said sweetly, "You know that food is of great importance to Halflings. I'm sure that he was most impressed at your patience and attention. The next time, you must be sure to mention mushrooms."

Chapter Text

The visit passed without incident?" Faramir asked, with well-concealed anxiety. While Lady Eowyn had charge of Ithilien as a whole, Faramir had not felt it fair to impose responsibility for the flying-beasts upon her as well, all things considered. Since the Steward’s duties largely kept him in Minas Tirith, flying-beast business was a pleasant excuse every time he felt like slipping down-river to visit his wife outside their regular weekly schedule.

"Completely, Sir." Mablung looked rather pleased with himself, as well he might. "The men hold Mistress Elanor in high esteem, Sir; she is a most worthy child of Master Samwise."

"Indeed."

Faramir forebore from further comment. Mistress Elanor was an intelligent and considerate child, and a dutiful and diligent Maid of Honour. However, on occasion her apparently hereditary taste for adventure made life interesting for the Guards of the Citadel.

"And she was not alarmed at the proximity of the creatures?"

"Certainly not, Sir!" Mablung bristled, on behalf of both Hobbit-child and flying-beasts. Of the specimens captured (rescued, Mablung insisted) from Minas Morgul, the adults had proved too injured by ill-treatment and evil influence to be safe. However, Mablung and his fellow enthusiasts among the Rangers of Ithilien had devoted much attention to the new generations of hatchlings, for which he had great hopes.

"She was delighted with them, Sir. She intends to petition the Queen to allow her to participate in their training."

“Ah.” said the Prince of Ithilien. He and his henchman regarded each other with mutual understanding and accord.

“Sir, you might wish to have a word with Master Samwise, as quickly as you can.”

Chapter Text

The Sea of Rhun had been lost to Gondor for generations. A thousand years had passed since Vorondil the Steward had hunted the Kine of Araw upon its shores, and even in those days Gondor's hold had never been truly secure. Aragorn had travelled there in his youth, but even in two generations of the Men of Middle-earth, things had changed, and then changed again with the fall of the Dark Tower. The Army of the High Kingdom and its allies of the Rohirrim were on strange ground, and far from home.

The Kingdom of Dorwinion, on the western shore, had been friendly, and willing to acknowledge the Return of the King. It had also welcomed Gondor's aid against a persistent problem of seaborne nomadic raiders. After a coastal attack on Dorwinion's principal vine-growing region had been successfully defeated, the raiders' own ships had been seized and manned by sea-competent men of Pelargir against their towns on the eastern coast. Once the raider cities had been satisfactorily reduced and a trade truce negotiated under Aragorn's auspices, the Gondorians had moved a polite distance away (in case of a sudden change of mind by the townsfolk about the virtues of peace) and paused to take stock, make some important decisions, and, as it turned out, meet some more of the locals.

Winter was drawing near, and the grass was golden on the hills north-west of the Sea. Aragorn and Eomer looked down from one such height, amid the encampment of their armies. Sunset flamed on the still waters and on the brightly-embroidered tents of the Easterlings, pitched upon the shore. These were not the peoples who had fought and died upon the field of the Morannon, but envoys from strange tribes whose lands lay far to the east, where neither Gondor's nor Sauron's lordship had ever reached or been acknowledged. As news of the fall of Mordor had rippled eastwards, growing ever more fantastical as it went, various realms had thought it wise to send their envoys to find out what was actually happening. It was convenient, therefore, though mildly disconcerting, to be intercepted by the legends themselves along the way.

"The return of the Sea-Kings, really?" was more or less the sum of the easterners' reaction (and also, "To clarify, sir, is 'Grand-daughter of the Evening Star' the official title of the Chief Queen?"). Of the Rohirrim they knew nothing, but not a few of them were horse-lords themselves, which made establishing civil relations much easier. The Gondorians observed their new King and his brother of Rohan swigging fermented mares' milk as if they had been drinking it from their mothers' breasts, gritted their teeth and then did the same, for the sake of international comity.

The envoys spoke of peace, and the possibility of trade now that Mordor no longer stood between, and the proper acknowledgment and demarcation of the lands, and implicitly, of bitter defence against any encroachment. The Armies of the West had won many fields against the remnants of Sauron's still-hostile servants; but they were also weary, and longing for the green fields of home, and their King not least among them.

"So, my lord," Eomer said sombrely, "We go no further? Numenor ruled all the coasts of Middle-earth once, or so the tales of Gondor say."

"No," Aragorn answered his friend. "Beyond these lands Gondor never held sway, nor will I spill the blood of our people to contest the East with its rightful masters. I am Elendil's Heir, but I will be neither conqueror nor tyrant, and to go further I must become both, as the Kings of Numenor did before me.

Here shall be established the eastern frontier of the High Kingdom."

Chapter Text

The cock crowed, a sound as bright as silver, shrill and aggressive in the silent city.

The Ambassador of Far Harad opened a reluctant eye. It was still dark. Outside his open window (his bedchamber was on the third floor of a five-story house, with seamless, plastered walls above and below, and a straight drop down into some very thorny bushes carefully pruned for maximum ferocity; he had reasonable confidence in the honour of his hosts but there was no point in being careless), the stars still shone, and sound carried perfectly through the cool, spring air. In normal circumstances the Ambassador did not mind. It was quite pleasant to be awakened by the first rumble of carts in the street and the sweet whistle of the black and white songbirds that nested in the garden; he was accustomed by now even to the sound of cockcrow at dawn. The operative phrase being "at dawn".

Since the Ambassador had come to Minas Tirith, he had heard the tale a hundred times: the cockcrow at the Gate in the hour of utmost despair, the horns of Rohan, the Witch King's fall. It seemed as if every Gondorian who owned a chicken claimed that theirs had been the fateful fowl. Unfortunately for the Haradren diplomatic mission, one particularly chronometrically-challenged specimen lived next door to their Embassy compound.

The poultry of the Far South knew its place and only made noise in the face of intruders. The Ambassador had leapt out of bed reaching for his weapons more dawns than he cared to remember, until he realised that Gondorian birds had different habits. Now he merely wondered occasionally if he could hint to one of his staff that life would be much more pleasant without the feathered menace next door. But no, that would be dishonourable; he should simply order it slaughtered and stand firm on his diplomatic immunity. But then that would probably instigate a riot; while the Ambassador had no objection in principle to riots in the City of the enemy, he had to admit that in this case it would be difficult to explain to his superiors (assuming he was still alive to do so) how exactly it was that his Embassy happened to burn down.

And his neighbour would probably just complain to the City Watch and replace the wretched creature, and the Ambassador woud have created a Major Diplomatic Incident for nothing.

But then his cook had recently proposed a very tempting recipe for chicken in an interesting sauce of bitter orange, mint and pistachios, with cumin, cardamom and just a hint of sugar, all baked in a shell of the lightest, most delicate puff pastry...

There was a flutter of wings as the cock changed its perch; it crowed again.

Definitely and without doubt it was not remotely close to dawn.

The Ambassador felt about for an extra pillow and jammed it over his head.

Chapter Text

"Oh my," said the Master of Buckland.

Merry Brandybuck allowed himself the luxury of showing his open-mouthed awe. It was perfectly genuine, and he knew Gimli would appreciate it.

He had been stopping by Aglarond whenever he visited Gondor and Rohan, observing the progress of the work with careful interest; a number of its features would be suitable for Brandy Hall, too, he rather thought, when the time came. Trade and communications were regular now, between Rohan and the Shire, and Gimli had been quite interested (once it had been explained to him by Merry’s more legible communications) in Pippin’s sudden brainwave of using some of the less scenic caves to farm varieties of mushroom that were rare but popular in the Shire. There was some idea of sending a few Tooks of exceptionally adventurous spirit (even for Tooks) to set up operations, train any Dwarves that might be interested, and ensure that the Shire remained a preferred customer for this particular product.

This visit, however, had nothing to do with trade. Gimli had sent messengers far and wide to his friends and kin, to say with typical understatement that some of the work on the Caves might now be fit to be seen. Taking this as it was meant, Merry had come south with all haste leaving Sam, Pippin and Diamond to take their turn later; the Shire could not be left without all its leaders (both Rosie and Estella were expecting, and would not be traveling for a while). He had been received by Gimli himself at the new gates of Aglarond, which he had never seen, and been ushered with the full protocol courtesies due to his standing (Master of Buckland, Holdwine of the Mark, Counsellor of the High Kingdom, Hero of Gondor etc) through their iron and granite magnificence into the last and youngest of the Dwarfholds of Durin’s Line.

During the lengthy and elaborate welcoming ceremony, Merry smiled and greeted the long line of distinguished engineers waiting to receive him, accepted an exquisite porcelain mug of equally exquisite beer, and congratulated the Chief of Works (a venerable lady with a snowy beard that reached almost to her feet - Men and Elves might not be able to tell a Dwarf woman from a Dwarf man, but Hobbits had no such problems) upon the success of the great project.

It was only after the formalities had been successfully concluded, and he was escorted deeper into the Glittering Caves by his host that he could pause, and still himself, and look. And look, and look, and look again. At first sight, the the Caves did not seem to have changed much from their original, already spectacular condition. The frozen cascades and fluted ripples of stone arching high overhead; the colours on colours, shimmering in the light of pierced and fretted stone lamps carved directly into the walls; the slim columns like petrified streams of water....

Slowly his sharp Hobbit senses noted the subtle differences that made the already beautiful heartbreaking. The fluid line of a ridge, delicately shaped; the lamps placed with deliberation to emphasise both sheen and shadow; a contour shifted, just a little, so that the water running through the channels in the floor sang a truer, sweeter note. Merry took a deep breath of cool, fresh air and turned to his friend.

"And it's all...like this?"

Gimli smiled into his beard, well-pleased.

"Not all, as yet," he said. "But it will be."

Chapter Text

Legolas drank his beer (a special present from Sam) with thoughtful interest and listened idly to his companions' conversation. It was late in the summer evening and the first stars were beginning to show Eastwards over the shoulder of Mindolluin. The Thain of the Shire had come on one of his periodic visits to Minas Tirith; Gimli had torn himself from his drawing-table and Legolas had come across the River to dine (and sup and breakfast - twice - and lunch and have tea) with their old comrade. Mistress Diamond was off in Ithilien with Lady Eowyn, so the three of them were sharing Pippin's quarters. Pippin (Thain of the Shire, Knight of the White Tower, Counsellor of the High Kingdom, Hero of Gondor etc) was of course lodged in the Royal Guest House, which had plenty of room, its own staff, and a pleasant garden containing a charming little pavilion with comfortable seats and a nice view over the City below, in which they were presently whiling away the evening.

At the moment, the conversation was running into the shoals of inter-species incomprehension. Legolas could not fault Pippin for this. Even an Elvish memory and attention span found it sometimes difficult to grasp and retain the minute details of the ancient blood-feuds that appeared to constitute the greater part of Dwarvish history (not that the Elves had a leg to stand on either, where that sort of thing was concerned). And Hobbits seemed to be quite extraordinarily forebearing when it came to their relations with each other. The famous feud between Bilbo Baggins and his cousin Lobelia (about which naturally the other members of the Fellowship had been told in excruciating detail during the days of their journey together) would not have rated even a footnote in the annals of either Elves or Dwarves, not to mention the blood-drenched and horrific histories of Men…

"But Gimli, surely someone tried to mediate between them before the quarrel got too bad? After all, they were cousins and it was only a case of a copied design..."

"Only?!"

Legolas winced. It was time to turn the conversation; he reached for the sure topic.

"Pippin," he said, "is it not time for supper?"

Chapter Text

"Sweetheart, I really don't think this will fly." Mablung looked unhappily at the intricate harness suspended from his hands. It was a complex, ingeniously counterbalanced structure, incorporating saddle, bridle, body-harness, stirrups and reins all in one. Plain by Gondorian standards, but handsome and sound in the way of all the Halflings' makings. Leather and tough silk, as smoothly woven and braided as a Wood-Elf's handiwork, buckles and clasps made to hold fast at need and yet loose at the touch of a Hobbit’s small hand.

Elanor said politely, "Yes it will, Captain. Hs Excellency of Far Harad very kindly let me test a small version on his rooster, and it worked perfectly. And Master Gimli and I tested this one too; it will hold me quite securely."

"A figure of speech," Mablung said, mind spinning as fast as a water-wheel in flood season. "What I mean is, if we do this, sweetheart, what your family will do to me, not to mention the Prince and the Lady and His Majesty and Her Majesty, doesn't bear thinking about.

"You're too small and too light. He won't even feel your weight in the saddle, let alone your hand on the reins."

Elanor frowned, in thought rather than displeasure. She was a sweet-natured child, as well as intelligent, persevering and terrifyingly venturesome. "I see. Yes. That would be a fundamental design flaw. You are right, Captain. Thank you very much for pointing it out to me. I will find a way to solve it." She took the harness back from him and squinted down at it thoughtfully. "Little pulleys, perhaps, to increase my leverage. And an adjustment to the position of the saddle to shift the centre of its weight, without actually adding any. I will consult Master Gimli and Master Legolas again. Thank you, Captain, I’m sorry to have troubled you." She bowed to him and trotted off.

In the pens, young flying-beasts yawped hungrily as the stable lads tossed them great chunks of rotting meat and gristle. Mablung decided that it was time to have yet another word with Master Samwise and the Prince. He and Master Gimli had managed to spin the whole process out, what with the lessons in drawing, leatherworking, flying-beast anatomy and basic (and not so basic) calculation, and he had been lucky enough to identify a genuine problem this time. But Elanor was going to see through any further delaying tactics quite soon.

Chapter Text

It was a lovely evening in early summer; the air was warm without being stuffy, and bees still buzzed contentedly in Mrs Maggot's kitchen garden. Merry Brandybuck, Sam Gamgee and Peregrin Took sat at ease in Mrs Maggot's parlour, sated and happy. Sam and Pippin were visiting Merry in Brandy Hall, and Farmer Maggot had invited all three of them for supper and a chat. The promise of Mrs Maggot's cooking would have been quite enough on its own, of course, but the Maggot clan heard what was in the wind, as the saying went. The Mayor and the Thain were certainly interested in hearing all the gossip of Buckland and the Marish, not to mention the news of the Old Forest that Farmer Maggot would share quietly after supper, over a pipe in the privacy of his house.

That was still to come, this evening. The batter puddings and Mrs Maggot's famous rabbit and mushroom stew had been swallowed down to the last drop of gravy, and they were now waiting impatiently to begin on her equally famous trifle. Their host, however, had vanished.

"Maggot, what are you doing out there?" his wife called from the kitchen.

"He did say that he heard something tapping outside just now," Merry Brandybuck said. "Pip, perhaps we should go and see..."

A shriek and a crash from the kitchen cut him off. The hobbits leapt up and ran to Mrs Maggot's aid, and found a scene of disaster. The precious trifle had been knocked off the window ledge where it had been set to keep cool; the impact of its fall had scattered cream, sponge-cake, fruit, custard and broken crockery all over the floor. The culprit showed itself guiltily at the window: Farmer Maggot's notorious willow tree, now flourishing in its pot outside the kitchen door.

Farmer Maggot himself came to the door from outside, looking sheepish. "Eh, lass," he said apologetically. "The tree were just looking for a bit of company, and got a bit excited, like. He's very sorry."

Merry, Pippin and Sam withdrew tactfully to the parlour, to give Mrs Maggot the freedom to express her views on the character and conduct of her husband's pet. Luckily there was still beer in the jug.

"This is too much," Merry said, staring grimly into his hastily re-filled tankard. The loss of the trifle was a serious blow to the evening. "Bombadil or no Bombadil, it's time that tree went home."

Chapter Text

"Finally, my lords and ladies, the male approaches the female, as it were, under cover, bearing a branch of an odoriferous shrub to disguise his scent. Mugwort is popular but we have also observed a male using wild catnip. We observed that all surviving males also took care to provide the female with a very large piece of food, Sir. Mostly a piece of game animal, though once it was a leg of orc.”

There was a mild frisson among his audience and in response to the unvoiced but obvious question he added, “We tracked that one back and exterminated the nest afterwards, sirs, no worries. Um, otherwise, at the climax of the, ah, act, the female, not being otherwise distracted, will grasp the male's head with her claws, tear it off and eat it. Sir."

Mablung stood at rest, his gaze carefully avoiding anyone's eye. His former Captain, now his Prince, gave him a friendly nod, and he resumed his seat.

"I see." Faramir considered this. "That last is fairly common behaviour among spiders of the regular sort, is it not? I recall catching them in hedges on the Pelennor in my boyhood..."

"Yes, sir. It’s easier to, ah, observe the details when they’re the size of wolfhounds, sir."

"I imagine that it is." The Steward of the Reunited Kingdom glanced around at his Council. It looked collectively queasy, except for the Secretary, who was taking copious notes. There was no sign of dissent to the proposition before it, however.

"Captain, thank you for your report. The Council commends your efforts and the information that you have given us. I believe that we are decided, then? Clearly our friends, being notable hunters, are quite capable of feeding their, er, herd? flock? as necessary. They have already given us firm assurances that no harm will be allowed to come to our folk resettling in Ithilien.”

There were nods around the table. The presentation had been both interesting and unnerving, especially for people who had fought Sauron and now strongly preferred to live and keep living mundane and uneventful lives. The consensus of the Council was that they should get this agenda item over with as quickly as possible, and move onto the equally important but also delightfully dull issue of the cost-sharing for the drainage works in lower Anorien.

Faramir made a note in his tablets and said formally, “My lord Secretary, please note that as Prince of Ithilien and Steward of the Reunited Kingdom, and upon the advice of my Council, I have requested and required Captain Mablung to convey to Master Legolas the acceptance of his proposal by Their Majesties; to whit that the Wood-Elves of Ithilien may maintain the last surviving breeding colony of the giant spiders of the Ephel Duath, strictly for the production of spider-silk, and with the unbreachable obligation of all due care for the safety of the general populace.

It is so decided.”

Chapter Text

"Your Majesty!"

Queen Arwen looked up from her writing, dark brows raised in polite enquiry. When the Queen took to her study in the long, summer afternoons, her guards, pages and equerries knew that she was not to be disturbed for minor matters. Her Ladies-in-Waiting and Maids of Honour knew too.

However, Gondor understood as well as Rohan the value of doorwards who could exercise their own judgment, and Mistress Elanor's distress clearly showed that this was not a minor matter. The Queen rose to her feet and signalled the page hovering at Elanor's back. The hobbit-girl was gasping for breath, unusual for Elanor, who trotted at speed around the Citadel upon the Queen’s errands without demur or difficulty. She had obviously run fast and far, but under the flush of exertion her normally healthy complexion had a disturbing waxy pallor. Shock, the Queen diagnosed with practiced skill, and wiggled her eyebrows at the page over Elanor’s head (she had found that these comical physical signals were less unsettling to her subjects than speaking directly into their minds).

"Come, Elanor, sit with me. What troubles you?" With brisk efficiency the page produced a jug of cool, honey-sweetened, lemon-water, and poured two cups; the Queen pressed one into Elanor's clammy hand. The girl gulped it down, then lifted her other hand towards the Queen. A ragged bundle of grimy cloth was clutched in her white, shaking fingers. Arwen made to take it, but Elanor gasped, and practically threw it away from the Queen’s outstretched hand. It landed on the Secretary's report of the latest raids on the remaining Orc-nests of the Ephel Duath, and fell open, revealing...the Queen looked at the chain of interlinked, yellowish rings and her face grew grim. There were five, carved in one piece from a single length of bone with that old, well-hated mixture of ingenuity and malice.

"Child, where did you get this?" Her voice was gentle, but Elanor ducked her head in unusual embarrassment.

"In the market on the Fourth Level, Your Majesty," she whispered. "It's my day off, and I went to see what new things the traders had brought..." Her voice trailed off in quite uncharacteristic nervousness. "He was a new trader, I didn't know him, but he had all sorts of interesting things. I saw this wrapped up in the corner of his stall."

She looked up at the Queen and her shoulders straightened. "It felt vile," she said firmly. "Horrible. It made my teeth hurt, just looking at it. I bought it from him, because I thought it shouldn't be lying about, and then I ran straight up here. My Lady, what is it?"

Arwen picked up a stylus and straightened the links with care. Then she undid the scarf of pale green silk that she wore and wrapped it around them, making sure not to touch them with her bare hands, but still very gently. "It is a...fetish, I think that is the word. An Orcish...amulet. This was made from a man's leg-bone." She did not mention that the man would probably have still been alive when the bone was removed from his flesh. To her relief it was not particularly new. Older than her reign in Gondor, certainly.

"Oh." Elanor sounded both forlorn and rather ill. "Your Majesty, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it here."

Arwen's glance was grave but kind, and there was respect there also. "No, you were right to bring it to me. And very right that this should not be allowed to pass unnoticed. Leave it with me. It will be…cared for.”

She would sing for the peace of the unfortunate victim who had, most probably, died a terrible death to make this evil thing, and then it would be burned, so as not to contaminate the Citadel (and the City) with its presence. And Elanor would be compensated for the coin she had spent so wisely. But in the meantime there was another duty.

She said to Elanor, “Could you find that trader for the City Watch, my dear, or know him if you saw him again?"

"Yes, Your Majesty!"

"Good." The Queen took up the bronze bell on her desk and rang it. Deep, sweet notes pealed out and two guards and the page were in the room before the echoes began. Arwen gave them swift orders and then turned to her Maid of Honour.

"Elanor, you have done well. Will you come with me now, and see that no more of these toys of Darkness enter our City?"

Elanor came instantly to her feet, sturdy and strong; Sam Gamgee's daughter, indomitable as her father. Shining as some mortals shone, to the eyes that could see.

"I will come with you wherever you go, my Lady."

Chapter Text

The Master of Buckland contemplated the willow, which rustled its leaves nervously and tried to look harmless. It was certainly much improved from the limp and spindly sapling that Tom Bombadil had left with the Maggots' all those years ago. Under the family's increasingly less reluctant care it had become a fine young thing, still slim of trunk, but full-leafed and glossy with health, and (the matter at hand), clearly too big even for its substantial pot (a handsome earthenware bathtub of the old-fashioned sort, unearthed from Brandy Hall's extensive store-rooms).

"I think you're right, Maggot."

"Mrs Maggot, she wants to try re-potting him," Farmer Maggot said. "But I says to her, "Mrs," I says, "The lad's none of ours, for all he's settled in so well. Himself over the hedge sent him to us to look after when he needed a bit of care, like, but he can't stay forever. He's got his own place, and we should send him home." Fair breaks my heart to do it sir, he's a good lad, and like family to us now, but it's not right, keeping him here."

"No." Meriadoc Brandybuck's tone was unusually absent. After a few moments' silent thought, he let Maggot usher him into Mrs Maggot's immaculate front parlour, leaving the tree basking in spring sunshine by the front door.

There was a decent pause in proceedings, while the youngest Maggot grand-child staggered in with a huge tray of Mrs Maggot's baking. Refreshments were served, sampled, and justly complimented. Maggot's perry was famous across Buckland, and the Maggot daughters and grand-daughters were near as good cooks as their renowned mother. After the fourth cheese-straw, Merry returned to the subject of his visit.

"Did Bombadil ever say where the tree came from? Was it from seed, do you think?"

"Well now." Maggot took a swig of perry, then lowered his voice and looked conspiratorial. " That's a question, isn't it, sir? Had a look in the woods myself, didn't I, the spring after he came. And a word with Himself too, though I got nothing much from Him but hints and riddles, you know how He is, sir."

"I do."

Keeping the Shire on good terms with Tom Bombadil was one of the duties of the Master of Buckland. Merry held Bombadil in high respect, and enjoyed their encounters, but there was no denying that getting information out of him could be a difficult experience.

Merry sighed gently and reached for an orange-curd tart; Mayor Sam's orange-trees from Far Harad (a present from the Ambassador himself!) were admired throughout the Shire, as was his generosity in sharing seedlings and cultivation tips. Mrs Maggot took vast pride in the healthy pair of trees that lived in two big, wheeled, wooden tubs in her warm and sheltered kitchen garden.

"What I think," Maggot said, practically whispering now, "What I think, sir, is that that there young'un outside is a slip of the old willow hisself."

Merry nodded, unsurprised. "That seems...plausible. I always wondered why Bombadil would stir himself for one miserable little sapling."

"Not so miserable now," Maggot said, in his normal voice. "And much likelier to live to be full-grown." In no way was any member of the Maggot clan a fool.

"Thanks to you and your family, Maggot." Merry emptied his mug and stood up, stretching to his full, impressive height.

"Bombadil owes you a debt now, and perhaps the whole of Buckland will too, in time to come. Let's have a word with him, as soon as possible. We'll need to know where he wants us to plant your tree. And if I may, I'd ask you and yours to keep an eye on how it does."

Maggot nodded slowly. "That we will, sir. That we will."

Jogging homeward on his pony, Merry made a mental note to talk to Sam and Pippin. On their next visit to Gondor, perhaps they could call on Treebeard along the way, and have a talk about taking cuttings.

Chapter Text

The full moon of mid-summer sailed serenely above the City of Minas Tirith, over the quiet roofs of the respectable and early-rising, over the music and bustle of the Night Market, over the lights of the Archives, its resident scholars still at work in the peace of the night…over the charred wreckage that was the Embassy garden of Near Harad.

Most of the fires had been put out, but a few bushes and bits of fallen pavilion still smouldered here and there across the Royal Envoy's garden. Traumatised guests were being soothed and where necessary given medical attention by Gondorian guardsmen of the fire-fighting force. Their hosts from the Embassy of Near Harad were too shaken to be much help, though the Ambassador of Far Harad, while briskly directing his own staff in assisting guests and fire-fighters alike, took note of a previously obscure junior attaché who was doing a pretty efficient job of marshalling his colleagues into being useful; given the strict hierarchies of the River-folk, the way they were deferring to him was…interesting. The Ambassador made a mental note to point his deputy at the possible spy of Her Majesty the Great Royal Wife of the River. For now, he gathered his exhausted juniors around him for a quick inspection. They were a little sooty but all still quite tidy and, to outward appearances at least, sober. Good.

The Ambassador enjoyed a good party as much as anyone (and this one had been quite good, right up to the moment that it all hit the sinkhole). He had been enjoying the music and the dancers, and had even managed to tolerate the horribly strong scents that the River-folk preferred, being sprinkled and indeed showered in his immediate vicinity (unlike his unfortunate deputy, who had been forced to retreat from the guest pavilion, sneezing).

But he deeply resented being the one to explain the present embarrassing mess to the Gondorians simply because he was the most senior personage present still coherent and in one piece (the current Dean of the Diplomatic Corps, Her Excellency from Dorwinion, had left once the after-dinner entertainment started looking too rambunctious for her austere sensibilities). The Ambassador cast a covert glance of loathing at the scorched and unconscious form of the Royal Envoy of Near Harad, now being (undeservedly!) ministered to by a Gondorian healer. Not even being able to hold it over Near Harad’s head forever was worth this. Hovering behind the healer, the Royal Envoy's hapless and downtrodden deputy looked at him with desperate appeal.

The Ambassador sighed and turned to the Captain of the White Tower and his politely waiting guards.

"I believe, Sir, that the difficulty began when His Excellency the Royal Envoy, while dancing with the fire-jugglers, accidentally dropped a torch into a bowl of perfume oil set too close to the curtains of the pavilion. The resulting conflagration..."

Chapter Text

While life in Minas Tirith in the reign of Arwen and Aragorn was never short of bizarre incident, being awakened well after midnight by his Chief of Intelligence in person was no longer a usual occurrence for the Prince of Itihilien. He found and donned his chamber-robe, and went through his suite to the study, where the Captain of the White Tower was waiting, together with the Tea-set of Doom (as he had mentally dubbed it, when Their Majesties gave it to him). The Captain offered him a steaming cup of peppermint infusion - both energising and soothing to the stomach, which was a bad sign - and made his report on the fire at the Royal Envoy of Near Harad’s garden party earlier that night.

Faramir leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes briefly. The peppermint tea notwithstanding, he was not yet formally at the stage of being Anxious. He was not yet even, properly speaking, Concerned. However, he was most definitely Taking Notice.

"He’s having visions?"

"Yes, sir," the Captain said, deadpan. "I heard his ravings myself, and one of my men had tablets with him, so we have them in writing.”

He paused expectantly. Faramir wearily waved the hand not holding a teacup.

"He predicted an exceptionally good winter harvest, the rebuilding of the Tharbad bridge and the birth of a princess next summer."

Faramir blinked and every impulse to laugh left him. The decision on the bridge was still in Council, but the news that the Queen was with child had come to him that morning from the King himself and had not, to his certain knowledge, been shared with anyone else. Gondor hadn’t had an attested Seer since Malbeth, and having one show up was never a good sign.

Worse was to come. The Royal Envoy’s…gift (?) had apparently - and that was just typical of the wretched boy, Faramir thought uncharitably - chosen to manifest at a maximally inconvenient time.

“…myself and my immediate staff, also Master Ingil of the Houses of Healing and his assistants, a dozen members of the Guard and the Firefighting Service, most of the Embassy of Far Harad, and the Ambassadors of Khand, Dor Nurnen and Hither Rhun and their deputies. Her Excellency the Dean was absent, having retired earlier, and the Deputy Envoy of Near Harad might have missed it, since he appeared to be in a condition of nervous prostration, but I am sure that their staff members present will be briefing them first thing in the morning. Our people and the healers have been sworn to silence, at least for now, and the Prefect is aware that there is a security leak, though not the details. All outgoing diplomatic communications will be temporarily detained at the Gate until further notice. Also all commercial correspondence emanating from Aunt Adili’s Haradren Chocolate and Confectionery Shop."

Faramir drank his peppermint tea, and got his brain in order. The Royal Envoy had shown absolutely no sign of exceptional spiritual perceptions since his arrival in Minas Tirith. Quite the contrary; Faramir would have sooner believed any other ambassador as a seer, before His Excellency (Far Harad was very perceptive, for such a young man, and Dorwinion saw further through a brick wall than most, in Master Samwise's charming idiom; she had certainly had the sense to leave the party early, thus minimising her chances of a fiery death. From the Captain's report, only chance, and rapid action by the staff of the Embassy of Far Harad had prevented fatalities).

"And this started happening after His Excellency had received a blow to the head?" he said slowly. He had heard of such things happening, in the stories that every child was told by its nurse or grand-dam, but his combat experience of serious head injuries was far less pleasant.

"A falling tent-pole during the unfortunate incendiary incident, sir. He had some mild burns too, so Master Ingil has him safely tucked up in the Houses of Healing, for now."

Faramir thought furiously. A true seer was always dangerous, and when it was someone as unpredictable as His Excellency, doubly so. Faramir thought back to some previously enigmatic conversations with Mithrandir, long ago, about the nature of Arda, and the Will of the Powers as it manifested in the world. The Powers might be behind this, but on the other hand they might not.

On a less theologically exalted level, Near Harad had a high respect for seers, and if their exiled prince turned out to be one, his surviving partisans, or at least those personally unacquainted with him, might seize the opportunity to make trouble. Her Majesty the Great Royal Wife of the River, the Royal Envoy’s aunt and usurper, while undoubtedly an Unrighteous Queen, was also able, rational and inclined to peace, the majority of her realm’s military-age manpower having fallen at the Morannon. An altogether better prospect for Gondor (not to mention the people of the River Kingdom) than her callow and erratic nephew.

Faramir made his decision, and looked the Captain in the eye.

"Keep him in the Houses and don’t let his staff near him until I can seek Her Majesty’s advice in the morning. She’ll hopefully have some suggestions. If not, have a word with Master Ingil, about some suitable treatment…,” Faramir didn’t say, “such as a second blow to the head”, but he was sure that the Captain would understand him, “…applied in such a manner as to avoid doing lasting harm to His Excellency, so that he will cease to be…er, troubled in this manner."

The Captain nodded, straight-faced.

“Understood, my lord. Can’t disagree. I’ll let Herself’s duty staff know you need the emergency appointment slot.” He cleared his throat delicately. "And, ah, the bridge?" The harvest news was nice to know but not his business, and the birth of an heiress was at least theoretically beyond his pay-grade (though in practice, as Chief of Intelligence, nothing was), but the bridge would reduce travel time to the North substantially. There was great interest among the more adventurous spirits of the City, eager to explore and settle the empty lands of the lost North Kingdom.

Faramir sighed. "We'll cross that bridge when we build it, Captain."

Chapter Text

The young flying-beast made a peculiar rattling sound but did not protest as it was saddled and harnessed. The whip-like tail twitched, but did not lash. When the Prince of Ithilien had inspected it in the stables earlier, it had been as unprepossessing as its elders, and quite as evil-smelling.

“His name is Peaseblossom,” Mablung had told him, as proud of his charges as of his own children. “Mistress Elanor named the clutch and helped to train him. He’s the nicest of the bunch, actually likes being around people. He hasn’t reached his full growth yet, so he won’t be able to fly far, especially with a load. We’re taking every precaution, sir.”

Despite the creature's apparent (relative) docility now, Faramir thought that it would take a sharp eye indeed to detect what Mablung insisted was friendliness in its demeanour. He remained unconvinced that that stab of the beak had been a sign of affection, rather than an attempt to remove young Diriel's eye. Still, he had trusted Mablung this far. There was no sense in doubting his Captain's judgement now.

Their audience was select: their Majesties, the Princess, the Privy Council, and everyone in the household of Emyn Arnen who could cram themselves into the windows and balconies and slopes above; the Princess had refused to allow the use of the gardens themselves, but the Great Lawn was meant for public events anyway. Despite the number of people present, there was a breathless, rather nervous hush (everyone had been ordered to maintain strict silence for fear of alarming the beast).

Diriel was Mablung’s best scout; his slight build, calm temperament, and Periannath-like capability for stealth and stillness had made him a logical candidate for this experiment. The harness on the Witch-King’s beast (which some enterprising scavenger had stolen before the carcass was disposed of, and then offered to Mablung for sale when news of the project came out) having been judged both inhumane, and unsafe for non-wraiths, it had been redesigned from scratch, with significant design contributions from Mistress Elanor. When Diriel was as secured as they could manage, Mablung backed away from the beast, and gave the signal to loose the tethering ropes. The beast squawked and gave a little hop as its restraints fell away. Then its great wings beat suddenly, once, twice, and it lurched abruptly skywards.

From the viewing stand at the far end of the Great Lawn, Faramir watched with his men around him, his heart in his throat. This was the test, the answer to all the jests and questions. If Diriel could come back intact, rather than leaving pieces of himself strewn across Ithilien, the possibilities were vast.

The beast's flight was clumsy but sure, and to Faramir's relief, it seemed to respond well to Diriel's hand as it flapped its way around the heights of Emyn Arnen. The young Ranger even managed to wave to the King and Queen as they watched with Lady Eowyn from the balcony of her rooms. When beast and rider landed safely, there was a quiet, irrepressible cheer from the assembled audience, which fortunately the….Peaseblossom took in good part. Diriel managed to dismount without suffering any bodily harm, and the flying-beast hopped obediently off towards its stables in the care of its handlers, lured by lumps of bloody meat on a long pole.

A familiar, high-pitched voice caught Faramir's attention as he joined the relieved and rejoicing throng around Mablung and Diriel. He looked up and saw Mistress Elanor, cheering enthusiastically at the Queen's side. Her father was beside her, and to keen Númenorean eyes he looked quite as resigned as Faramir suddenly felt.

Chapter Text

"Our deepest apologies, Master Samwise," the elderly dwarf said, "But Lord Gimli has been detained by an unexpected incident in the depths, and begs that you will indulge him by passing the time agreeably until he joins you."

The young dwarf behind her was carrying a ponderous picnic-basket of withies and laminated bark, which hinted pleasantly at what Gimli meant by "agreeably". Dwarvish cuisine was perfectly to Hobbit taste, being both wholesome and copious, and Master Samwise had absolutely no complaints about the hospitality that he was receiving.

So far, his first visit to Aglarond had been going swimmingly. He had duly admired the thoroughfares, the workshops, the truly astonishing residential caverns (as if several Hobbitons had been neatly stacked up and fitted along the sides of so many giant crystal bowls!), and given sage advice on the management of the cave mushroomeries, and the high, hidden valleys where the Dwarves grew their crops. He thought that the Hobbits might be able to give some help there, in exchange for Dwarvish engineering help with such things as water supply and waste management (Estella Brandybuck had been writing to Rosie about the new pipes and kitchens in Brandy Hall, and Master Samwise thought that Hobbiton, not to mention the Hill and Bag End itself, could do with some of that too).

"I shall be very well here, Mistress Swanhildi, thank you." Master Samwise accepted a cup of unfamiliar but flavourful tea, took a bite of a quite excellent ham sandwich (almost as good as Rosie's), and looked about him with interest. His bench was tucked comfortably into a nook in a large hall, deep within the Glittering Caves. It was one of his favourite places in the Caves, a sort of underground equivalent of Hobbiton’s Market Green; many doors and hallways opened off it, and there was a steady, purposeful bustle of busy dwarves coming and going among the tall lanterns and the small fountains bubbling gently in flower-shaped basins of stone. The picnic-basket was well-stocked, and Mistress Swanhildi (the Mistress of Airs, a very senior and important Dwarf indeed) was full of interesting chat about her work and the doings of the Caves. It was altogether a much nicer way to pass the time than sitting in a room, however luxurious, all by himself.

The carved and painted decoration of the nearest basin caught his eye, a delicate, repeating pattern of a very familiar flower.

"Ah yes," said Mistress Swanhildi when she noticed the direction of his gaze, stroking her long white beard with a sentimental sigh. "That would be the elf-flower, Lord Gimli's emblem. In memory of the blessing of the great Lady Galadriel, you know. She promised him that his hands would flow with gold, fancy that from an elf."

That was not quite how Master Samwise remembered it, but in courtesy to his hostess he forbore to comment. In any case, the picnic-basket had just yielded up something for his attention that was far better than gold; cherries were in season, outside in Rohan, and Gimli's cooks made the best tarts that he had ever tasted. He made a mental note to ask them for the recipe. Perhaps they would like some fresh mushroom starters in exchange.

Chapter Text

"I don't mean to be pernickety or anything," Pippin said, as he washed his hands, "but do we have to eat with that skull staring at us?”

The Master of Buckland’s private apartments, high on the slope of Buck Hill, included an airy, informal dining-room just big enough for the Master, the Mistress and their children. It looked out onto the Mistress’ private garden, where she grew some of the more esoteric plants from her visits to the Ladies of Bindbole Wood (the word “Entwives” was not mentioned, for their privacy’s sake). Pippin had always found the room very pretty; it was decorated to look like an indoor extension of the garden, with naturalistic trees and plants painted on the walls, and a blue ceiling painted with fluffy, white clouds. Merry and Estella usually ate with the wider family in the Great Hall, but he and Pippin had just come in from an early morning’s rabbiting, and being rather grubby, had been banished to (second) breakfast in private.

The round dining-table and its accompanying chairs were of beautifully-figured golden birch from the north (the wood had been a gift from Pippin and Diamond). It was presently in its smallest configuration, with the extra leaves removed, which gave even more prominence to the skull sitting in the middle on a white, crocheted mat, where more orthodox decorative practice usually put a bowl of flowers.

"It's only until I find somewhere else for it," Merry said. "The children love it, and Estella doesn't mind for now. I'll have to move it soon, though, she wants to touch up some of the paintings."

He reached over and picked it up. "It was a present from Gimli. Belonged to one of his dodgier ancestors back in Moria in the early Third Age. A frightfully enterprising chap called Grimnir, who led exploration parties into the East and invented three new types of chisel. Gimli says that he was eventually arrested and convicted of treason for collaborating with Goblins, but escaped just before his execution and was never seen again. He also," Merry frowned down at the skull, fished out his pocket-handkerchief, and dusted it carefully, "…had a side-line selling fake dwarf-skulls to gullible Big Folk."

Pippin looked more closely, astonished. The skull, a grey, crumbly specimen with a nastily complete set of teeth, turned out to have been carved with perfect verisimilitude out of cunningly stained limestone.

"What on earth....?"

Merry snickered. "Some Big Folk used to think that Dwarves were made from stone and turned back into stone when they died. Some Elves believed it too. Legolas was terribly embarrassed to admit it.

"Grimnir left all his, er, stock behind when he escaped, and they were just sitting there all this time. I suppose the Orcs and Goblins didn’t notice them, and I’m sure the Balrog didn’t either. The extermination teams in Moria picked them up when that sector was cleared a couple of years ago, and they were all passed on to Gimli as family heirlooms. He gave this one to us in exchange for some of Estella’s cuttings. This is a valuable antique, Pippin."

He smiled down at the skull. "He'll go nicely in the library. I shall call him Lotho."

Chapter Text

Lake Nenuial shone golden in the evening sun, ruffled by the breeze and the wakes of the little racing skiffs scudding across the water. Colourful flags shone at their masts: the White Tree, the Swan, the Star of the Dunedain, the slightly different Star of Rivendell and the other banners of the Elven-folk (Lord Faramir had graciously, before everyone’s departure from Minas Tirith, sent round a useful briefing note on this obscure but important subject to the Diplomatic Corps), several coastal banners, and the serpent banner of Near Harad (the Royal Envoy, always keen to try a new and interestingly dangerous sport). There was even a boat from the Halflings, Master Meriadoc Brandybuck competing for the honour of the Shire under the improvised device of an uprooted waterlily plant.

The Ambassador of Far Harad was staying safely on dry land with the King and Queen's party, having forbidden his people to do anything so deranged as going near a boat. It was, of course, a privilege to have been invited on this Royal Progress to this remote, northern half of Their Majesties’ realm, but he was feeling distinctly out of his depth (a natatorial idiom, Master Meriadoc had explained), one of the infinity of new things that the delegation of Far Harad was experiencing with every mile they travelled away from the walls of Minas Tirith (previously alien, but now comfortingly familiar).

The Ambassador had met Master Legolas more than once, usually in the pleasant company of Master Samwise, or the Prince and Princess of Ithilien. It had not really prepared him for meeting the remaining members of the Queen’s family, who had joined the party at various points along the journey.

"My spouse and I dwelt here once," Lord Celeborn said casually. "Some years ago, at the beginning of the Second Age."

The Ambassador did a quick mental calculation, realised just how unimaginably many years ago that was, and shivered, not merely because of the temperature. The season was supposedly summer, but in this far northern region, he could only consider the word a practical joke played by the locals upon hapless foreigners. He was for once not actually too cold, being bundled in an official gift from the Elves, a handsome grey cloak that for all its lightness was extraordinarily warm and comfortable. However, accepting the gift meant also accepting with grace the company of the Queen's grandfather, a terrifying, silver-haired vision of the archaic and inhuman past. He looked up at the Elf's fine, steely profile against the sky (even sitting down, Lord Celeborn was more than a head taller than he was), and tried to think of intelligent conversation, rather than of the vast gulf of time between them. He felt vaguely like a mouse trying to say something sensible to a mûmak, but did his best not to disgrace his training and profession.

"Are you pleased then, my lord, that your family has returned here?"

"Yes." Lord Celeborn sounded almost surprised. "Yes, I am."

Out on the water, the Royal Envoy of Near Harad fulfilled expectations and overturned his skiff; sitting on the Ambassador’s other side, the Deputy Royal Envoy, a harrassed gentleman whose main and unenviable job was to ensure that the Royal Envoy stayed alive for as long as his august aunt, Her Majesty the Great Royal Wife of the River, wanted him in that state, had his eyes firmly shut. There was a scatter of applause from the spectators for a sporting attempt.

The Ambassador joined in politely, with only a brief moment of private regret as the safety boat assigned to follow the Royal Envoy (like many of his riverine people the Royal Envoy could not swim) successfully fulfilled its function and rescued him.

Chapter Text

The Steward of Arnor had been through many sticky situations in his life. It had basically been one thing after another, from his youth in the Angle to the years of battle and hardship among the Rangers, without any guarantee even of the survival of their people, let alone ultimate success in the long struggle. The Renewal of the Kingdom and the departure of Himself for his rightful throne had brought his own unsought and unexpected elevation to the Stewardship of the North Kingdom, which on the whole he quite enjoyed. Rebuilding a kingdom was important and interesting work, after all, though he sometimes thought that he might never truly recover from the shock of the sudden end of the long war, in victory, yet.

Administration was generally not immediately life-threatening, it was true, but it had its own challenges. There were times when he missed the old days, and the simple, peaceful weeks of solitude, exhaustion and fear spent slogging through swamps, thornbrakes and stony wilderness pursuing or being pursued by Orcs, Wargs or Goblins.

"The whole thing has already been settled, at least in principle," he explained patiently to his mildly mutinous successor (yet again). They had been at it for some time that afternoon. Luckily it was a rainy autumn day, so at least no-one was wasting good weather sitting indoors and arguing in a nice, dry office, in front of a nice, warm fire (the Steward was in regular correspondence with Master Meriadoc about hypocausts, the remains of several having recently been excavated at Deadman's Dike, as the Little Folk called the ruins of Fornost of the Kings). The current Captain of the Rangers of the North was known for his dogged determination to perservere against all odds, an admirable trait but occasionally rather tiring for his colleagues.

"Himself has agreed," the Steward said inexorably. "Lord Faramir has agreed. The Mayor has agreed. Your own Master of Recruits has agreed..."

The Captain sniffed. "Nengil would be kind to anyone who can hit the side of a barn with a hammer!"

The Master of Recruits, a gentleman of pure Numenorean descent and serene demeanour (he had been Halbarad’s second at Minas Tirith), smiled placidly in the Steward's general direction.

"They are not yet fully grown, but are already both far above the average recruit in both woodcraft and marksmanship," he murmured. "Also, their mothers approve."

The Steward rather felt that that was the clincher, but the Captain was clearly determined to go down fighting.

"They're too young!"

That was a bit feeble. "Oh come on," the Steward said. "We started bow-drill when we were five. They’re a bit older than that, according to the count of their people."

He played his final card (1).

"Herself thinks it is an excellent idea. Quite apart from how useful they would be in themselves, she wants a signal that we’re serious about integrating the peoples of the North into the Reunited Kingdom. She’s offered to have a chat with anyone who has serious problems with it. I'd really rather we didn't have another Torbard Incident, chaps."

There was a brief silence. During Their Majesties' recent Progress To The North, Torbard the Ranger had had the privilege of a Deep Talk with Her Majesty, upon matters unknown. He had been off in the Trollshaws for more than a year now, meditating (and killing trolls, which was the only thing that had reconciled the Captain to the whole business).

The Steward poured the Captain a consolatory mug of Barliman's best, kept for serious situations. The Captain eyed it morosely, then drained it in a gulp.

"I suppose there's no help for it," he said. "And it could be worse."

"Indeed," the Steward said pointedly. "It could have been Mistress Elanor."

The Captain sighed. "From what the White Tower says, she has her eye on bigger mushrooms." (Arnor had not been immune to the long-lasting fashion for Periannath sayings). He glanced at his lieutenant. "Nengil..."

"Yes, sir. Mistress Estella Brandybuck and Mistress Diamond Took will be informed that their sons have been accepted as Ranger cadets. At once, sir."

Chapter Text

"...so as you can see, my Lords, my Lady, the advantages would be considerable," the Secretary said, "Both in terms of the improvement in hygiene, with the loss of a breeding habitat for noxious insects, and the expansion of our arable land for settlement, in an area that would not impinge upon Master Legolas and his people. There is also the question of, er, historic interest, for the loremasters among us." He smiled hopefully at the Prince of Ithilien, chairing the meeting in his capacity of Steward of Gondor.

There was a babble of voices as the Councillors made their opinions vigorously known. After a while, the silence from the head of the table became obvious, and the members of the Privy Council of Minas Tirith, somewhat abashed, paused for the comment of their Chairman. He regarded them blandly. Unlike his father, Faramir did not always make clear to his Council from the start what his position was on any given subject.

"It is an ambitious proposal, though not without merit," the Steward said, in his most neutral voice.

"Perhaps over ambitious, for now, Sir," the Treasurer said. "The harvest has been good, and our trade with the South is increasing, but the road-repair programme remains a major burden upon the Treasury, and cannot be skimped. It still has," he consulted his papers, entirely for effect, "five years to run, and that is leaving aside both time and funds for Contingencies."

"Of course, of course," the Secretary said hastily. There were still a number of items on the agenda for which he needed to win support, including the important question of the duties on the import of woven and felted materials from Rohan and the North, for which there was a surprising demand from the Eastward trade. No matter, it was early days yet, and the White Tower had not been built in a day.

The Archivist tapped a finger-nail briskly on the table, and silence fell immediately. “I would prefer some time for the Archives to investigate our holdings further,” she said with gentle, implacable politeness. “Not least to identify what other, unknown hazards there might be, that have been forgotten in the intervening years.”

There was an embarrassed silence, as everyone avoided the Archivist’s eye and tried not to think too hard about the recently re-discovered Earnur Memorandum (she was of high Númenorean descent and known to have insight into hearts and minds). It was actually an eminently reasonable position, in Faramir’s opinion. The Archivist could always be relied upon for common sense. It had been more than an Age of the world, after all and who knew what horrors had accumulated there in that time? Master Samwise had been very eloquent on the subject, after a few mugs of beer.

"Perhaps we could also ask Master Gimli and the Chief of Engineers to prepare a formal plan for our consideration?" the Keeper of the Keys suggested. The Secretary made a mental note to be as helpful as possible to the Keeper's next request for an expanded budget.

"That seems reasonable," Faramir said. "And my Lady,” he nodded at the Archivist, “I concur with your views as well. Master Secretary, I do see the advantages in what you propose, but this would be a very large and complex project, with considerable implications for our landward security. I am not yet convinced that losing what is essentially a militarily impassable barrier in that direction is worth the possible addition to our arable land, even assuming that it is not contaminated beyond recovery. And we do have to consider the views of our friends the Elves as well. I believe that the formation of a Working Group would be appropriate. You may present an indicative timetable and list of necessary research resources, say, at the beginning of the next quarter?”

“Indeed, my lord!” This was actually rather better than the Secretary had hoped. The Privy Council was not fond of the exotic, having had a surfeit of that in the war against Sauron. While the Secretary had done his best with his presentation (having observed the cunning tactics of Captain Mablung in respect of the giant spider project), there was really no way that this idea could be considered mundane and straightforward. As the Steward was now saying…

“…We will need a great deal more information before I would even consider suggesting to Their Majesties that we drain the Dead Marshes."

Chapter Text

Legolas had visited Aglarond often in the five decades since the Fall of Sauron, and was entirely familiar with Gimli’s study, an airy hall deep within the Caves that combined office, design studio and workshop in one well-lit, well-organised, finely-proportioned space. It was winter in the world above, and snow lay on the fields of Rohan, but in the Dwarves’ deep halls was light and safety, and the comfort of food and fire and friends. Legolas had come to spend the winter, at Gimli’s invitation, and would go on to the Shire in Spring to visit the Hobbits, mindful of how swiftly the years passed (on Master Káno’s advice, he would not grieve himself or them by dwelling overmuch upon the partings to come; there would be time for sorrow soon enough).

Gimli's drawing-board was scrupulously tidy as always: papers sorted and stacked, clean, sharpened tools racked in strict order of size and use, the lamps positioned exactly to cast the best possible light. From that board had come the sketches and plans for the Great Gate of Gondor and the renovated fortification of Helm's Deep, as well as the overwhelming loveliness that was the new dwarf-hold of Aglarond.

"What do you think?" For once, Gimli seemed uncertain. Unusual, for one normally so wholly (and rightly) confident of the merit of his work. Legolas had learned deep respect for the arts of the Dwarves in general, and Gimli’s in particular, but he never seen anything like this before.

He took up the heavy sheets with care. Parchment of the best grade, imbued (his fingertips tingled with the power that had been laid upon it) with all the Dwarves' craft in preservation and defence. This work was made to last. He looked through them all, wondering. Here were images innumerable, both quick sketches and fully-realised portraits, all neatly labelled with name and date of completion: the most seemed to be of Queen Arwen in all her moods and ways, her son, her daughters, the King. But other faces he knew were there also: himself, Lord Faramir and Lady Eowyn, Gimli himself, many of the Dunedain and the Men of Gondor, and even several Haradrim and Easterlings. The flying-beasts were there and several of their riders, including Captain Mablung, beaming with paternal pride. There was a whole stack of portraits of Hobbits - Master Samwise and Mistress Rose, Merry and Mistress Estella, Pippin and Mistress Diamond, Mistress Elanor, both as she was now and as she had been in her eventful year as the Queen's Maid of Honour, other Hobbits of Sam's extraordinary brood.

All were drawn with Dwarvish skill, unmatchable by Men. They did not have the illusion of life that an Elf's work would have given them, but nonetheless each showed in its spare and elegant lines the truth of its subject. Not even one of the High Elves who yet lingered in Rivendell could have done better. Looking more closely, Legolas saw that the portraits showed each subject at different ages, from their youth to the present; Gimli must have been working on this for many years. And suddenly he realised what this collection was.

"Oh," was all he could find to say. But Gimli seemed to understand everything that he meant, for the slight anxiety eased from his face; there were more lines in it than Legolas remembered, for Gimli too was growing old.

"There will be more," he said, "in time. Sam has written. He comes to visit next Summer, and I think that it will be his last; I will be giving the Hobbit portraits to him. But the others... when all is done, you must take them with you, lad, when you go. For the Lady of the Wood and Master Elrond. So that they will know how it was for her."

Chapter Text

"Never!" shouted the Royal Envoy of Near Harad, brandishing his dagger for emphasis, "Never will I so degrade myself! It is an intolerable insult!"

His deputy flinched. He had long ago ensured that the Embassy of Near Harad contained no easily breakable ornaments and indeed none that were not also firmly fastened to the walls, but nothing could be done about the Royal Envoy's personal gear. It was not easy for a mid-level bureaucrat, walking the narrow path between the (metaphorical) sandstorm of the Royal Envoy’s temper and the (very real) crocodiles of Her Riverine Majesty’s displeasure. The Great Royal Wife of the River, to give her her proper title, of Near Harad had shown no obvious desire for her usurped nephew’s death just yet (he was quite useful where he was, annoying the Gondorians while his Deputy did the real work of maintaining bilateral relations), but there was no telling when that would change. The Deputy Envoy knew it, and for all the latter’s bumptiousness, he was sure that the Royal Envoy himself knew it too. The Deputy slept lightly.

For now, things were normal. "Most Excellent, it is a traditional Northern custom..."

"And why should I pander to the gross practices of these sorcerous barbarians? What will it be next? Will I be required to expose myself upon the public thoroughfare for the delectation of the vulgar horde?"

"The Diplomatic Corps does take part in the New Year Parade, Most Excellent..."

The Royal Envoy screamed and hurled his dagger at the panelling (the Embassy had a specific line-item in the budget for its regular sanding, re-varnishing, and when that no longer sufficed, replacement). The Deputy Envoy cringed but stood his ground, having judged its trajectory with the accuracy of long practice.

"This is not the time for idle persiflage!"

"No, Most Excellent, of course not, my deepest apologies..."

The Royal Envoy stalked over to his desk and glared at his entirely innocuous invitation to the King and Queen's midwinter snow-viewing party at a hot spring in the upper foothills of Mindolluin. There would be accommodation for Their Majesties’ party overnight at the Pines Green In Snow Inn (a rough Westron translation of the locality’s original Sindarin name) next to the spring, and an informal dinner. And any who wished were encouraged to privately extend their stay to enjoy the waters after Their Majesties’ departure; the spring was accounted very therapeutic.

"I suppose that I have to attend this disgusting and perverted spectacle."

"Most Excellent, I assure you, the Chief of Protocol has assured us...it is not necessary for you to disrobe in public! There are special garments for use in hot springs..." The Deputy Envoy steeled himself and added the clinching argument, "And it is perfectly safe, Most Excellent, the way is cleared for Their Majesties beforehand and Lord Faramir tells me that there is a very strong, secure winch for those who have concerns with the steepness of the path..."

The Royal Envoy turned puce. "I AM NOT A COWARD!"

"Of course not, Most Excellent, I was thinking of the Ambassador of Far Harad - plainsmen, you know, they have trouble with heights - and the Lady Eowyn..."

The Royal Envoy made an indecipherable noise. He had a healthy respect for the Lady Eowyn. A proper woman, despite her unfortunate appearance which she could not help, poor thing; quite unlike the fearsome witch on the throne. Lord Faramir was quite unworthy of her.

"Oh, very well! Send a note with my acceptance. And call my tailor!"

Chapter Text

The Ambassador of Far Harad watched the oncoming wave with misgiving. It was an ominous green-black colour, frothing white at its top edge, alarmingly high and far too close. Worst of all, it was one of many; under a grey, autumnal sky, endless ranks of hostile water thundered in his direction, their force making the stone vibrate unpleasantly beneath his feet. He clutched the parapet with one hand and the shaft of his “umbrella” with the other, hoping that he would not need it and wishing that he was at home (he was not going to specify to himself whether “home” meant the Tower of the Wind, the heart of his order in the South, where he had been raised and trained, though not born – the Sons and occasional Daughter of the Wind were all given to the Tower as infants - or his peaceful Embassy garden in Minas Tirith).

He had no complaints about the hospitality of Dol Amroth, or the beauty of its countryside, or the graciousness of his hosts. Prince Imrahil and his wife, though unnaturally youthful in that eerie Gondorian way, were mature and honourable rulers; and the Prince and his sons were famed warriors. All very worthy of respect. But their home…

The Ambassador appreciated rain, even though this northern variety was rather colder and more penetrating than he was used to; it was Master Samwise Gamgee who had introduced him to the word “mizzle” - the great annual rains of the south fell like walls of water from the sky and then stopped; they didn’t hang around indecisively in the air for days on end. The boat-trip down the Anduin from Minas Tirith to Pelargir had been interesting and informative, and he had had the honour of being invited to join Their Majesties on the Royal Barge. Their Majesties had spent two days in Pelargir, giving the Ambassador the chance to meet his people in the Trade House, and get an update on the situation in the South. From there the Royal party had travelled overland to Dol Amroth, and he and Her Highness of Ithilien had had some very pleasant rides together, since no-one else (except possibly Their Majesties themselves) could match their horsemanship.

But he had been quite deceived by the Gondorian poets and their songs about the “Sea-longing” and the joy of …maritime activities. The arrival at Dol Amroth had been on a warm, calm day, and there had been an agreeable walk and picnic on the shore, admiring the sunlight glimmering on the quiet, blue-grey waves. He had, prematurely, thought that the Sea was quite nice, after all, until he realised that that had probably been the last warm day of autumn. While the Gondorian climate was much better than that of the remote and chilly Kingdom of Arnor, the last big trip, he could admit to himself that the storms were frankly terrifying.

He was looking forward much more to the next leg of the journey, through the mountains to the Lady Eowyn’s homeland of Rohan, where he had been promised a personal visit to the Royal Stud. Her Highness had been very much interested in the Embassy’s tall, swift desert horses, and he had hopes of a useful exchange of bloodstock.

It was of course a great honour to be invited to accompany King Elessar and Queen Arwen on their travels. While every ambassador was invited for the shorter trips, only a handful were there for the longer journeys. The Royal Envoy of Near Harad, unfortunately, was among them, notwithstanding the latest embarrassing incident. The diplomatic community was still savouring that business with the Queen's maid of honour; these Elvish fighting arts were most impressive, and apparently all the Queen's ladies were taught by the Queen herself. The Ambassador consoled himself with the thought that his unloved colleague's prestige was not going to improve by his having been tossed into a fountain by a girl-child a third his size.

There was a polite cough behind him, summoning him to his breakfast with Her Majesty. He turned and bowed with real pleasure to the young lady in question. She was also the donor of his “umbrella”, a most excellent invention peculiar to her people; one more reason to be grateful to her.

"Good morning, Mistress Elanor! How delightful to see you!"

Chapter Text

It was spring in Ithilien, that brief, lovely season between the rain and mud of winter and the sultry heat of summer. The scent of lemon-blossom wafted pleasantly in through the open windows of the refectory at Emyn Arnen, as Captain Mablung undid the travel-stained packet and drew out a thick wad of paper, the strong, fine sort that the Shire was now exporting with such great success. He unfolded the sheets and began to read out loud for the benefit of his gathered colleagues, and the Prince of Ithilien, who had been making an inspection of this oddest part of his domain.

Elanor, daughter of Rose and Samwise Gamgee, of Bag End in the Shire, to Mablung, Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien, Master of Flying-Beasts, greetings and good wishes! Dear Captain, I hope that you are well, and all the officers and men, and Lord Faramir and Lady Eowyn. I hope that Elwing and Earendil are well, and that Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth and Stinky remain healthy.

"Stinky?" asked Faramir. He had long since got over the names of the senior breeding pair of flying-beasts. If the Queen didn't mind there was no reason why anyone else should.

"Runt of the clutch, Sir," Diriel said. "Developed this really nasty fungus infection just after hatching. Miss Elanor nursed him through it. Vicious little bastard."

Mablung cleared his throat in a minatory way and went on.

"As you see, I have arrived home safely, and am now visiting my kinsfolk in Brandy Hall (Master Meriadoc sends his warm and respectful greetings also). During my journey home, I took the opportunity to make a record of times, distances, weather and appropriate landmarks, as we discussed. This information will have to be supplemented with further investigation at different times of the year, of course, but I hope that it will be a useful beginning for the great project. I have taken the liberty of consulting Master Meriadoc about some of the technicalities, especially in relation to estimated maintenance costs. He has also pointed out that much space and money could be saved by the use of thinner paper, which he believes the Shire could easily supply."

Conscious of his Prince's eye upon him, Mablung stopped reading with an unconvincing cough.

Faramir reached for the rest of the letter, which turned out to consist largely of detailed and orderly tables of, indeed, distances between specific sites between Gondor and the Shire, calculated in stages according to the estimated average stamina of an adult flying-beast carrying the weight of an adult Man, or (Faramir was unsurprised to see) an adult Hobbit. There were also estimates of the average amount of carrion that would be required per beast per flight-hour, the quantity of livestock that each suggested staging-post might be able to support, a rough design for a stable and post-house, a suggested rostering system for beasts and men, and a detailed estimate of the total cost of the entire scheme per year for the next decade, allowing for construction, maintenance, medical and veterinary care, livestock and flying-beast general breeding costs and amortisation of both fixed and ambulatory assets.

The Prince of Ithilien said mildly, "I thought the plan for the postal service was supposed to be a secret."

The officers of the nascent Royal Gondorian Aerial Corps shuffled their feet and looked in other directions.

"Well, Sir, she had so many good ideas..." Mablung offered. "We thought we could put her on retainer as our consultant...."

. . . . .

Chapter Text

There was a gentle clearing of the throat above Merry's head and Nengil the Ranger, Master of Recruits, murmured, "Not that I wish to raise a false hope among the children, Master Meriadoc, but might that be daylight ahead?"

There was indeed just the faintest hint of paler green in the endless murk surrounding them, ahead and slightly to their right. Merry glanced over his shoulder at the file of tired, very young men (boys, really) following him and then at the light again. When the thought occurred to King Elessar that new recruits to the Rangers of Arnor, as they were now styled, would benefit from having some experience with the Old Forest, he first and wisely solicited the advice and assistance of the Brandybucks. It had generally gone well, after some normal and entirely to be expected teething troubles. The Old Forest, it turned out, disliked campfire songs, not to mention campfires and there had also been some painful encounters with unusual, white-furred rabbits of exceptional ferocity.

The Master did not normally take the teams out himself, but on this particular occasion Master Nengil had quietly confessed to a notion that it might be a good idea. Merry did not dismiss the premonitions of a pure-blooded Númenórean, so here they all were, two nights out from the Hedge, definitely lost, and just as definitely, going around in circles, at least until this moment.

"That's downhill," Merry said warningly. "Towards the river."

"Ah." The Rangers knew about the Withywindle. A Gondorian engineering team working on the Brandywine barrage had had...interesting experiences with it.

"Nonetheless, Master Meriadoc, freedom from these accursed trees might be a good thing, even if it leads us into difficulties of a different sort."

Merry thought this over and had to agree. The Forest was clearly not going to let them get anywhere as they were.

The glimmer led them along a suspiciously easy path. Merry sighed to himself; the Forest had no need to learn new tricks when the old ones still worked so well. Not too long later they emerged onto a rushy bank, blinking in the sudden, golden light of a summer evening. The soft, rippling sweetness of running water was startling, after the silence of the trees.

A willow tree was growing on the bank, its graceful branches trailing in the water. A young tree, well-grown and handsome. Well-fed and cared-for for most of its life, in fact, until it had grown too large for Farmer Maggot's pot. Merry remembered the uproar that had surrounded its return to Tom Bombadil's care. He knew the willow well, and the willow knew him. The alluring, sleepy rustle of its leaves stopped at once.

"Ho!" the Master of Buckland said, in his most authoritative voice. "So it's you that's been playing these tricks, has it? Enough of that, my lad! We're going home now and no more games, or Mrs Maggot will hear about your mischief!"

The slender branches drooped in a embarrassed way. A soft breeze set its leaves fluttering, almost like fingers, and the path along the river-bank became suddenly clear to the least wood-wise eye. The boys gaped at path and tree and Merry in equal amazement. Even placid Nengil blinked.

"I begin to understand, Master Meriadoc, some of His Majesty's more enigmatic remarks about your people and your land."

"Yes, well," Merry stepped firmly onto the path, daring it to do anything untoward. It didn't. "You were quite right to ask me to come with you. That tree isn't as bad as some you might meet here, but it's mischievous enough."

He raised his voice. "Come along, children! Follow me and we should be back at the Bridge by midnight!"

Chapter Text

Master Elrond surveyed the excessively lean young man (boy, he was a boy) laid out in front of him. In his present state of limp unconsciousness, the new Ambassador of Far Harad was an unprepossessing creature and his scrubby beard did not hide his youth. To the lord of Rivendell, he had something of the same pathetic and mildly repulsive helplessness as a new-born rabbit.

"I had to sedate him, in the end," Queen Arwen said. Her practiced fingers cleaned the boy’s inflamed and weeping wound of pus and liquid with brisk, gentle efficiency. "He was so frightened of me that his effort to control his fear closed his mind to me entirely. And since the siege my power in healing is not what it was. In view of his people's prejudices about us, it seemed unwise to try to force the matter. Elessar practically had to frogmarch him in, as it is."

Master Elrond sent his daughter a look of amused reproof. "I did remind you about the risks of battle." There was no hint in his demeanour of the fear that he had felt, all the long nights and days during the last terrible weeks of the War of the Ring, when Rivendell was besieged and assailed and Arwen and Glorfindel had gone out in full arms to command its defenders. “Stay away from killing for the next year or so, and you should recover.”

They were in Master Elrond’s suite in the King’s House (the former rooms of the Lady Aerandis, widow of Ecthelion I and mother of Denethor II, left unoccupied since she returned to Dol Amroth a decent interval after Denethor’s wedding), hard by the Queen’s own apartments. The rooms were pleasant, airy and bright, done in shades of pale green and sea-blue with fine views towards the river. The furniture was not old, having been introduced by Lady Aerandis upon her marriage to Ecthelion II, and had been fully restored and repainted in its original foam-white when the apartment was refurbished at the King’s order. A sitting-room had been hastily converted into a workroom when Elessar sought his foster-father’s help, and to this the new Haradren Ambassador had come (been brought), albeit with utmost reluctance on his part.

"Well, let us see what we have here." He turned back to his patient. "Tsk."

It was a nasty arrow-wound to the side, become even nastier with infection. It had been drained and cleaned earlier on, but the boy had taken a fever and it had lingered in the wound.

"And how long was it before he felt able to seek your help for this?"

"He took the wound at the Morannon," the Queen said dryly. The wound drained, she bathed it carefully with clean water and dabbed the skin around it dry with a fresh cloth. "There, all ready. He was insisting to the last moment that it was a minor itch caused by the summer heat."

Her father sighed. "The race of Men. Children still." He exchanged a direct glance with his daughter and added, "But if they live to become men, they are men indeed."

Chapter Text

It was sunset, the end of a long summer evening. The waves were quiet on the Firth of Lune but Elanor thought that she could hear a certain thoughtful insistence about their murmuring. The grey ship rocked gently at its mooring in response. It would be with the Sea soon.

"Well now, lass," Sam said gently, "It's time, I think."

She was skilled with words and tongues, but all of them failed her now. There had been long conversations in the many months since her mother's death. Every box of old possessions packed up for distribution or storage, every plant and cutting carefully potted and given away to appreciative recipients. The many boxes of letters had been sent to Undertowers already, to be preserved or published according to Elanor’s discretion. It was Merry Brandybuck who had told Sam right at the beginning to keep a copy of every letter he sent, no matter how trivial, and he had followed that advice faithfully all of his long career in the Shire’s service. Elanor and her father had talked through it all, sometimes together with her siblings, often just the two of them together as when she was a child. There had been talks with the grandchildren too, and the great-grandchildren. Master Samwise had been loving and careful of his family in his leave-taking, as throughout his life.

“Sam-Dad," she said, and stopped. They had ridden together from the Tower Hills with Merry and Pippin and Fastred, and spent a night and a day at the Havens, while Cirdan and his people went over the ship one last time.

The night of their arrival there had been a magnificent feast on the beach, with fresh fish and lobster grilled over hot coals, potted shrimp to spread on hot bread, delicious salads of crisp shore vegetables that burst with a delightful saltiness on the tongue, and summer raspberries from the great brakes that, they were told, now grew wild in Forlindon. Cirdan’s people (for there were still Falathrim in Lindon, and Cirdan was still their lord as far as they had one, eldest of all Elven-rulers remaining in Middle-earth) had come from all over Lindon to see the last Ringbearer off. There had been tales and singing far into the night, amid the greater music of the waves, and Elanor, sober matron and great lady of the High and Reunited Kingdom that she now was, had danced with the Sea-Elves under Moon and Stars, laughing and light-footed as a girl.

The five of them slept late into the next morning, and spent the day together. They explored the Havens and picnicked on the foreshore, collected seaweed specimens for the herbarium at Brandy Hall and shells for the collection in the Great Smials. Fastred made many sketches of the ship and the harbour for the famous mural in Undertowers, the one that showed the departure of Master Bilbo and Master Frodo; the second ship, Sam’s ship, would be added as soon as Fastred and Elanor returned home. The hours had passed happily in activity and good cheer.

And then it was Sunset. The last baggage had been loaded; Sam had a lot, mostly presents, not least the Gardner Cases containing particularly precious cuttings (including one from Mistress Innin’s special Southern Blue Basil). The great folios of Gimli’s portraits (Party Tree Press had given of its best for the bindings, for the honour of sending its work over Sea into the Undying Lands – Sam had written the testimonial for them with his own hands) travelled in their own stout, oil-cloth wrapped case. Merry and Pippin had embraced their old friend for the last time, the last parcels of “things for the voyage”, including a substantial package of useful items from Fink-Nottle Enterprises’ premium range of Necessities For The Superior Traveller (Madam Asparagus’ small but well-regarded business, expanded and brought to Kingdom-wide fame by her grandson Sallet Fink-Nottle) had been handed over into the care of Sam’s amused and appreciative soon-to-be shipmates, all cheerful and curious, and delighted to have the noble and honoured Master Samwise taking ship with them.

“I’ll look into the West from the Tower, Sam-Dad,” Elanor said, “And I’ll think of you over there, happy with the Elves, and Master Frodo and Master Bilbo. I’ll miss you, but I won’t be sad, because I’ll know that you’re all right.” The tears were glistening in her eyes, but her voice was firm.

Along the wharf Master Cirdan talked quietly with his people. In the sunset light, the Shipwright's silver hair gleamed rose-gold, reminding Sam of one final obligation.

He smiled up at his tall daughter. "There's one thing I forgot, my dear," he said.

"There's one more thing that needs doing and only you can do it, love. You know in the Red Book where I talk about Master Frodo's going, and describe Master Cirdan? Could you go back and make sure that it's corrected? I don't know what my head thought it was doing when I wrote that, I must have been thinking of Gandalf, and it came out wrong. So make sure you take out that bit about Master Cirdan having a beard, and him an Elf and all. I'd hate for folk that read the Book after to think that I was that confused about things."

Chapter Text

The grey curtain of rain rolled swiftly over the northern fields, the first storm of winter, and fell upon the City in chill, stinging folds. Minas Tirith swore briefly under its breath, but otherwise went about its business unmoved. Awnings were put up, washing taken in, market goods covered over, all with matter-of-fact briskness. The Ambassador of Far Harad adjusted his hat and quickened his pace as he climbed homewards up the Circles (using the steep, narrow stairs for pedestrians that functioned as short-cuts among the various tiers of the City) from his regular visit to Aunt Adili’s Haradren Chocolate and Confectionery Shop. In consideration of the season and the weather, his usual parcel of chocolate, tea, spices, and secret, coded missives from his superiors had been prepared for him wrapped in several layers of waxed paper and oilcloth, so that even just in the usual string bag, everything would survive the trip back to the Embassy unscathed. He didn’t mind getting wet himself, not at all.

The Gondorians' insouciance was very different from the frenetic celebrations of First Rain at home, and even the great festival of the Inundation in Near Harad. But then, water was not short in Gondor, and reportedly still less so in the cold, rainy lands of the north (the Ambassador contemplated with some misgiving the Royal Progress To The North Kingdom that had been announced for the next year). In the riverless plains of the far south, only the rains fed the grass that fed the herds that fed the quarrelling Clans, and drought was the great enemy of all.

Mistress Innin of Aunt Adili's had been kind enough to tell him in advance what day the rains would begin (he knew better than to ask how she knew), and the preparations for the party tonight to mark the occasion were well in hand. All the Haradrim in the City would be there, greater or lesser, and no doubt there would be reports sent back to various Clan Fathers and Mothers about how the Embassy was upholding the honour of the Clans. It would have to be a more staid affair than was usual at home, but that was unavoidable. Gondorian sensibilities had to be considered, not to mention the presence of the Diplomatic Corps and the Guests of Honour, Their Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Ithilien (the Lady Eówyn had been delighted to find that Haradrim were horse-lords too, and there were plans for a joint stud out at Emyn Arnen; the Princess had assured him that the horses would be quartered well away from the Prince’s stable of flying monsters).

The Ambassador decided that doing a formal rain-welcoming dance in the streets would probably be inappropriate; it could wait until the party. But there was a distinct skip in his step as he headed back home.

. . . . .

Chapter Text

Master Samwise had announced the week before that his and his family's year-long residence in Gondor would draw to a close at the end of summer. That still left a good three months, which they would certainly need for the round of farewells and additional excursions, and the sorting and packing of the gifts and mementoes that were already flooding in from all quarters.

Mistress Elanor had promptly petitioned the Queen for leave from her duties as Maid of Honour, in order to complete the redesign of her personally-devised flying-beast riding-harness. She had also petitioned Lord Faramir and Captain Mablung for permission to test it herself.

Master Samwise and Mistress Rose had petitioned both of them not to allow any such thing.

The King, warned by his Ranger's instincts for trouble, had cheerfully dropped the matter in his Steward's lap and departed for a surprise inspection of the forts down-river.

The Gamgees had a lengthy private audience with the Queen, as a result of which several of the younger members of the Tower Guard betting pool won substantial sums from their staider elders. The Captain, precluded from participating by his rank, briefed Faramir thoroughly on developments over tea in the Steward’s office.

“It was inevitable, I suppose,” Faramir said, and took a resigned sip from a Teacup of Doom (there was no point in having an unbreakable tea-set if you weren’t going to use it regularly). It wasn’t as if Mablung hadn’t been sounding the alarm for months.

“Yes, sir.” The Captain topped up his own Teacup from the accompanying Teapot of Doom. “She and Captain Mablung have been working on it for a while. Mistress Elanor is reasonable, and they have reached a practical compromise as to how to, er, operationalise her plans.” Rather than trying it on her own, as she might have had Mablung been stupid enough to refuse his (perfectly genuine) help.

In the Captain’s opinion, which was shared by pretty much everyone who had anything to do with her, Mistress Elanor was as clear a case of galloping heredity as Gondor had ever seen. No-one could possibly have been surprised to see the daughter and eldest child of the great Master Samwise manifesting Heroic Tendencies at an early age, and the Captain was not the only one to take the view that there was absolutely no point in trying to repress them.

. . . . .

A fortnight later, looking out across the Great Lawn from the balcony of Lady Eówyn's apartments in Emyn Arnen, Queen Arwen said, in her gentle, unreadable voice, "Master Samwise is fortunate in his daughter. In the years to come, I shall rejoice if my own should prove as wise of heart and as valiant as she."

Lady Eówyn nodded in agreement, ignoring Captain Mablung's wince. Unlike her husband and his captains, she had never expressed disapproval or even concern about young Mistress Elanor's interest in the flying-beasts. While she herself quite understandably continued to hold the creatures in some aversion, she had learned to ride almost before she could walk and knew well, also, the desire to fly.

She was also fondly appreciative of the competent and good-hearted Captain Mablung, so while the Flying-Beasts were not quartered in the caverns under the fortress of Emyn Arnen itself (which she preferred to keep dedicated to the storage of wine, preserves, root vegetables and emergency supplies), she had not forbidden, and had even approved the budget for, construction of an excellent, purpose-built stable not too far away. Part of it was indeed built into the side of a hill (for noise management), and she had gone so far as to solicit Master Meriadoc’s advice on Mablung’s behalf, the Periannath being the acknowledged masters of surface excavation.

The windows and balconies around them were crammed with everyone who could get time off to watch; Elanor was well-known, and popular, and everyone in Emyn Arnen knew of her ambition. One of the younger, less intractable beasts was already harnessed and ready on the Great Lawn; it stirred restlessly in its tethers, making occasional squawks of protest. In the tense and anxious silence, young Díriel strolled up (the beasts were high-strung and responded badly to sudden movements; Mablung's men had special permission not to salute when on duty), fully kitted out in his helmet, goggles and flying-jacket. A small figure, similarly attired, trotted at his side. Díriel dodged the greeting stab of beak with the insouciance of long practice and swung himself onto its back. While it was distracted, Elanor slipped under its long neck to its other side and scrambled up to perch in front of him. He secured them both in the saddle, and then gave the reins into the girl’s hands. The Lady Eówyn leaned forward in her seat, face intent. Standing at parade rest by the balustrade, Mablung's hands clenched whitely behind him. The Queen sat still and smiled faintly.

The beast gave a loud quack and then a little wiggle of its hindquarters, rather like a cat about to pounce, and leaped skywards at a steep angle, leathery wings beating furiously. It levelled out far above, and began to soar in wide, slow circles around the fortress. The watchers below let out their collective breath. Lady Eówyn said, "So, the steed is uncomely, but answers well to the rein."

Mablung nodded. "Yes, my Lady. Mistress Elanor has spent a lot of time with her, these several months past. They're quite good friends now, relatively speaking." He felt no need to explain that this meant that the creature's regular attempts to kill and eat Elanor were now half-hearted enough to be fairly easily restrained by the stable-hands. Lady Eówyn looked curiously (and a little enviously) up at the flyers, still circling smoothly far above. "Do you name your mounts, as we do horses?"

"Yes, my Lady, of course." He glanced at the Queen and blushed. "Her name is, ah, Elwing."

. . . . .

Chapter Text

"I beg your pardon, Sir," said the Ambassador of Far Harad to the officer of the City Watch who was calling on him, "But I am not familiar with that word."

The receiving-room for ordinary visitors was a plain but pleasant chamber on the ground floor of the Embassy’s office wing, furnished with a few small tables and simple, green-cushioned settles and chairs, all of a rather pretty golden-brown local wood. Its white walls were hung with mounted examples of calligraphy by a particularly talented member of his staff (unobjectionable poems about rain, flowers, true love and the famous one about tomatoes that he had always liked; there were quite a lot of Gondorians who knew Haradic), and the dark, polished planks of the floor were covered by Clan-made rugs in shades of blue and green. The door that led deeper into the house was closed, but a dark green linen cloth embroidered with many-coloured flowers hung over the open doorway to the foyer.

The young Gondorian (just young-looking, the Ambassador reminded himself; there was every chance that he was old enough to be the Ambassador's father) said politely, "A name for a common, domestic terrestrial fowl, or chicken, of the male sex, Your Excellency. "Rooster" is derived from the Sindarin, while "cock", the other commonly used term, is generally understood to be connected to the original Adunaic. I refer in this case to the specific animal belonging to your Embassy's right-hand neighbour, Master Ambard the glazier."

"Ah," said the Ambassador, "That wretched bird. It has been blessedly silent for the last few days. I assumed that it had died of old age."

"I fear not, Excellency. It has disappeared, and Master Ambard, being aware of your views on its ah, activities, is of the opinion that some member of your Embassy might, unknown to you, have taken it upon himself to bring its life to a premature end."

The Ambassador looked the Gondorian straight in the eye, and spoke with what he hoped would be heard as dignified restraint, rather than ill-suppressed hysterical laughter.

"I do assure you, Sir, that I, and all my staff, are fully aware of the importance that this, er, rooster had in the eyes of the City, after its, er, performance during the late Siege. None of us would have had anything to do with its disappearance or demise, though in truth our sleep has been much sounder in its absence."

The door-curtain twitched, and a large, muscular, grey tabby cat strolled in. She checked when she saw the Gondorian, then trotted over to the Ambassador and lofted her considerable bulk onto his lap, luckily for him somewhat padded by the robes of formal audience (the Guards had been courteous enough to make a proper appointment to see him, rather than simply turning up at the door unannounced). Knowing his duty, he fondled her ears and scratched her chin, to the accompaniment of a deep, rumbling purr, before she stretched and curled herself up (with some difficulty, the Ambassador being a slim man) against him, eyeing the stranger suspiciously. The Gondorian returned her stony, green stare, expressionless. The Ambassador put a protective arm around her furry side to support her weight and tried not to look too anxious.

"So we thought," the Gondorian said at last. "But the enquiry had to be made, for the good order of the City. The Guard is happy to accept your assurance, Your Excellency. You might perhaps wish to keep an eye on your cat in future."

. . . . .

Chapter Text

The ceremony was going well, Faramir thought, bowing to the King and Queen and sitting down after his speech with a smile and wave to acknowledge the applause. The riders of the newly-founded Royal Gondorian Aerial Corps had their beasts nicely lined up on the parade ground outside the Great Gate of Minas Tirith, saddled, bridled and a judicious distance from each other. The splendid new banner that stretched (literally, it had been sewn between two slim poles, to minimise distracting flapping in the wind) above the Royal Pavilion had been woven by the Queen herself with the emblem of the new Corps: a pair of white seagull wings on either side of a white helm emblazoned with a golden twelve-rayed Sun, under an arch of seven silver stars, all on a field of deep blue. Beside him, Éowyn wore a tabard of the same blue and bearing the same insignia, and over it a great dark mantle patterned with stars similar to the one that had been Faramir’s first gift to her. The large and happy crowd was tucked safely behind stout barriers and a large contingent of both Tower Guards and the City Watch. Everything was, for once, proceeding smoothly according to the order of proceedings painstakingly worked out by the Secretary's Office.

The King had finished his own speech, and he and the Queen were announcing the appointments, to loud cheers as each recipient came up to receive his or her commission.

- The Lady Éowyn of Rohan, Princess of Ithilien, as Patroness of the Corps (she caught his eye and they smiled openly at each other, sharing rueful amusement);

- Mistress Elanor Gamgee of the Shire as Air Marshal-in-Chief; she had arrived from the Shire by flying-beast just a week ago, tired but exhilarated to have made the inaugural flight of the Corps. She came up to receive her baton and tabard from the Queen, to loud cheers from riders and crowd alike; even after a decade away, she had many friends in the City.

- Captain Mablung as Air-Marshal-in-Command, radiating joy at this culmination of twenty-five years' work; Faramir had claimed the honour of laying the tabard on his shoulders, and the Queen placed the silver baton in his hands, her smile as bright as the great banner above their heads.

- Diriel and the other senior riders as Commanders of, respectively, Dandelion, Ash and Sycamore Wings ("we want to sound harmless and friendly, Sir," had been the explanation of the names given to Faramir ). Dandelion would be the Hobbit’s Wing too; that had been the King's suggestion, foreseeing a stampede of young Tooks and Brandybucks in the direction of Emyn Arnen.

- The Nurnish Commander of the Allied Wing; he got solid applause as well as he knelt before the King. The Allies were a mixed bag of obsessives from Nurnen, Dorwinion, and Far Harad, together with a solitary youth from Gondorian-for-now Umbar, who by his looks was clearly at least part-Black Númenórean, but whose monomania for flying far outweighed his putative ancestral loyalties. All of them were too young to have fought in the War and the crowd bore no grudges (also, Mablung not being a fool, they were only allowed to ride the males).

To more cheers, the King and Queen declared the Royal Gondorian Aerial Corps formally instituted.

The Lady Éowyn blew her silver whistle; its sweet and piercing note cut through the noise of the crowd, and an anticipatory hush fell. In the breathless silence, broken only by the gusting of the spring wind, Air-Marshals Gamgee and Mablung jogged onto the field and mounted their own beast (shared). A wave from Elanor's baton, and as their flying-beast flapped its wings and leapt for the air, each Wing sprang from the plain in their wake. They described a few simple but impressive manoeuvres in the cool spring air, circled the parade ground three times to the uncontrollable enthusiasm of the crowd, and then flew off in good order, Elanor and Mablung in the lead, towards the River and their home barracks at Emyn Arnen.

The populace, thirsty from cheering, was released towards the stands thoughtfully organised by the Secretary, where the City's purveyors of liquid refreshment and fried salty snacks were expecting large profits, even after taxes. The Royal Party withdrew towards the City, where the City Watch would host them to a suitable collation in the public pleasure-garden that had been laid out a decade ago along the walls south of the Great Gate.

"All right," Faramir said to his wife, as they strolled back to the Gate in Their Majesties' wake. "You can tell me. How did they do it? How did they get that many flying-beasts to sit quietly through all that noise and for all that time, without even one attempt to eat someone?"

The Patroness of the Corps grinned at him, looking for a moment like the young Rider of Rohan once more.

"Beer," she said, simply.

. . . . .

Chapter Text

The Ambassador of Far Harad had learned stoicism in a hard school. Despite his youth, the harsh training of his order, the harsher world of war and defeat and the long struggle of peace, the endless strain of living among aliens, in an alien city, all of these had steeled his character to positively Halfling-like phlegmatism. Still, even less than a decade on the job had also forced him to accept that his more feckless compatriots could always find new and ingenious ways to make his life harder.

Winter in Gondor was wet and chilly; wind buffeted the shutters and rain streamed down the glass panes. The Ambassador pushed his toes into his cosy quilted slippers, drew his cosy, quilted robe closer around him and over the cat snoring on his lap, sipped the hot chocolate that his guest had brought him and tried not to show his dismay.

"Madam, are you quite certain of this information?" He added hastily, mindful of who he was talking to, “Not that I doubt you at all, ma’am, but it would be such an ill-advised thing to do…”

Mistress Innin the Easterling, proprietress of Aunt Adili's Haradren Chocolate and Confectionery Shop, the most successful exotic-foodstuffs business in Minas Tirith, raised a dark eyebrow.

"Naturally, Excellency, I would not have troubled you outside our normal schedule had I not been confident of its accuracy."

"I have heard nothing from my order," the Ambassador said, swallowing his annoyance with his hot chocolate. "And the high Clans are occupied with other things.” Primarily, sorting out the effects of losing most of their Clan Fathers and fighting-age men at the Morannon; those Clans traditionally led by Mothers had acquired sudden political ascendance, their leaders now having most of the seniority in the Council of Clans. “Which indicates that this is someone playing silly buggers. Do they think that Aragorn will be so easy to kill? Not to mention the potential disaster if they succeed."

Mistress Innin set down her cup. "Indeed. Until an heir is born, the Queen is arguably his next heir as the seniormost living and eligible of the line of Earendil. I do not think that your countrymen have considered the consequences of raising up against themselves a vengeful Ruling Queen of Gondor, even if she is not, quite, undying."

The Ambassador blinked. That had not been one of the several dire possibilities that had immediately come to his mind. The Great Tower had been one thing, but it had not yet ceased to startle him to be reminded that beings out of legend lived and walked in the realm of the High King, and ruled in the City itself. The thought of the Queen's enmity was also . . . uncomfortable. He gave silent thanks to the All-Seeing that this was not going to be one of those difficult decisions.

"Well, whatever they want, they can’t have it. Not only do I have no instructions on the matter, my standing orders are directly to the contrary. We cannot afford to have Gondor turn on us now, not to mention that the Riverfolk would be delighted to help them decimate us. They’ve been complaining for the last three years about the Clans on their southern border.”

The fall of Sauron had broken the always tenuous alliances among the different Southron peoples. The river Kingdom of Near Harad, while currently lacking a King, had a very able Regency acting for the heir, which would certainly take every advantage possible of the chaos attendant on the successful assassination of the High King of Gondor and Arnor.

“Do you have any suggestions, ma’am? The Embassy cannot be openly involved in this unfortunate situation, or I would be happy to slice the idiots into sausage myself."

Mistress Innin smiled brightly; the Ambssador tried not to flinch.

“Leave it to me, Your Excellency. I just wanted to be sure that we were in agreement.”

She did not say, and the Ambassador tried not to think about what might have happened had they not been in agreement. The House of the Wind’s quiet, off-and-on association with the Witch of the East went back long before the era of the Great Tower; there were old, old stories that the founder of the House had been kin of hers (the very oldest records named her ‘Grandmother’). The Ambassador had been surprised to rather like her when they first met, but he was not going to forget the cautionary tales that had been drilled into him in the House creche, together with the alphabet and times-tables. He did not ask for further details, and escorted Mistress Innin politely to the door himself (after first depositing his cat, with apologies, in her sheepskin-lined basket). He did have to consider his own position, after all, and if things at home were getting as bad as this piece of nonsensical flailing-about suggested, he didn’t want to offend anyone unnecessarily by visibly blocking their plans, however stupid they were.

. . . . .

“Smuggled cloud mushrooms?”

The Prince of Ithilien, in his capacity as Steward of the High and Reunited Kingdom was not normally required to take notice of Customs offences, which were within the purview of the Keeper of the Keys, in co-operation with the Prefect (and in Ithilien, with the White Company under the authority of the Princess). But the Captain of the White Tower was there with them in Faramir’s office, in the early morning emergency appointment slot, which meant that something unnecessarily interesting was happening (like most of the survivors of the War of the Ring, Faramir preferred his existence to be as unexciting as possible). The Prefect handed over the report, a sheaf of linen paper covered in a dense, clerical hand. Faramir scanned the succinct, neatly written opening paragraph, and his mouth tightened into a grim line.

The Keeper of the Keys said, “My office received a complaint from Aunt Adili’s Haradren Chocolate and Confectionery Shop about cloud mushrooms being smuggled into the City without duty being paid, by a Far Haradic emporium which supplies a lot of the Haradren businesses here. Since Aunt Adili’s also carries this product, they expressed concern that they were being illegally undercut, and also mentioned the risk that the variety of mushroom being smuggled might not in fact be the genuine article but a much cheaper, near relative that looks similar but is quite poisonous. They were quite open about their interests in the matter, my lord, and of course very helpful.”

“My men accompanied the Keymen to the indicated location according to the standard procedure, sir,” said the Prefect, taking up the tale. “While searching the premises, we found evidence of an active conspiracy to assassinate Their Majesties, apparently originating in Far Harad.”

“We have the immediate conspirators in custody," the Captain said flatly, without a trace of his usual insouciant good humour. "Investigation is ongoing to find out if they have allies among our own people. They have not been very co-operative so far, but the evidence against them is considerable.”

There was something indefinably…off about all of this. Faramir looked at the report again, his intuition hammering noisily for attention on the door-knocker (another Periannath fashion that the citizens of Minas Tirith had taken up with enthusiasm) of his mind. He skimmed through the report again, and noticed the conspicuous omission.

“Did you find any, er, cloud mushrooms, poisonous or otherwise?”

All three men looked back at him. It was the Keeper who replied, “No sir, we did not.”

Faramir said with deceptive mildness, “Do you believe the the Embassy of Far Harad to be involved in any way?” The Embassy was under Clan custom a branch of the House of the Wind, and therefore supposed to be neutral in all inter-Clan disputes. Faramir very much hoped that it was not involved; he both liked and respected the young Ambassador.

The Captain said, “Not in respect of the conspiracy itself, no, we have no evidence that they are. Things have been…unsettled among the Clans since the Fall of the Dark Tower. The factions have been splitting and recombining much faster than usual. The House of the Wind has been fully occupied at home and the Council of Clans is not in any shape to give it orders for something like this.”

The Keeper of the Keys said, “The enterprise in question is registered with us, and with the Embassy as members of their community, but the Embassy itself has had no specific dealings with them as far as anyone has been aware, beyond shopping there occasionally, which all Haradren in the City do. The owners are Haradrim, from one of the minor northerly Clans, but claim to know nothing; the men in custody were all recent hires over the last year. Not too unusual, their workers come and go with the seasons.”

“So we are to understand,” Faramir said, “That a case of normal, everyday skullduggery between commercial rivals has by complete coincidence somehow led us to an assassination plot against Their Majesties?”

“And yourself and Lady Éowyn, sir,” the Captain said. “Though from what we’ve found so far, I think they were unduly optimistic about their chances against both her and Her Majesty.”

Faramir thought about that, and it slightly, very slightly eased his anger and outrage (and healthy dash of instinctive fear).

The Prefect said stolidly, “The local Watch-post noted that Mistress Innin from the Aunt Adili shop made an off-schedule delivery to the Embassy two days before the complaint was made to the Office of the Keys.”

The dissecting-puzzle was by no means complete - there would need to be quite a bit more investigation, Faramir was not happy about the uncertainty around possible Gondorian co-conspirators - but the general picture was coming clear.

“If the Ambassador had wanted the Embassy to be openly involved, he would have warned us directly,” he said, thinking aloud.

The Captain nodded. “I agree, sir. He has a lot of factions at home to balance too, and he’s very young. No power-base of his own yet, I’d think, and he can’t risk being accused of betraying his own people.”

“And we don’t want to make problems for law-abiding Haradrim in the City. Very well. Invite the Ambassador for lunch, and have a word. Reassure him that we’ll handle this quietly, and express our appreciation for the Aunt Adili people’s, ah, public-spiritedness. About the mushrooms.”

. . . . .

Chapter Text

On a fine day in early Spring, King Elessar and his Steward strolled in the garden of the King's House of Minas Tirith, discussing matters of state. Two tall, lean, greying men, neither of whom had changed much since the Return of the King, more than fifty years ago. The world around them, however, was vastly different.

“Our friend Master Samwise has written to me,” the King said. “He intends to make a visit to Gondor soon. He will be retiring from his office after his term ends in two years’ time.”

“Seven terms as Mayor,” said Faramir, who made a point of keeping up with doings in the Shire. One never knew when short but heroic adventurers might be needed again, after all; and while Men were forbidden to enter the Shire, Hobbits were not forbidden to leave, and in the last thirty years or so their younger generations had blown like dandelion fluff all over the High and Reunited Kingdom.

“Forty-nine years of service. No wonder he grows weary.”

Gondorian loremasters, including Faramir, had found it fascinating that Hobbits’ lifespans usually well exceeded those of Men, other than those of strong Númenórean descent. The Queen had graciously shared Master Elrond’s notes and speculations on the matter (Bilbo Baggins had not been the first of his kind to visit Rivendell, and some Elves had apparently suspected the Periannath of being Children of Yavanna, though perhaps not in quite the same way that the Dwarves were the Children of Aulë), but even Master Káno had ultimately pleaded ignorance. Like many things to do with the Periannath, their surface mundanity hid surprising depths of mystery. Faramir was still debating internally whether he wished to ask Mistress Innin of Aunt Adili’s for her opinion.

Aragorn said soberly. “It will be the last time, I think. He writes that Mistress Rose has been unwell. He will fly, with Mistress Elanor. I believe he seeks the counsel of the Queen.”

“Ah.”

Faramir understood the significance of this. Elanor had written to Air Marshal Mablung (now retired) in triumph some twenty years ago, when she finally persuaded her parents to try flying, just a short hop from Bag End to the Tower Hills and back, to celebrate the first successful hatching of a Flying-Beast in the Shire; Master Samwise had until now nonetheless still kept to the roads.

An uncomfortable silence fell. There were limits to even Her Majesty’s power of healing when it came to mortals, and the first generation of Gondorian officials who had witnessed the Return of the King and the Coming of the Queen were almost all either retired from office or dead. Faramir himself felt no loss of vigour yet, but he knew that he would not outlive either the King or the Queen. And Eówyn and their children… the blood of Morwen of Lossarnach helped, but not enough. With the smoothness of long practice, he put the anticipation of sorrow aside and returned to his duty.

"That is, in a way, quite fortuitous, Sire, in view of the situation in Arnor."

They paused to admire the early waterlilies in the pond, their blue-violet chalices just beginning to open to the warmth of spring. Red-gold flashes beneath the water signalled that the fish were shaking off their winter torpor too.

"The decision does have to be made quickly. We may end up with the office vacant soon regardless, and while things are peaceful in the North, it’s not a good precedent to set; we would look unprepared and disorganised, and it might be taken as a slight to the North. And all the other available candidates would imply that you favour one geographical or, er, philosophical faction over another, which would be both untrue and awkward."

Faramir’s first choice had been the Lady Silmariën, Princess Royal of Gondor and Arnor, the eldest daughter of the King and Queen and an unimpeachable choice; however, she was content and fully occupied managing Gondor’s diplomatic service, and had no desire to leave the City yet. Her younger sisters also had their existing duties; the Prince would do a stint in the North in due time, but not yet.

Aragorn sighed. "The smaller the stakes, the more heated the quarrel."

The removal of the common Enemy and the restoration of the kingdom of Arnor had been followed in short order by the revival of the original internal disagreements that had eventually led to its disintegration (though the small group that represented the old Rhudaur faction was careful to remain loudly devoted to truth, justice and the Dúnedain Way, and absolutely the continued unity of the High and Reunited Kingdom). Arnor was still, and would be for generations yet, far poorer and less populated than its Southern sister, but that did not reduce the infighting among its would-be leaders. Faramir, remembering academic backstabbing in the Pelargir Academy of Natural Sciences, of which the Princess of Ithilien was ex officio Chancellor, did not disagree.

"Consider," the Steward said instead, as they walked on under the cherry trees; the blossom was just coming and the scent was faint, though already sweet. "Mistress Primrose Gardner and her husband keep the largest inn in Tharbad. Master Hamfast Gardner is a leading light of the pipeweed trade in Dale. Mistress Rose Gardner is well-established in Gondor, and the Shire House teashop is the most popular in the City."

“Their coffee’s very good too. And I like their jam tarts.” The Periannath didn’t have an Embassy, strictly, being direct subjects of the Crown, but during his year in Gondor Master Samwise had made arrangements for a representative office to be established, with Master Fredegar Bolger as its first occupant. The Shire had been granted a handsome mansion just below the Royal precinct, and together with the proceeds of its later-established bookshop, the revenue from its teashop, (initially founded by Tansy Maggot née Fink-Nottle, eldest daughter of the famous Asparagus, and now run by one of Tansy’s daughters) more than paid for the salaries of the staff and the upkeep of the premises. The King had never lost his taste for Hobbit cookery, and was known to drop in unofficially as “Master Strider’ from time to time, which ensured its continued popularity; there was also a regular order of jam tarts and seasonal fruit turnovers sent up to the King’s House.

A few years ago, Faramir had noted with interest Rose Gardner’s bakery, “Bywater Bites: Best Hobbit Tarts, Pies and Cakes", opening on Confectioners’ Street in Minas Tirith, just three houses down from Aunt Adili's Haradren Chocolate and Confectionery Shop, next door to Grandmother Veena's Khandish Specialities coffeehouse and across the street from the Delights of Lake Nurnen grocery and restaurant. That might have been a coincidence, or it might not. Over the years, Confectioners' Street had become the centre of all serious espionage in the South. Information flowed in and out with the crates, barrels and bales of foreign delicacies, and indiscretions babbled in taverns by men in their cups were, according to the Captain of the White Tower, chief of Gondor's intelligencers, as nothing compared to indiscretions exchanged over exotic drinks and fancy snacks in a nice, quiet garden under the lemon trees. The Captain rather blamed his predecessor in office (now peacefully retired by the seaside in his ancestral village in Belfalas), for allowing the first Ambassador of Far Harad to import Aunt Adili’s; that had been followed in time by the whole crew, including now, apparently, the Hobbits. Even he had to admit, though, that in some ways it made things easier for everyone. There were rules, for both sides. The Gondorians supervised with a light touch, and the spies knew not to overstep their bounds (except Mistress Innin of Aunt Adili’s, their unofficial Dean, who did as she pleased; but she did keep order, of a sort, and anyway for various excellent reasons she was the Queen’s responsibility, rather than the White Tower’s). And certainly, the food was very good. Aunt Adili’s itself had been supplying the King’s House for decades, without any identified problems.

"The Periannath correspond widely," Faramir said, bringing them back to the point. "And now that the Shire raises and pays for its own Flying-Beasts there is basically no limit to the amount of information that can travel."

The postal service had boomed in the decades since the Royal Gondorian Aerial Corps had fully...taken off. Men and women (the recruitment criteria set out by Air Marshal Mablung and still followed, prioritised size not sex) of Gondor still flew the official mails and the intel missions, and bulk cargo of course went by road or water. But Hobbit riders predominated for civilian mail, and private and commercial correspondence on the special, feather-light “flying-paper” that the Shire produced, to its great profit, literally flew between the cities and towns of the West.

"You are trying to tell me," the King said, "That she is already privy to all the secrets of the High Kingdom, except the ones in Khuzdul."

“There is considerable trade between the Shire and the Dwarves,” said Faramir, not committing himself on that point. “East, West and South, and I have heard that there is now a substantial Hobbit settlement in the Blue Mountains, by leave of the Dwarves.” (There was, founded by the master-brewers Robin and Tolman ‘Tom’ Gardner, Master Samwise’s youngest sons, and their wives; Shire beer was hugely popular among the Dwarves, and increasingly, among the Elves of the Havens.)

"The Rangers would back her, without question, and so would the Flying Mails. And she is known to be the Queen's familiar. She would be regarded, essentially, as the Queen's appointment."

Both men exchanged a knowing glance as they strolled on. The older lords of both Gondor and Arnor understood the need to avoid giving Her Majesty cause to think that they might want a Deep Talk with her, but there were always people who needed to learn the hard way.

"I recall," the King said, "That Lord Torbard himself, in his younger days..."

"Five years in the, ah, Trollshaws, I think they’re called," Faramir said. "Meditating. And killing trolls, of course. That was after he had a, um, lengthy private audience with Her Majesty during the first Progress to the North. He has been agitating for some years now for a successor to be appointed, and there is some concern in Annúminas that he may take off back into the hills at any moment; becoming a hill-hermit is quite popular with retired Rangers, I understand...”

He added the usual clinching argument in all disputes in the High and Reunited Kingdom.

"Her Majesty thinks that it’s a good idea."

They had reached the wall that overlooked the City, falling away below them in tier after dizzying tier, bright in the clear Sunlight of Spring. The Anduin gleamed silver in the distance, and overhead in the blue depths of the sky, the tiny shape of a Flying-Beast soared; the morning mail flight from Emyn Arnen to Orthanc, the next relay point, stopping at Minas Tirith, Edoras and Aglarond. "Very well, then," the King said."Let's try it and see what happens. We can announce it when they arrive.”

His smile was a young man’s, warm and delighted, and Faramir felt his own expression mirror it involuntarily.

"Mistress Elanor Gardner, Deputy Postmistress of the Shire, shall from the first day of the New Year be appointed Lady Steward of the Kingdom of Arnor, with all the rights and perquisites pertaining to that office."

“Including a personal Flying-beast?” Faramir was quite certain that that would be a non-negotiable condition.

“Of course.”

. . . . .

Chapter Text

“I am thinking,” the Queen of Gondor said pensively, looking out of the window at the setting Sun of summer, “that something needs to be done about the historians.” The King and Queen of the High and Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor were enjoying a rare, peaceful dinner together in their quarters in Minas Tirith. Faramir and Éowyn were in Emyn Arnen, and there were no guests, envoys or important subjects to entertain.

Elessar swallowed a spoonful of sausage and summer vegetable stew (he had never lost his Ranger’s taste for simple but hearty fare, one of the reasons why Shire duty had always been so popular among the Dúnedain of the North) and gazed upon his wife with the longstanding mixture of fascination, fondness and trepidation that had made their long courtship and relatively new marriage such a success. Arwen was wearing what he privately thought of as her “Galadriel before the walls of Dol Guldur” face, or possibly though he did not want to think about it quite like that, her “Maglor facing an Evil Thing In Spider’s Form” face. A cool, concentrated thoughtfulness that the Lords of Gondor had learned to be very wary of evoking (especially those who had seen her before the walls of Minas Morgul).

“I am the Queen,” Arwen said redundantly. “I have duties. I cannot spend all my time reciting the history of the Third Age for the Archives, much though I respect their dedication to their Art. My grandfather and Lord Glorfindel have already been indulging the loremasters that dear Faramir has sent to them.”

The Loremasters of Gondor, having tasted fresh meat when the Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel visited Minas Tirith for their grand-daughter’s wedding, had not been minded to let go of their prey so easily, even if they had to camp in the woods for months on end; the ones in Rivendell had a more pleasant time, since Lord Glorfindel and the Sons of Elrond were used to having Men underfoot, and were in any case of somewhat easier temperament than Lord Celeborn. A handful of intrepid scholars had even made it as far as Fangorn, from whence they were still sending reports, albeit mostly consisting of lengthy transcriptions of Entish communication, so Elessar was not worrying about them yet. Only the very hardiest ventured to Mirkwood and Thranduil’s halls, but since most of those were dauntless and immovable elderly ladies, even he had given in, with only the occasional letter to Arwen complaining about “bloodsucking spawn of Nan Dungortheb in mortal form”. Gondor had been relieved to mollify the Elvenking at last with a recent gift of cuttings and the recipe for a very successful pipeweed-based spider repellent, developed jointly by the Wood-elves in Itihilien, Merry Brandybuck, and Lady Eówyn’s team of gardeners and herbalists in Emyn Arnen.

“What is your plan, my love?”

Arwen always had a plan. She had got used to letting him know before she implemented them; centuries of authority over Imladris and its doings had made her unaccustomed to collaborative rule, but she had accepted as fair the point that when dealing with mortals, getting a mortal viewpoint first was useful.

“I shall write a book myself. An autobiographical history of the Third Age. Or rather, I will dictate it, so that I can adapt it as the questions of the scholars suggest. They can have the emergency morning appointment slot whenever there is no emergency…” (emergencies were fairly rare, since the Queen’s intervention was the last resort, and it was considered something of an embarrassment to need it). “Lord Glorfindel is sending me my father’s notes too, and my own old writings. I’m sure the Archives will be happy to institute a roster.”

Chapter Text

In her sitting-room, a silken fan, worn but still beautiful, delicately painted with the images of strange beasts; an old gift from the first Ambassador of Far Harad to Gondor in those long-ago days after the Return of the King and the Coming of the Queen. They had been friends and fellow horse-lords, and she had liked his fan; had used it often in the heat of Gondorian summer. He had never returned living to his distant homeland and by the Queen's decree a portion of his ashes were retained and interred in Rath Dinen among the honoured of Gondor.

On her dressing-table, a set of clips in the latest style, meant to fasten the flowing sleeves of a dress - gold, as she had preferred. She had worn them not so long ago, laughing at her own vanity as they danced together at the Ringday feast in Minas Tirith; a stately walking-dance, suited to her years and dignity. She had passed her ninety-fourth birthday soon after, still hale of mind and body, though tiring more swiftly than pleased her.

In the book-press in her study, the codices in which she had written all her lore of plants, her own and that taught her by the Wood-elves and by Master Meriadoc of the Periannath. By her wish these would go to the Pelargir Academy of Natural Sciences, over whose research, teaching and vicious academic feuds she had presided for decades as its Chancellor. The archive of the Houses of Healing already had her notes on the healing art. The library of Emyn Arnen would keep her writings on horse-breeding, cavalry drill and the care of the horse in peace and war, both the lore of the Rohirrim, and (jointly authored with the first Ambassador of Far Harad in his retirement) that of the plains Haradrim. It would also have her notes on the Flying-beasts, whose steadfast Patron she had remained until the day she died.

It would also keep the original music and lyrics of the “Lay of the White Lady”, composed and written in his own hand (in Quenya, Sindarin, Gondorian Westron and Rohirric) and signed with his full names and titles, by Maglor the Mighty, Lord of the Gap, Kanafinwë Macalaurë son of Fëanor and Nerdanel, prince of the House of Finwë. It told of the valour of her youth, the strength and wisdom of her rule in Ithilien, and the grace and majesty of her age, and Faramir had wept when “Master Káno” had sung it at her ninetieth birthday celebration.

Print editions of all her works had been published throughout the High Kingdom over the years, to great acclaim, and there had been a special, revised and definitive edition by Party Tree Press of the Shire fourteen years ago, a gift from Meriadoc Brandybuck for her eightieth birthday.

Their last day had been a rare sunny interlude in the damp chill of the Gondorian winter, and they had gone out together to take advantage of the good weather. They had inspected the Flying-beast stables (over her years as Patron of the Corps her aversion had faded; she had even learned to fly, to her brother’s horror and her husband’s well-hidden terror) and visited the nearby herb-farms, and picnicked in the sun in the gardens of Emyn Arnen that she had designed and helped to plant herself. That evening they had dined quietly in private and afterwards they had sat together, cosy by the fire, talking over the day, and their plans for the coming spring. And then she had stopped speaking.

Her device of the White Horse and the Green Tree was everywhere: in Ithilien, in the City, wherever his eye fell. Her rain-drowned banners lined the grey streets as he walked with the King and Queen, following her bier all the winding way from the Great Gate up to the Street of the Silent. Winter was the season of storms, and water dripped from the eaves and puddled in the streets. Faramir went bareheaded and indifferent to the wet, their short-lived children pacing beside him, themselves already growing old; they would not outlive him either. For all the power of water, it would not wash away his sorrow. Not this day, and not for all the long years of his widowhood to come.