T.A. September 3020
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"Imrahil Prince of Dol Amroth requests the pleasure of your company at the yearly festival of…."

The script was elegant, all swirling flourishes and arabesques dancing in neatly ordered lines. From the parchment's heavy weight and the exotic colour of the ink, Éomer, King of Rohan, had no doubt at all that the missive was from Dol Amroth's noble Prince. He frowned in concentration, slowly translating in his head the formal form of Sindarin. Some correspondence a King wished to keep all to himself but Béma's horn the words were convolute.

Brow furrowed in puzzlement he absently tugged on and laced his boots, closed the bedroom door behind and wandered out into the hall. Why in Arda would the Belfalas folk hold a whole ceremony for the naming of a fish? He peered a little closer at the faintly seawind-scented page. Why the event went on for days?! Naming it. Tagging it. Releasing it to be caught again next year. Surely the odds of a soul actually catching the hapless thing were nigh impossible? At least burning a king-shaped sheaf of wheat as they did in Minas Tirith (to his mind but little less outlandish) had the virtue of being connected to the harvest. But truly these Gondorians had far too much time at leisure if they could concoct so many pointless days-long rituals. Haglimond was blessedly straightforward. A day of ceremony and literal horse trading. A night of boasting and toasting. Good food and even better ale to foster fellowship and rivalry. Simple. A man could sink his energies into that. Not laying hands on some slimy, slippery shape.

Bemused but intrigued, Éomer scratched at his beard thoughtfully as he tiptoed down the still quiet hall and ducked out the great oak door below Meduseld's gold lintel. He turned his face up to the climbing autumn sun. It was the morning after Haglimond's night before. Per his usual habit Éomer was up early with the dawn, pitying the poor lads who stood on guard. Every last Rider in the city would be nursing a pounding head that morn after a night of raucous songs and bolder boasts, hours of boisterous dancing. Though the pair who stood before the door looked red-eyed and bleary (and one as white as Starkhorn's upper slopes) the new recruits seemed alert enough. Hungover. Suffering. Waiting for the exuberant sunshine in the bright and gallant sky to kill them. But still determined to do proud their Éored.

A King could be justly proud of such dedicated men.

"Good morrow." The guards snapped to attention and he nodded just slightly carefully himself, exchanging a few pleasantries and moving on before they could notice the red-rims around his eyes. Or the slightly ashen hue of his skin below the tan.

Béma what a party!

The icy coldness of the water in the back rainbarrel had been a godsend. It had done much to shock the puffiness from his face. If not the more pernicious memories from his brain.

It was all Erkenbrand's fault, he thought. The Marshal's gracious gift- Uskebeaghe, the finest the Westfold had to offer-had been strong and almost voluptuously smooth, loosening his tongue and his better judgement. Easy enough for Théodred to have stood before the rowdy throng and boasted he'd be clean-shaven another year, but he, Éomer-King, had had no inkling of what he might say until he actually arose.

The thunderous and hopeful roar, the whistles and teeth-rattling pounding on tables and flagstones after his first careful, throat-clearing, cough had left little room for doubt.

And he had not let them down.

Before next Haglimond Rohan would have a Queen.

Valar.

Éomer still could not quite believe he'd said it. Rash. Presumptuous. Possibly even insane, but a foal once dropped has to stand as Dúnhere would say. Done was done. And although he'd not had leisure to examine the concept critically, it was necessary and appropriate. Thirty was not too old be unmarried. Thirty-one however….

Descending the stone steps one by one, he looked out over the slumbering city to the Folde's tawny, new shorn fields, the wider plains of the West Enmet. The richer pasturage and farmland at the White Mountains feet ensured that Aldburg and Harrowdale and most of the settlements near to hand were on their feet again. In eighteen months swift reparations had been made, but not every moment had been peaceful: Dunlendings had harried the Gap of Rohan, Southrons and Orcs the Ephel Duath. At first he'd had no time to think of settling down, but then in the sweet summer days around his sister's wedding a certain restlessness had emerged. An unsettledness. As if something centrally important was lacking in his world.

(It could have nothing-nothing-to do with that deceitful Princess to whom he'd lost a bet. The letters brought fortnightly by Minas Tirith's messenger were merely a formal courtesy. They were family now. Of course he wished to know more of his sister's newfound kin. The weeks since Éowyn 's wedding had passed as quickly as a duster in dry fields.)

Éomer sighed and turned automatically for one of his favourite vantage points. The carven benches laid by Thengel Thrice-Renowned at the Hall's east foot would be warm and he had left his cloak. He strode quickly, letters shoved safely into his belt, long legs eating up the stone, but soon he came to a disappointed stop. They were occupied. A rider graced each one; passed out on his back and snoring loud enough to rouse the dead.

Béma. From the soft down on their cheeks and the size of the drinking horns upended on the stone it had been their first boasting night. 'Twas likely not the last time they'd find a horn too deep, but best to not to leave them solely to fortune's whim. He turned the first on his side and then the other; noting with amused surprise the red mustache of Elfhelm's youngest. Heagrim. Newly spurred and now christened by his fellows.

Apple doesn't fall from the tree, he grinned to himself, before doubling back and heading for the greensward instead. Its neat grass held two long tables and lots of space. As he came closer he spied a dark head that stood out like a corey amidst the golden hawks. His habitually early-rising brother-in-law was also up.

Excellent. Mayhap Faramir could enlighten him on his Uncle's invitation.

Éomer stopped just beyond the man's leather-covered shoulder and waited. As expected, his arrival had been marked. Faramir turned and smiled.

"Éomer, well met! Please. Join me." Room was quickly made on the weathered wooden bench and Faramir reached to obligingly pour a second tankard of breakfast ale from the jug that sat temptingly upon the tabletop.

The young King accepted it with alacrity. The air smelt of apples, sharp and crisp; the sun had begun to be invigorating rather than insulting. Food might wait but he had a mighty thirst.

"Can you help me, Brother?" Éomer asked, taking a cautious gulp or two, then more when his stomach raised no protest. "Pray tell, why do the Princes of Dol Amroth name a King of Fish? It seems a daft tradition. Even by your people's standards."

The jab was ignored with a grin and shake of head. Faramir, bright-eyed and obviously none the worse for wear, took a largish gulp of his own and tilted his head in puzzlement. "They don't do that. At harvest they bless the fleet. Pour wine into the water to give thanks to Ulmo. Scatter flowers for Uinen to calm the waves and bread for Ossë to call fair winds."

Éomer blinked in surprise. "They do? But I had a letter?"

Reluctantly he pulled the first missive out. The blue wax was sealed with the royal house's graceful leaping dolphin. It looked correct: he knew it from the dozen others that lay well hidden from prying eyes below his braies and socks.

"An invitation from your Uncle. I fear cannot take the time away but it was kindly done. In fact I had two," he explained, pulling the second from his tunic. "His seneschal also wrote. You mentioned the messengers were delayed by the storm. Both arrived at once."

"May I see that?" Faramir frowned and held out his hand for the first letter, scanned it quickly, turning the pages over carefully before he politely asked for the second. Éomer regarded the process anxiously. How could they not be genuine? And if they were not what did that mean for the third left back in his room? Tucked away and kept to savour in the private quiet of the later eve like a particularly heady mead.

"The seals are correct."

Éomer flushed, suddenly aware he sounded far more ruffled by then he should. "They are," agreed Faramir as he passed the first letter back. "This is Amrothos' handwriting. And this," the other letter was held beside, "is Erchirion's." He chuckled and slowly shook his head. "King of Fish. It's an awfully audacious trick to pull even for those rogues. Uncle would be furious if he knew."

If. Éomer tried and failed to imagine a response that would not cause a diplomatic incident. Then another thought occurred. "You do not appear surprised?"

"No indeed. I suspect as you are now kin they feel obliged to 'break you in'. Some of my more vexing memories of Dol Amroth's palace involve those two. Each as bad as the other and quite unable to resist a jest." Faramir's usual wry half smile tripped and fell into a full on grin. "Boromir and I, as eldest, were expected to keep an eye on the younger ones. I quickly learned that in that pernicious battle my brother was often right."

"How so?"

"The only thing that worked was to sit on them!"

Damn and blast. The young king stared long at the offending forgeries before tossing the last of the tankard back.

He'd sit on them all right. Their trick meant he wasn't invited to Dol Amroth after all.
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~~~000~~~
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Hours later, when the sun had climbed high enough to reach Starkhorn's scarlet painted vales, this unpalatable development was much on Éomer's mind as he rode by his sister's side.

They were on a private errand, heading up into the mountains to revive a tradition abandoned in Théoden's decline: the autumn offering. A gift of the first wheat and barley cut at harvest for Erce; thanks for the blessing of her bounty and promise to steward it well. The little shrine they sought lay just above a sparkling stream that fell straight down to join Snowbourn's noisy rush.

A man could do poorer than to be ahorse on such a glorious afternoon. The air was fresh and calm, the warm light gilding the stands of ash and beech with fall's yellow cloak. Beside him, Éowyn was also all of gold. Her crown of magnificent hair hung loose about her shoulders. Her smile was free and unfettered; patting Windfola when he dropped back to pick his way around a patch of pale brown mud; laughing at Firefoot as he daintily lifted his hocks high to keep them clean.

And she was singing. His watchful, serious, composed sister was serenading the entire woods and their trailing guard with her slightly ambitious alto.

Again.

It was wondrous, and quite magical, and positively maddening.

And had not stopped since mid-summer's festivities.

"Must you?" he groused, reining in so that she could pull abreast.

"Must I what?" asked Éowyn, reaching to shift a loose wheatsheaf tied to Windola's saddlepack.

"Sing so all the time," he answered. "You were trying enough when you were merely infatuated. This honeymoon phase. All happy sighs and grins and madrigals. It is practically ridiculous."

Éowyn, wreathed in wedded bliss, was unruffled by this display of pique. She left off her song and a wagged a finger. "You, brother dear, are jealous."

"I am not."

"Oh yes you are. And more prickly than a angry bear with it." She grinned across the gulf between them until he flushed from cheeks to brow. "You should try it for yourself."

"When would I find the time?" he protested tightly. "I have helped with your own wedding. Fought two battles in the Sea of Nurn with Aragorn. Made peace with the Dunlending tribes and toured from the Adorn to Mering Stream. I have hardly been in Edoras. And besides," he added, sounding defensive enough to himself, "a suitable bride is not something you go down to the street market and rustle up."

"Suitable?!" His sister's fair brows raised. "Now you sound like Faramir's seneschal. There are any number of 'suitable' lasses to be Riders' brides but only one who will move your heart and head. Be truly equal as your Queen."

Trust his 'Wyn to reach in and pluck at the root of the problem. A Queen. He'd come to almost hate the term. At every village square in every settlement across the Wold well-meaning goodwives asked him when one would bless the Hall. Riders solemnly toasted his virility. Local lords positively thrust their daughters into his hands. Even Elfhelm, normally the most easy-going of his Marshals, had enquired when his King would get off the pot and finally make up his mind.

(The resulting blow could have knocked the older Rider's helmet off. He'd blocked it rather easily.)

Éomer ground his teeth but forebore an answer. It felt as if entire the Kingdom worried he'd be offed at any moment leaving them without an heir. The implied fragility of his person was insulting. And frustrating. All of this focus on procreation was, a night's intemperance aside, why he'd made that blasted boast.

To stop the endless blathering.

(Well, almost certainly. Or probably. Perhaps maybe. Bloody hell.)

Sighing heavily he ignored Éowyn 's quizzical look and gave Firefoot more rein, let the stallion have his head as the now rocky path rose up at their feet. They passed a small cairn and then another wreathed in a tumble of blue penstemon and summer hops.

"For fruitfulness," Éowyn observed, reaching down to touch the fronds for luck.

"Not mine."

They rode on in silence, the small storm cloud of his disgruntlement and the faithfully watching guards following on behind. Thankfully their journey's end was near. The trail to the meadow was well worn by generations of Rohirrim and below the high scudding clouds it finally flattened out; opened into a perfect hanging meadow. They kneed their mounts into a canter, racing across the slope, reveling in the scent of thyme crushed beneath their hooves until they pulled up beside a small niche carved into the pale grey rock.

The ceremony was brief enough. Heads bowed, ancient words of thanks were spoken. The fence of grain was laid below; its warm musty smell mingling with the brightness of the herbs. While the horses cropped the short speargrass, Éomer slaked his thirst in a stream, turned at the sound of laughter once again.

Windfola was entertaining his mistress and the men, nudging her pocket for a treat, stamping and shaking his mane, whinnying when pushed away. Éowyn, her own tresses lifted by the breeze, bright spots of colour staining her ruddy cheeks, scolded his gluttony and at last produced the carrot. After a month of sunny days spent with Faramir at Théngel's hunting lodge her nose was dusted with tiny freckles. The sight of them made his heart pinch.

Here was no duty-burdened ghost, skin frost white below grave, listless eyes. How could he begrudge her any single thing?

Taking up Firefoot's reins, Éomer waited for the guards to do the same, and then drew close, regret lodged like a stone upon his chest. "Éowyn ?"

"Mhmm."

He caught her blue-grey gaze. "I am sorry. I did not mean to sound so churlish. You are obviously very well and very, very happy. It truly makes me glad."

"I know," she smiled softly as he reached to clasp her hand. "After shadow I have found my sun."

He nodded. A dark-haired, fair-skinned Gondorian one, but her sun nonetheless. "You are blessed to have someone to share your life."

"I am," she nodded, and now a rose-gold tint crept up her cheeks to join the twinkle in her eyes. "Marriage has much to recommend it."

Did she..? Mean that? But surely not?!

Éowyn giggled gaily as his cheeks flamed and he suddenly ducked his head. "I wouldn't know."

"Oh yes you would!"

She burst out laughing at the look of horror on his face. His little sister! Joking about swiving! Béma's bollocks, it felt as if even his hair was turning red!

Éomer could not decide which was the more embarrassing- Éowyn's sly giggles or Faramir's look of hunger when she walked into the room. The newlyweds seemed to be endlessly on holiday. A month alone together after midsummer had led to the second ceremony in Minas Tirith. Another month of leave. And now Haglimond. He rather hoped the darker smudges below her merry eyes were due to travelling. The morning ritual of her Steward waking her up seemed to take an unconscionable amount of time.

He squared his shoulders and dove into the fray. "The example set by your new husband is a difficult one to follow. Tea personally delivered to your bedside every morning. Elaborate compliments. If I did not know he was a truly valiant soldier I'd have thought he was a bard."

Éowyn gave a little shrug. "That is just Faramir. Somewhere between him and indifferent there is a balance."

"Oh ho!" he cried for this time she was the one to flush. "There is a downside?"

"I never seem to win an argument."

He threw back his head and laughed. "Serves you right, sister dear! Will you stamp your feet or pout?"

"No..I.." Her words trailed off before she fixed him with a baleful glare. "Éomer-Cyning you take that back.! I do not stamp! Or pout!"

"Oh no. Never," he teased, remembering spectacular childhood fireworks. "Only when Grandmother made you sit and knit. He'll let you win a few if he knows what's good for him."

"And what would you know of wives and husbands?"

"I've seen Erkenbrand and Cristeyn. And Elfhelm and Hilde," he answered quickly. Did she really think him so oblivious? "They seem to rub along well enough."

"True." Éowyn inclined her head. "I believe Faramir's linguistic precision comes from the Hurin side. It is not a Dol Amroth family trait to argue all the time."

Béma that name. Must everyone mention the principality all day long? Like a gopher from a hole it had popped up again. And as much as he might admit to himself the young Princess was difficult get off his mind, talking to his sister felt a bit like being in a wheat maze.

All routes led back to one.

He rolled his eyes "The side of grinning lunatics. I pity the man who has to deal with her elder brothers."

Éowyn's mouth quirked. "There is a man in Middle-Earth you fear?"

"Of course not! It's just…"

"What?"

"They are difficult to ignore," he admitted after a lengthy pause and then groaned aloud at Éowyn's beaming smile. She had just tricked him into admitting how much Lothíriel was on his mind! Bloody hell. There was nothing to it. Nothing. Just keeping up their friendly discourse on the ancient arts of fermentation.

Éomer turned to fiddle with the now empty saddle pack while his sister waited hands on hips. It was a pose he knew meant she'd not be easily deterred.

"What do you think of her?"

"What do I think of who?"

Éowyn rolled her eyes. "Lothíriel of course."

"A conniving minx who I clearly cannot trust," he said, slapping the dust off his riding gloves. "First she cajoles me into a bet on false pretenses. Then she sets the most embarrassing price she can find," he growled, remembering the agony of standing out amidst the dancers in Meduseld, nervous sweat pouring down his back.

The cheek! Lothíriel had swooped in like a hawk and taken advantage of his weakness. "I'll not partner with her again."

"Really? Are you sure it isn't simply that you never like to lose? Even draughts sent you into sulks." Éowyn swung up into her own saddle and eyed him sidelong. "Faramir and I have been invited for a visit."

"Where?"

"Dol Amroth."

Again that name! His sweetly ferocious little sister was angling for a reaction but the budding diplomat in him held fast. "Excellent."

"We just might journey the week after next. It is always quiet here when the longer nights set in."

Oh that was unfair. He was facing his first Yule without her and she was traipsing in a dreamy haze across the countryside. Éomer set his teeth. "Absolutely. A stinking fish market embroidered with cutthroats and charlatans will be much more fun."

"Only down the docks." Éowyn bit her lip. "I could ask Imrahil for an invite for you?" she offered as she wheeled Windfola around to set the falling sun at their backs.

"I have no need of formal invitations," he huffed but then paused. Her tone held nothing of mockery. Her eyes were darker blue and serious. Did she mean it? Was Éowyn actually encouraging him? Chagrined that he would be on his own or thinking of his boast? Succumbing to a newlywed's certainty that all should be in their state?

He forced himself to loosen his fingers on the reins. Certainly spending time in Belfalas would be far from hardship. Dol Amroth's Prince was urbane and welcoming. Its Princess was surprisingly easy to talk to. Light in his arms at the wedding dance. Beguiling with her fine elegant features and dark raven hair. And her rapier wit.

Altogether bracing and refreshing compared to the pretty and pallid girls vying for his attention.

Perhaps he owed her another chance.

He motioned to the guards to fall in behind. "If the fall auctions go swiftly," he said, "I may join you there. 'Twil be good for trade."

Éowyn 's chin snapped up and her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "No other reason?" she asked quickly, intent as a cat about to pounce.

Bema. He knew to not let even a Balrog drag out the truth. They would be talking 'Queenliness' all the way back down.

"The grape harvest will be just past. I have promised to haggle with Imrahil for more cases. He invited me to tour the latest," Éomer's tongue sought the unfamiliar word, "pressing."

"Don't tell me you are developing a taste for wine?!"

Enough. Éomer cast a last look about the meadow, leaned forward in the saddle and urged Firefoot into a steady gait. Before the stallion pulled away, he turned to let fly a parting shot.

"The yellow stuff from Faramir mother's estate almost has a head on it."

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~~~000~~~

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Elfhelm son of Elfgrim, Third Marshal of the Mark, leaned a shoulder against a soaring pillar in Meduseld's lofty hall and reflected on how much the same one Yule could be to the next.

The heavy work and weather were expected. Wolves and wind howled in the midwinter dark. Endless chores kept man and beast hale the season through. Snowy gales dumped snow like whitewash over every roof and byre. They were a constant, like his Hilde's potent spice cake or the bitter juniper of Yuletide beer. Familiar and comforting in the natural order of things.

The spectacle of another pining scion of Éomund he hadn't thought to see again. Last year Éowyn had drifted about the hall like an ethereal and love-drunken ghost, barely avoiding dogs and men, entirely caught up in her coming nuptials. This year, Éomer did not drift so much as stalk; restless and unable to settle any single thing; barging through drifts of snow and cooped up Riders with equal force.

It was becoming a hazard to them all.

"Béma's bloody bollocks! Cannot a man walk in his own home! Get this lot out of my way!"

Éomer irascibly shoved a length of pale hose from off his face, shook his head like a sodden dog to dislodge the detritus of the washing line and scowled at the averted eyes around.

Braies had flown everywhere. They'd landed on seats and rushes. Tapestries and tables. And his sheathed longsword.

Not a man amongst them had the courage to crack a smile.

"Sire. my apologies!" stammered the blushing servant girl who plucked up the damp cloths as quickly as she could. "It is washing day and far too cold to hang it out of doors. Your smallclothes would freeze like ice."

Somewhere beyond the desultorily smoking hearth an errant titter was quickly stilled. Elfhelm reluctantly heaved a sigh. The planned distractions were having little positive affect. Hunting was poor. Sword practice lasted not long enough. Exercising the horses was a brief affair. It only made matters worse that it was cold as a stone troll's balls outside. Éomer rattled about the Golden Hall with as much frustration as he had Edoras's stocks.

It was like watching a captive lion pace. One with a thorn named Lothíriel stuck beneath his tawny hide.

Éomer strode across the flagstone floor and mounted the dais steps; flung himself into the King's great gilded seat, refusing all offers of food and drink. Somehow the morning's brief interlude on Firefoot had only made his temper worse. Ranulf, their long suffering scribe, tried to do his best; bowing politely and offering up something to pass the time.

"Sire, if I might interject. There is your unfinished correspondence. A letter from the Lady of Ithilien and one from Prince Faramir. And another from King Elessar."

The bundle of proffered parchments was glared at with some force. "All I do these days is read! My eyes will hardly make out my foes."

"That does not appear to trouble the Steward or his King," muttered Ranulf before he could think better of his words.

The result was quite immediate. "Don't remind me of the man who has captured my little sister!"

Béma. The whole hall winced in sympathy. It was Éomer's first Yule without Éowyn. Of course he was missing her. And thinking about the invitation to Minas Tirith he had mulishly turned down. Prince Imrahil had been at pains to note all his family would be there yet Éomer had refused, citing a need to oversee the midwinter festivities. But now the days of feasting and remembrance were just past. Yuletide was done and æftera ġéola was coming on. There was no need to linger.

Elfhelm scratched his red-gold beard and pondered what to do. The words of old king Gram were all too true. Love and honour-no yoked pair were more likely to cause misunderstanding and inconvenience. Combine them with pride and the affect could be positively lethal.

He fingered his own letter crumpled in his tunic pocket. "Pray get him here anyway you can," it read and it appeared the time was now.

One didn't refuse a Queen. Especially a half-elven one who knew a very great deal about waiting.

He noisily cleared his throat and caught Ranulf's rheumy eye. The older man nodded and bravely faced the King again. "My liege?"

Éomer-King slumped dejectedly in his chair. "What is it?"

"It transpires that I did process your request of earlier this fall."

A bored blond eyebrow quirked. "Which one?"

"To assemble a list of eligible prospects for your consort."

Éomer sat straight up. His scribe pulled a new scroll and a handful of painted miniatures from a battered leather satchel. "I made discreet enquiries of course. There are several who might be suitable. Of the nobility and of marriageable age."

Ranulf passed a small oval up to his king whilst Elfhelm fidgeted foot to foot. "First we have Lady Mariel: niece of the Duchess of Lossarnach. Impeccable pedigree and, I understand, a lively interest in all things thoroughbred. She is fourteen."

Éomer blinked and immediately handed the painting back. "I'm not here to rob a carved Gondorian cradle."

'Yes, Sire." Ranulf swallowed and passed the next likeness up. "Kalina. The Duke of Langstrand's daughter. She has, ah, much land to recommend her. I believe the Artist did his best," he added faintly.

Éomer scowled at the image of a gaily beribboned girl with a spectacularly vacant stare. "If I want a lapdog I will apply to Arwen for one of hers."

"Indeed." The scribe ran an admirably steady finger down the list and the next miniature was produced. "If you would prefer a woman from within our borders, there is Gudrun, Dúnhere's daughter. She is about your age and widowed." He paused while Éomer gazed doubtfully at the image. "She is said to be," he coughed a little delicately, "most eager."

There was a collective shudder. "No."

"Aethwen: Austwulf's youngest. She is sixteen."

"No."

"Brunhilde."

"No."

"Lailante. Guthláf's widow."

Elfhelm, on cue, came forward and drew close to the arm of the regal chair. "Éomer-King, my pardon. The lady in question is justly famous for her embroidery and her brewing, but she is, perhaps for you, a little bland."

The explosion of temper was immediate. "Bema's blessed horns! Too young. Too bland. What will you show me next?! The too young and bland!?"

Merciful Valar, no. Now came the moment most precarious. Hilde would say her husband had a wonderfully expressive face. Others would say he was an easy mark at poker.

Ranulf held his breath while Elfhelm nervously stroked his mustache down. "There is another possibility," the Marshal muttered slowly. "The youngest Princess of Dol Amroth. If she is still free."

"If?!" Éomer bolted upright so fast a miniature flew off his lap. "She—I mean Imrahil-said nothing of the sort!"

Ranulf bent to pick the painting up. "We have had Intelligence, milord. From Stoningland. She has recently visited Umbar. Emperor Goran of Harad is said to want closer ties to Gondor."

Éomer looked frantically from his Marshal to his scribe. "You both knew of this?!"

Elfhelm nodded vigorously. "Yes. Emperor Goran's name was on the Mettare invitation list."

"Above your own, I believe," added Ranulf brightly, thinking 'in for a penny, in for a pound.' "Queen Arwen did note in her latest official missive that your rooms in the King's palace are always kept fresh and free."

The entire hall in that moment grew hushed and quiet. Elfhelm would say later that he knew exactly the instant Éomer made up his mind. "I suppose the timing is not so very bad." He rubbed thoughtfully at his nape. "Before spring council and the start of foaling season."

The relief was positively acute. Elfhelm bowed quickly and turned upon his heel before he could be called back. The farrier would need to get to work. Riding on Elessar's packed frozen roads was murder on a horse's winter shoes and they would be doing it at speed.

They'd made it to Minas Tirith in three days before.

This time he'd wager they make it there in two.

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At last.. woohoo.. we are on our way.. there are 3 more chapters after this.
Just a quick few notes: æftera ġéola is the period after Yule in the Anglo Saxon calendar, rather like AfterYule that Tolkien used in the Shire Calender. It roughly corresponds to early January. Yuletide varied from 6 to 12 days and I have assumed twelve.

Huge thanks to Thanwen for graciously letting me borrow her headcanon that the Rohirrim call Yavanna Erce, a germanic goddess.

Pompoms and big thank yous to Annafan and Wheelrider for their support of this from the start, and to Carawyn and Gwynnyd for encouragement in the Garden. And high fives to missCocoQc, thanks to whom, this fic will always be for me the one that led to a magical fandom encounter on a train. When asked if you are really writing Eowyn how can you say no? XD I am still blushing!