Disclaimer: I don't own LOTR, The Hobbit, or really anything to do with Middle Earth, Valinor, and all associated names, places, and events. Alas.

A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! I am very sorry for barely paying any attention to this story. I just slightly overextended myself last semester. Let me tell you, an entire week on no more than five hours' sleep each day is not fun. You start saying stupid things and forgetting the word for "book" (yes it really happened, and in the library, no less).

In keeping with my earlier decision to make the Dunlendings vaguely Welsh, I used two words that Google Translate told me were Welsh for "page/squire" and "sponsor" (not Knight because I don't think Tolkien's Dunlendings had that specific fighting social class). To anyone out there who speaks Welsh: please correct me. Google Translate is not good at subtleties and differing connotations for its vocab.

Also, is there dessert mead? Who knows? I don't. There's dessert wine. So maybe? Chalk it up to artistic licence/Rohan being a fictional country anyway. As for the feast in general, I assume it to be pretty simple in format: after the first course (soup) all the food is just piled onto the table and you pick out what you want. I'm not sure if there would have been gravy, but since lamb gravy is one of the most delicious substances known to man, it seemed cruel to deprive my characters of it.

And now on with the story!

Dusk found me sitting at the High Table, Éowyn on my right and Arnalit on my left. It was the first time since the Dunlendings' arrival earlier that day that both our groups had been all gathered together. There had been a light luncheon in the gardens, but from what Sodred had told me our visitors had been riding much of the day and meeting Eorlingas the rest of it, which meant that everyone was tired and mostly just wanted to not talk to anyone for a while. I myself was busy stressing out over last-minute planning for the dinner itself—mainly seating—so I hadn't pushed the whole 'let's-immediately-have-bonding-time' thing. But that meant that said dinner was even more important than ever.

I glanced to my right. Éowyn looked stiff and proper; I hadn't seen her this carefully polite since our first days in the Houses of Healing. On my other side, Arnalit was being even more snarky than usual, which I took to mean that he, too, was uncomfortable. I sighed and took another sip of my wine. We'd cracked open a few bottles of some good vintage from the South (i.e. Gondor) rather than the usual mead in honor of our visitors—not too many bottles, though; having drunken enemies in the same room together was pretty high on my list of bad ideas. I couldn't help but feel, though, that the significance of the wine gesture had rather gone over their heads. (Although five hours ago it would have gone over my head, too, before the cellarer Brihtlaf had waxed poetic to me about the many social mores of alcohol. His lecture must have lasted quite some time, because when I finally emerged, dazed and a little tipsy from all the sampling, the sun had moved a lot.)

Arnalit's people were also seated at the High Table interspersed with some of our own highest-ranking lords. At the next table down—the table at which I usually sat for meals—were Arnalit's guard, Elfhelm and some other captains, and Cenred, who really should have been seated with us but had specifically requested his current seat. He said that he was curious—and also that tonight's conversation at the High Table would, most likely, be less than scintillating.

Unfortunately, it seemed like he had been all too right. Conversation limped along as everyone struggled to find a safe topic to discuss. No one wanted to bring up anything really serious and ruin dinner, so now I was reduced to listening to some of the most powerful men of our two lands talking about the weather, of all things. So far there had been 10 statements about the heat's possible effects on crops, 4 wishes for rain, and 6 very generic comments that all included the words, and I quote, "Well you know the summers usually get hot around these parts." At this rate my mind was going to wither from lack of use. At least the workers' normal urge to talk had overpowered any fear of the newcomers so that the hall itself was still full of sound.

Arnalit muttered something under his breath; Gwyddon winced ever so slightly, so I figured it had been quite derogatory. I sighed. We had barely gotten through the soups course and already Éowyn looked as though she were ready to go to blows. I briefly considered taking another sip of wine and then decided that, after my afternoon with Brihtlaf, I'd already had more than enough for my not-so-full stomach. Instead I decided to tackle the easier target first and not worry about Éowyn until later. If ever.

"Arnalit," I said conversationally, purposely ignoring his title and keeping my voice low, "is the discussion of the weather not to your liking?"

He glared at me suspiciously; I tried to look innocent and focused on adding more roast lamb to my plate. "Is this a trick question, Lady Sorenna?"

"I only asked because you look bored out of your brains."

His mouth twitched. "I am. I suppose you are, too? –that is, if you have any."

Someone—Éowyn, probably—made a rather outraged noise to my right. I carried on blithely, "Oh, if it's a competition of which of us has a brain, I most certainly won. I've already trounced you once before, remember?"

Someone else on Arnalit's left promptly choked. He ignored it and ladled even more gravy onto his food. At this point there was so much gravy that I half-expected his lamb to start doing laps in it. "Oh, I certainly remember. How could I forget that brilliant decision of yours to waltz right into an enemy camp?"

I grinned. "Touché. But there was something I wanted to ask you then; only somehow our first chat didn't go quite as intended…"

Arnalit grinned back. "Oh, no, but it was most enlightening. Do you still practice?"

"When I've the time. But honestly I fear I might be getting rusty at daggers; I did a stint with the lance while in Gondor—"

"So we've heard," he drawled. "Not about you specifically—although I should have realized sooner that of course you of all people would have gone."

I rolled my eyes and tried to keep the tone light. "Would you believe me if I were to say it was not my fault?"

Arnalit chuckled at that. "Same excuse as the first time!"

I took the opportunity to change the subject. "Anyway, for several years now, but especially since then, practically all my practice has been with swordsmen and -women—excepting you, of course."

He raised a brow, having caught upon a throw-away comment. "You know swordswomen?"

"One. – You are acquainted with my royal cousin, Princess Éowyn, Slayer of the Witch-King," I said blandly, nodding in her direction.

It was the first time all day that he'd really looked at her, I could tell; his eyes actually focused on her instead of their usual lazy pause (just long enough to be polite) that only skimmed the surface. Éowyn met his gaze squarely, almost challengingly, and in return Arnalit gave her a little bow, eyes alight with new interest and respect. "Your Highness."

She nodded back. Was her expression a bit softer? "Prince Arnalit."

The time was ripe: I took the plunge (and another potato). "Would you be interested in a friendly sparring match sometime? Tame rules and all that; no visits to the hospital or anything."

Arnalit grinned toothily. "I do love me a good rematch." I think my eye must have twitched slightly at that, for he added hastily, "Especially when there's no death involved! Death is bad. Killing allies—very bad."

Éowyn looked like her eye might start twitching; I don't think she could tell whether or not he was joking. (To be honest, I wasn't entirely sure either.) "What exactly does 'bad' mean?" she ventured.

Arnalit gave an exaggerated shudder. "My wife would string me up by my balls. Then Gwyddon would yell at me. Frankly I'm not sure which would be worse."

Éowyn nearly spit out her wine. The Dunlending seated on her right went straight past embarrassment to resigned amusement; clearly his prince's verbal slips (if in fact they were slips at all) were not uncommon.

"The hanging would be worse, I think," I managed to get out after taking a moment to collect myself.

Arnalit shrugged. "Actually the worst would be if my wife's father was around. He'd just look at me hanging there, shake his head sadly, and say, 'I told you what you were getting into when you married her. But did you believe me? Nooo.'"

This time I succumbed to my giggles. Oslac, on Arnalit's left, tried and failed not to snort with laughter right into his plate of chicken. From down the other end of the table I caught Gwyddon giving us curious (and slightly worried) glances. Arnalit saw it, too, and then made eye contact with me. This promptly sent us both into another fit of laughter.

And then there was a very surreal moment where I could see—not the future, but a possibility—well, something stretching out before us: in my mind, Arnalit was still here at the banquet and being inappropriate as usual, but so was Théodred (and many others besides) and he more than anyone was bellowing with laughter. A wave of loneliness swept over me. Because no matter how much I'd worried earlier that Arnalit and Théo would absolutely rub each other the wrong way, I knew that had my (future) husband been present right now he would have been laughing hardest of all, and he would have probably called for more mead and started telling even bawdier jokes. And it would have been hilarious and fun and—Béma, I missed him. I wished my first time sitting at the High Table had been with him.

"Saffi?" Éowyn gave me a polite nudge, echoes of mirth still present in her eyes. It seemed that during my little mental recess, equilibrium had returned to the table and everyone had resumed their earlier conversations. "About the sparring: were you thinking of a public exhibition, or…?"

"Oh, no!" I shook my head firmly. "I was thinking morning training like usual, only with one more person."

She considered. "That could be interesting. Then I could…" She started getting lost in her own little world of weapons.

Arnalit was looking back and forth between us curiously. I turned back to him and said in a low tone so that our neighbors couldn't hear, "Éowyn and I usually meet in a training yard at about half an hour after dawn. I can have someone guide you there. You are more than welcome to join us tomorrow, or as often as you want. Éowyn would like another sparring partner, and I have not trained with a master of daggers in a long while."

Arnalit smiled brightly, almost boyishly. "I would like that. Thank you. May I bring a companion? –just one, so that we are evenly paired off."

"Of course you can bring a partner. Is he a dagger-master as well?" I inquired.

"Of course," Arnalit echoed not a little wryly. "The dagger is, after all, the first weapon we train in."

We began to discuss training techniques, including strength-building exercises. I could see Éowyn being drawn into the conversation; her recovery was technically complete, but her arm and wrist were still much weaker than before the battle. (Not that this stopped her from trouncing me on the courts.)

After I'd finally elicited a promise from him to demonstrate some exercises, the topic shifted to attack techniques. "It's really quite convenient, since that thrusting stance is also a prime one for getting at the ribs of a taller opponent," Arnalit was saying.

"I think I remember you using that," I recalled.

"Did I?" Arnalit asked innocently. He winked at Lord Derwen, the man on Éowyn's right.

Lord Derwen sighed. "It is one of his favorite moves."

He sounded like he was speaking from experience. Cynulf, on Derwen's other side, noticed as well. "Had it used against you a few times, eh?"

The Dunlending grinned. "We trained together in our youth. I repaid in full, though."

"Usually," Arnalit scoffed. "But it is a common enough trick. You yourself used it once," this to me.

I nodded. "But I prefer it in one-to-one combat only. When there's greater numbers I don't like to extend myself as much."

The others looked a little surprised at me bringing up the Pelennor battle yet again, however obliquely. I was surprised myself; I hadn't really wanted to talk about battle exploits or the like. It left me feeling awkward and not knowing what to say. Surprisingly Arnalit himself came to my rescue. "We don't have to discuss recent events about which we all know anyway," he announced clumsily. "But I understand talking over techniques," he went on more normally; "when I was younger, my noddwr and I would sometimes rehash skirmishes to see what styles worked, times I'd left my defense open, and so on. I still do it with training partners sometimes."

Oslac nodded slowly. "A worthy approach. I try to do the same with my squire."

"A squire?" Derwen frowned at the unfamiliar word.

"Facwy," Arnalit explained briefly. Then he frowned and turned to me. "At least, I assume so. We have a system where young people, upon reaching adulthood and choosing their life-paths, get a, a sponsor who helps train them and look after them. You do the same?"

"Not for most professions," Éowyn responded; "well, not formally, although the old of course must train the young. But for Riders—warriors—there is a more formal system of patronage. The young man who wishes to become a Rider will be chosen by an established warrior; the boy then apprentices to him in the fighting arts until the Rider decides he is ready to go out on his own."

"The Rider is not always responsible for the boy's feeding and housing, depending on circumstances," Oslac elaborated, "but there is a sacred oath sworn."

"So if we were to send our sons to study under you, they would be sworn to fight alongside their masters, no matter what?" asked a lord farther down the table.

"It would be the young man's choice as to how closely he wished to bind himself," I answered cautiously. "The oaths are sacred in the taking rather than the wording." I looked around a bit uncertainly; there hadn't been any Riders or squires in Alricsloft, so I was operating wholly on second-hand knowledge.

Cynulf stepped in, addressing the man on his right directly. "Lady Sorenna speaks true. Moreover, squires under any oath are bound to fight only when any personal oaths are not involved."

The other man—Prince Glanmor, Arnalit murmured to me—nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer. "My son—he's ten—is fascinated by swords, try as I might to convince him to study daggers."

Cynulf chuckled. "I've had problems with my own sons, sure enough. Just the other day I caught one on the roof!" The two men started chatting amiably, and I thanked whatever Gods were listening for making us seat them together at the table.

While we'd been discussing the Rider-squire bond, Ahelis and the other serving maids had come out to remove the now-empty food platters and replace them with dessert. Since it was a special welcoming feast rather than just a normal meal, Hildmar and her staff had went all out. Now, instead of the usual tea and tarts, there were spread before us layered cakes, puddings, and of course dessert mead. Éowyn's eyes glowed at the sight of the cheese cakes and sour cream. The natural lull in conversation caused by the end of the squire discussion was extended as everyone turned to the food.

After I'd more than satiated my sweet tooth, I took advantage of Arnalit's momentary silence (he was gorging on pudding) to look around a bit. Cynulf and Glanmor were trying to one-up each other with wayward-son stories. At the next table down, Cenred was telling a story that had all the Captains from both countries cackling with laughter. Even Gwyddon had lost that wary spark in his eye. The slight intoxication brought on by the mead seemed to be furthering the mellow mood.

I caught Arnalit's eye, and he paused his eating to grin at me. "Not a bad start, Lady Saffi."

I shrugged. "But the politicking hasn't gotten underway, and then all the sniping and snide comments could more than undo this."

He rolled his eyes. "And I thought I had low expectations for things. We're not even starting for a few days, right?" I nodded. "So by then everyone will already be pals, and the first time they get ready to start bitching out each other they'll realize—" he put on a simpering voice—"they couldn't possibly be so cruel to a bosom buddy who knows their soul."

I couldn't help myself. "Are you drunk?"

"Funnily enough, this is not the first time that someone's asked me that question under similar circumstances."

"Wonder why."

"Ha! Now you sound like Gwyddon." He shrugged. "Too bad my wife's not here. She appreciates my wit."

"And I applaud her for doing so," I told him seriously. "Tell me about her?"

Arnalit ignored the question and took another bite of pudding.

I flushed. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to pry."

He swallowed hastily. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that: I was just concentrating on the pudding. My wife is ... amazing." He smiled, then, and suddenly his face looked so tender that I felt as though I were intruding on something private. "And she's about five months pregnant with our first child."

"Looking forward to being a parent, then?" I teased.

He chuckled. "I could ask you the same question. And yes, I am."

"Well, congratulations." I raised my glass in small salute and took a sip. It was only then, mid-swallow, that I realized the implications of what he'd said and almost started choking. "What exactly was that supposed to mean? I'm not getting married just to ... to start popping out babies!"

Arnalit winked exaggeratedly. "Your fiancé is rather older than me, is he not? You'll need to get to work immediately! continuing the royal line, and all that. I bet he's very excited for the wedding."

I turned bright red. Arnalit only laughed harder. "You should see your face, Lady Saffi! You walked right into that one!"

Me walking into things seemed to be a recurring event with him. As it was I could only shake my head ruefully and try to stay cool. Needless to say, I was not very successful. But that was okay, I figured, as I looked around, trying to clear my thoughts of less-than-appropriate images of Théo and his mouth and eyes and very nice arms and... and I was doing it again. Whoops. Béma, my cheeks were flushed now. Maybe I could blame it on the mead…

Arnalit just smirked and grabbed more pudding. "A bit excited yourself, eh?"

I woke up the next morning in an optimistic mood. This was partly due to last night's success but mostly because I'd had a most excellent dream—nothing too salacious, just a jumble of happiness and excitement and flashes of Théo smiling at me. I bounced out of bed in a very Sodred-like manner and stopped at the kitchens for a roll before heading to the training yard.

Éowyn was nowhere in sight, but both Arnalit and Prince Bedwyr were present. Bedwyr stood very stiff and proper near the entrance while Arnalit slouched against a post, tossing a dagger into the air and then catching it nonchalantly. I grinned at his showboating.

"Good morning, your highnesses," I bowed. The two princes bowed back.

"Shall we begin or wait for the Princess?" Arnalit asked.

I shrugged. "I guess whatever you do to warm up."

Arnalit nodded in understanding. And then he was off trotting around the perimeter of the yard. Bedwyr looked after him and sighed, muttering something in Dunlendish that didn't sound too complimentary. Then he started running in the opposite direction. I looked after him in confusion; in my experience running in the training yards always happened together to minimize possible collisions. I finally gave up and chose my usual direction, which meant I was following Arnalit.

I'd gone only a few yards when Bedwyr and Arnalit crossed paths. Instead of moving out of each other's way, Arnalit angled himself for a blow while Bedwyr slowed and bent down for a tackle. Just when it seemed a crash was inevitable, Arnalit leaped awkwardly right over Bedwyr, rolling the landing instead of trying to stay upright. Bedwyr's downward momentum was too much for him, so instead he also dropped into a roll and then popped back up, immediately running again.

It was an interesting exercise, albeit one that required a lot of rehearsal. If both had tried to leap, or both knelt, it would have been a much bloodier affair. But it definitely looked good—which was probably the point.

Éowyn arrived two laps later. I didn't bother waiting for her to warm up—if she was late that usually meant she'd been practicing for a while already in a different yard on her own. Bedwyr stopped running immediately and walked over easily. Arnalit trotted up right after and clapped him on the shoulder a bit heavily.

Bedwyr rolled his eyes and turned to Éowyn. The first son of the ailing Chieftain of the Turch-Luth tribe, Bedwyr was the youngest of Arnalit's delegation, all of whom were either Lords or Princes of various tribes. He also seemed to be a bit of a flirt judging by how low he now bowed over Éowyn's hand.

Arnalit coughed and accidentally bumped into Bedwyr as he did so, conveniently dislodging Bedwyr's grip. Éowyn and I looked at each other and switched places immediately so that she was paired with Arnalit and I was stuck with the hand-holder.

"Shall we, my lady?" Bedwyr bowed.

"Let's," I agreed and followed him to the other side of the yard.

Despite my misgivings, Bedwyr turned out to be a decent fighter if nothing else. We sparred for a while before deciding to take a rest and talk over technique. Bedwyr favored a few combination moves that had worked to devastating effect; however, I wasn't sure how useful they would be if he were mounted or facing off with someone wielding anything longer than a shortsword.

"Do you have different combinations for different opponents, or are they easily adaptable?"

"What did you have in mind?" he asked, leaning against a rail and looking rather intently in Éowyn's direction. The other two had also paused for a moment's breather; she glanced in our direction and Bedwyr sent a little wave and a cocky grin. If Éowyn saw, she gave no sign.

"That last two-step thing was really tricky for me to figure out, but if I had had a sword, or even a long knife, I could have easily slipped in and rendered all your efforts ineffective."

He nodded in agreement. "Yeah, that move is really only good for fighting another dagger master. Against a horseman it's pretty pointless, but there are some modifications you can make for longer blades on foot. But just to warn you—I'm not too good at them yet, so I might not be the best teacher." He shrugged nonchalantly, but his eyes were serious.

I shrugged back. "We'll figure something out."

Bedwyr chuckled. "Is that your fighting philosophy?"

"Pretty much," I admitted. "Obviously most of my country-men fight with swords; so most of my moves are either adapted from or in response to how they fight. Honestly I usually just make things up as I go along; whatever combinations I have are the product of moves that just come more easily to me."

He turned to face me. "Do you think it's better to be more self-taught and have your flexibility? rather than my set list of combination tricks," he added a bit ruefully.

Even as I reassured him that formal training definitely had its advantages as well, I couldn't help being a bit confused by the situation. Bedwyr could not have been more than 14 months younger than me, and yet he was asking me for advice like I was so much older and more experienced. And I really did feel older than him in both manner and thought. Had I been so careless and carefree at eighteen—well yes of course I had. After all, it was only one year ago next month that Théodred and his Éored had ridden into Alricsloft. Of course if I thought about things too hard I just got confused and a bit overwhelmed. Better to follow Sodred's advice and keep looking forward.

Over the course of the next few days it seemed as though Arnalit might have been right after all. Having the week to just get comfortable in each others' presences without any politics seemed just the thing needed to start breaking down the massive distrust between the Dunlending and Eorlingas delegations. It helped that we had arranged several outings and expeditions to give people something to do together. These ranged from informal walks around Edoras to favorite shops and armorers to an official picnic halfway down the mountain; on the back side of the mountain, where the Royal Gardens went down and merged with the natural vegetation, there was a small plateau and a waterfall, with a spectacular view of the surrounding country. It was nice for us to get out of Meduseld for the day, and it pleased Hildmar to have all the guests out of their rooms so that the maids could clean everything at once.

After our first training session Arnalit examined my remaining daggers and immediately pronounced them to be "piss-poor rubbish." I couldn't really argue with that assessment since it had been the best blade of the bunch that had broken off during our duel all those months ago. Instead, he surprised me by lending me some of his own.

On that first day, after the break Éowyn and I had switched partners, leaving me with Arnalit. (Apparently he annoyed her even more than Bedwyr's teenage cockiness, which admittedly had cooled off some after I'd loudly asked how Faramir, fiancé and powerful Steward of Gondor, was doing.) Now Arnalit and I were starting to work on partnered fighting, mostly against Éowyn and Bedwyr right now but possibly against others as well if we ever felt like making the practices public. I had never fought like this before in my life, and I had to unlearn a lot of my old strategies. Moves that would have been acceptable risks when my partner had the longer reach of a sword now were proven to be absolute folly; but in return, there were a lot more partnered work and moves as duos that could only be done when both fighters had the same weapon. The greater political implications—that Arnalit and I, as well as Bedwyr and Eowyn—were fighting together instead of against each other, also didn't escape me, but I didn't want to comment on it and assign too much significance.

On a more personal front, I also noticed that Elise was spending a lot of time with Éothain. They were not inseparable—far from it—but at the very least they ate at least one meal a day together. What I really wanted to know was where this was heading, if anywhere, but Elise remained frustratingly tightlipped on the subject. And after my awkward conversation with Éothain, I didn't want to push any further and wreck whatever fragile attachment that might be building up. But Elise was my best friend!... It was annoying. I tried to focus on my work with the visitors and not dwell on these other things over which I had no control, like Elise's love life or getting Théodred to show up sooner rather than later or how on Arda we were going to make a peace treaty that people would want to keep.

But of course it was a lost cause, and instead I just worried about everything. I wasn't sleeping very well, but I couldn't tell if it was getting worse or if I just was no longer capable of sleeping for long periods of time anymore. I hadn't gotten a full night's sleep—more than five hours—since our stay in the Houses of Healing, where the stress and worry had caused me to wake up at odd hours in the night, often alert and unable to go back to sleep. Now I tossed and turned, waking up in the dead of the night with yet another thought about a possible area of contention, like that one tiny stream over which there had been at least four skirmishes in the last three years alone. It was pointless to think about such details when negotiations hadn't even started, I knew, but that thought didn't help me sleep any better.

I actually liked waking up early sometimes, though; often I found myself rising with the maids, which meant I got the chance to sneak down to the kitchens, grab a hot drink, and help out with starting the Hall fires or other tasks. I got some weird looks, but the consensus seemed to be that if I wanted to do their work for them, then why not enjoy it while it lasted? And if it meant that I retained even a hint of approachability, then it would be doubly useful in the future. Something I had talked about a few weeks ago with Éomer, of all people, stuck with me still—that politics and personal didn't have to be separate, that it was entirely possible for the 'caring ruler' image to be perfectly genuine and at same time be a careful construction. He remembered enough of his father Éomund to recall that the man had never staged any charitable actions or publicized them but still had never shied away from receiving acknowledgment or from the popular acclaim that had followed. It was a thin line to walk, but the alternative—to cut myself off from my old life completely—was unthinkable. Wouldn't that mean leaving behind my old self? Younger Saffi had been awfully naïve at times, but I liked her (and sometimes missed her); and after all, hadn't it been her that Théo had fallen in love with?

Plus stirring a huge pot of porridge was the perfect time to just sit and not have to think at all, or at least about anything besides not burning the porridge. Porridge was important and took precedence over any fussy questions about Lords or treaties. It was about the most advanced food Hildmar let me touch—me and the older servants' young children; so it would have been very embarrassing if I had messed up and been replaced by a more capable five-year-old. Needless to say my porridge game had been on point ever since that time I daydreamed and let just the smallest amount stick to the bottom and burn. Little Wynsige (in his mind, practically a grown-up at age seven) still gave me a hard time about it every time we saw each other. I'm sure by now at least a third of Edoras's population knew that all the servants' kids called me "Lady Burnt Pot."

I gave the pot another careful stir just as Wynsige's younger brother toddled by carrying some napkins. "Westu hal, Lady Burnt Pot!" he called cheerfully.

"My Lord Napkin," I bowed back, causing him to giggle and wave. After all, there were far worse ways to start a morning, and I liked the smell of porridge—especially when it didn't burn.