My narrative sometimes tracks Tolkien’s version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson’s.

Thanks to the following reviewers: The Inebriated Lion-Minion, Ilada'Jefiv, Foxgurl0000, Lonekit of Thunderclan, RumorUnderOath, vectis, and CAH. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.

This chapter incorporates incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of The Lord of the Rings.

Beta Reader: Dragonfly

Chapter 44: The Fruits of Victory

Gimli watched with satisfaction as the Southron chiseled at the edge of a block until it was perfectly beveled. “You have done excellent work, Peter,” he said approvingly. “Now that stone will fit flawlessly atop the wall.”

“Thank you, Master Gimli,” Peter said. He moved toward another block.

“Nay, leave off,” called Gimli. “It is time for the noon meal.” He gestured toward a hamper that lay in the shade. Joined by others—Southrons, Easterlings, and Men of Gondor—the Man and Dwarf sat side by side enjoying a repast of apples, bread, and cheese washed down with cider from bottles kept cool in their wrappings of wet cloth. Gimli sighed in satisfaction as he set down his mug.

“Good stone, good food, good cider,” he declared.

“It is all good,” agreed the Man.

“As I recall,” chuckled Gimli, “the stone was not always to your liking.”

“True,” Peter acknowledged, “but I have discovered that I prefer carving stone to carving Men. Indeed, Master Gimli, now you mention it, I would make bold to ask you to put in a word for me with Faramir the Steward. I know that we Men of Harad are to be sent home after the coronation of the King, but if it would be permitted, I would like to stay on as an apprentice stonemason.”

“Why apprentice?” said Gimli. “You have the skills of a journeyman.”

“You think so?”

“Aye, I do. I think it could be arranged that you stay on as a wage worker. Then, if you marshal your coins wisely, you will be a master yourself soon enough.”

“I have already put some money aside,” the Man said excitedly. “I have spent but few of the coins we are given each week. Indeed, there was no need to part with them, for our food and lodgings are charged to the City.”

“That did not prevent your fellows from finding ways to squander their earnings,” Gimli pointed out dryly.

“Not all of them,” Peter rejoined. “Not even most of them. The ones who wasted their wealth were very public in their profligacy. You would not have noticed the ones who stayed quietly in their quarters.”

“True. Well, Peter, I shall speak to Faramir. I shall recommend you to him for both your character as well as your skill.”

Gimli rose to his feet. “I have an errand,” he called to the company. “Peter shall direct you in my absence. He knows well how the stones are to be set.”

The other Men nodded approvingly. Peter was well liked, and Gimli suspected that the few coins that Peter had parted with had gone to assure the comfort of certain of the Men who had lost their packs during the Battle of the Pelennor Field. The City saw to their necessities but did not provide the prisoners with what could be considered luxuries in a time of dearth. Thus each Man had been furnished with a comb and a blanket and a pallet, but any Man desiring a pillow or an extra blanket or additional toiletries had to purchase them out of his weekly allowance.

Gimli had been given the freedom of the City and walked confidently past the checkpoints until he reached Faramir’s dwelling. There he was introduced at once into Faramir’s private quarters, where he found not only Faramir but Éomer and Éowyn. The three were lingering over their own noon meal, and Faramir invited Gimli to join them. The Dwarf had of course already eaten, but he said to himself that it would be discourteous to turn down the invitation. (Gimli was always courteous when it came to meals.)

“Well, my friend,” said Faramir when they had finished dining, “what brings you to my dwelling? It must be something important to take you away from the stonework that you are so fond of.”

“Indeed, it is on account of the stonework. It is well begun, and I am sure that you wish it continue in the same vein, if you will pardon the pun.”

“I do, and I will,” replied Faramir. “No doubt you come with advice as to how it is to be sustained.”

“You are most perceptive, my Lord Faramir,” Gimli answered, inclining his head. Looking on, both Éowyn and Éomer grinned at Gimli’s performance. Whatever it was Gimli wanted, they were sure he would get it. The Dwarf had his own special variety of charm.

“Now, one must concede,” Gimli continue, “that the work depends upon the workman. A workman of little skill produces work of little worth; contra, a workman of great skill produces work of great worth.”

“Aragorn said you were a philosopher,” Faramir smiled. “But come, Gimli, tell me what it is that you desire.”

Gimli looked disappointed. “That’s done it, Faramir!” he exclaimed. “Where is the fun in just up and asking for something?”

Faramir, Éomer, and Éowyn burst into laughter, and after a moment, Gimli joined them.

“Hasty human, that is what an Ent or an Elf would call you, Faramir,” he chuckled. “Very well, then. One of the Haradrim begs leave to remain behind in Minas Tirith when his fellows depart. He is not only a good worker but a good Man. Now, I know my kinsfolk will arrive soon, but there is much stonework needs doing. Even with the assistance of my kinsfolk, repairs will proceed slowly, let alone the new construction. We could use every hand, be it that of a Dwarf, a Southron, or a Man of Gondor.”

“This Man,” began Faramir.

“Peter,” said Gimli.

“Peter,” continued Faramir. “He wishes to remain of his own free will?”

“Well, I haven’t threatened him.”

“I didn’t think you had, Gimli. But it is important that no rumors of ill-treatment be carried back to Harad, for it is Aragorn’s hope that our humane treatment of the prisoners will allay the suspicions of our erstwhile enemies. It must be understood by all that Peter does not remain here as a slave.”

“He will be no slave. Indeed, he won’t even be bound as an apprentice. I will stand guarantor that his skills warrant his employment as a journeyman. Aye, and he has saved money toward the bond that would be required were he to become a master in the stonemasons’ guild. After he has served some time as a journeyman, I myself would be glad to advance him the coins he would need to make up the difference—if he even has need of such assistance, for he is frugal.”

“You have great confidence in this Man.”

“I do,” Gimli said firmly. “Why, in the matter of the chisel, he is practically a Dwarf!”

“Forsooth, a great compliment,” Faramir said, smiling. “Well, even though Peter is only practically a Dwarf and not a Dwarf indeed, I will grant your petition.”

Gimli arose to his feet and gave a sweeping bow. “O steward most worthy, may you live long and prosper.”

“And you likewise,” came the formal response, but Faramir was grinning.

“You must know, Faramir,” Éowyn said after Gimli had departed, “that you will soon have to answer many such petitions.”

“Why do you say this?”

“Once the Haradrim hear that Peter has been given leave to stay, others among them will desire the same boon.”

“My sister is right,” Éomer joined in. “I warrant that many of these supposed prisoners are better off now than they were when they left their lands. It will occur to some of them that remaining in Gondor would be preferable to returning to their homes.”

“I will speak of the matter to Aragorn,” Faramir said thoughtfully. “It is within my purview to grant the petition of one Man, but if a number apply to remain in Gondor, it becomes a matter of state.”

Just then someone knocked upon the doorframe.

“Enter,” called Faramir.

Gamling stepped into the room and bowed.

“My Lord Faramir, my Lord Éomer, my Lady Éowyn.”

“It is good that it is only we three,” jested Éomer. “If Aragorn and Imrahil and Gandalf and others of the great folk were here, then Gamling would still be reciting their names come supper.”

“Oh, I would not,” Gamling replied lightly. “If there were more than you three, I would say, ‘My Lords and my Lady’. For it is said that brevity is the soul of wit, and tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes.”

“By all means, then, omit the limbs and outward flourishes and give us wit unadorned,” laughed Éomer. “Your errand, Gamling?”

“The Riders have finished practicing the new cavalry maneuvers and are ready for review.”

Éomer rose eagerly to his feet. “Faramir, Éowyn, I would ask you to join me, but it is very hot outside, and Gandalf has said that you should both have a care for your health for a little while longer.”

Faramir and Éowyn both assured him that they did not mind in the least remaining within, and Éomer and Gamling departed.

Once outside, Gamling expressed surprise. “You would leave Éowyn alone with Faramir?”

“Truly, Gamling, do you think the slayer of a nazgûl and a ringwraith has need of a chaperone?”

“Well, then, maybe Faramir needs one! Can he stand up to Éowyn?”

“Oh, I certainly hope so,” smirked Éomer.

“My Lord,” spluttered Gamling, caught between amusement and astonishment. Éomer burst into laughter at his expression and clapped him on the back. “Gamling,” he said when they had both recovered, “remember that Faramir did not take the Ring when he had an opportunity. I think that he can be trusted not to take anything from Éowyn that he ought not.”

Inside, Faramir was doing his best to live up to Éomer’s expectations. A servant had brought a platter of fruit as a conclusion to their meal, and Faramir gestured to it. “My Lady, would you have some fruit?”

“An apple, if you please.”

Faramir placed an apple upon a tiny salver and handed it to her along with a small knife. “Will you not have any fruit yourself, my Lord?” she asked as she sliced the apple.

“I will have a cherry,” he said, reaching toward the platter. “No,” he exclaimed, blushing. “I had better not have a cherry. A pear. I like that shape. No, not a pear, neither! A melon, then. No! Not melon!”

“Perhaps we should share this apple,” Éowyn suggested. Faramir opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, Éowyn had slipped a slice of apple between his lips. For a moment his mouth remained agape in surprise, but then he recovered and began to savor the fruit.

“Mmmm,” he murmured. “It tastes like you, my Lady, for it is both tart and sweet.” Then he blushed. “I mean no offense, my Lady.”

Éowyn smiled and handed him a slice.

“Would you like to slip one between my lips?” she asked.

“Yes. I mean, no! I mean, an apple, yes.”

Tentatively, he held the apple to her lips. She parted them, and he slipped it inside.

“Mmmmm,” she murmured.

Standing outside, his hand raised to knock upon the doorframe, Legolas hesitated.

‘Perhaps’, he said to himself, ‘this is not a good time to ask Faramir to look in on the progress of the garden next the House of Healing’. Grinning, he returned to the garden. Lying on the grass, he laced his hands behind his head and contentedly watched the clouds drift across the sky. After some time had passed, he heard footfalls upon the grass. Turning his head, he saw Faramir. Smiling, he arose to his feet. “Faramir, I am glad you are here, for I had planned to ask you to approve the outlay of further monies for the gardens. Now, in this garden I should like to plant several cherry trees. In the spring their blossoms are most beautiful, and their fruit is desirable, for it is both tart and sweet.”

“Both tart and sweet,” murmured Faramir. He appeared somewhat distracted.

“Do you like cherries?” asked Legolas with a straight face.

“Cherries,” echoed Faramir dreamily.

“Of course,” continued Legolas, “pear trees would flourish here as well. Perhaps I should plant pear trees. Do you like pears, Faramir?”

“Pears,” echoed Faramir, whose expression, truth be told, had now gone from dreamy to silly.

“On the other hand,” Legolas went on, “I could plant various ground covers. Melon vines spread well, the leaves are large, and the fruit is copious—the large globes sweet and succulent.”

Faramir’s eyes suddenly came into focus. He looked suspiciously at the Elf.

“Legolas, what are you going on about?”

“Fruit,” Legolas said in his most innocent voice.

“Elladan and Elrohir have told me,” Faramir said, smiling now, “that you are at your most mischievous when you look the most innocent.”

“The same charge could be laid at their door,” retorted Legolas, smiling likewise. “But tell me, Faramir, do you not desire to pluck fruit presently?”

“I confess that I do, although I am not sure how to go about planting the seed that shall bring about the fruition of my hopes.”

“Have you not already planted a seed, Faramir?”

“Not that seed, Legolas!” Faramir said hastily. “I should not be so disrespectful to Éowyn!”

“I did not mean that seed, Faramir. For if you had planted that seed out of season, Éomer might take it ill.”

Like the Catastrophe of the old Comedy, the Man just mentioned strode through the garden gate. Legolas grinned; Faramir paled.

“Éowyn said I might find you here, Faramir,” called Éomer, “and, Legolas, I am not surprised to see you here as well.”

“Éowyn,” echoed Faramir. At the mention of the Lady of Rohan, he regained his color and the silly look returned to his face. Legolas had to struggle to keep from giggling.

“Yes, Éowyn,” rejoined Éomer, who was likewise struggling to keep a straight face. “She said you had some matter to discuss with me—something about some enterprise coming to fruition.”

“Fruition,” repeated Faramir, his expression once again dreamy. Legolas rolled his eyes meaningfully at Éomer. “I must go to the garden next the Library to water a newly planted bush,” the Elf announced.

“Bush,” murmured Faramir.

“Faramir,” Éomer said loudly. Faramir jumped a little and blushed. “Not bush. Wasn’t thinking of bushes!”

“Not today you hadn’t better be thinking of bushes!” said Éomer. He adopted a tone of mock-warning tone, but smiled as he did so.

Legolas had reached the gate by now. He looked back once, grinned, and strode off.

That evening, when Legolas arrived at the dinner, everyone was talking of the festivities that would follow the coronation. “Legolas,” exclaimed Gimli when the Elf took his seat by his friend, “do you know that after Aragorn is crowned there will be not one but two weddings?”

“Two weddings? Arwen will journey from Imladris to marry Aragorn, and—”

“Faramir and Éowyn are to wed,” Gimli finished triumphantly.

Just then a servant came up bearing a platter of fruit. He bowed and proffered it to Legolas. “With the compliments of my Lord Faramir,” he announced.

“Ah,” enthused Gimli, reaching for a cherry, “I haven’t had one of these in a while.”

Sitting nearby, Elrohir smirked. “You haven’t, Gimli? I am sorry.”

“It’s no matter, Elrohir,” Gimli replied cheerfully. “Cherries are just one of those things one must forego in a time of war. Would you like one?”

“Those are my cherries,” protested Legolas. “Let Elrohir find his own!”

“For shame, Legolas,” scolded Gimli. “I have always been told that you are generous, yet you will not share these cherries with your own foster-brother.”

“Yes, Legolas,” grinned Elladan. “You must not deny Elrohir his cherries.”

“A little decorum, if you please,” growled a voice from several seats away. Turning, the Elves and the Dwarf saw Gandalf glowering at them.

“But, Gandalf,” Elrohir said innocently, “we were merely having a fruitful discussion on the merits of sharing.”

“I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with cherry-obsessed younglings,” retorted the wizard. “Pass that platter onward, as it is plain you would rather talk about cherries than enjoy them.”

“Not so,” protested Gimli. “I enjoy cherries at every opportunity.”

Merry and Pippin had been following this conversation with hands over their mouths to stifle their laughter, but now they exploded in merriment, giggling so hard that they both slid off their seats.

Gandalf glowered all the more fiercely, and Legolas decided that it was time to channel the conversation in another direction. “Aragorn,” he said, “has Gimli told you of the desire of Peter the Stonemason to dwell in Minas Tirith?”

“Yes,” Aragorn replied, “and Faramir tells me that others of the prisoners may wish to remain in Gondor.”

“Will you grant any such petitions?”

“Yes, but first they must return to their homelands. It shall be plain to all that they were not held captive past the time set by the treaty of peace. Once they are in their homelands, if they choose to emigrate hence with their families, they will be welcome.”

“They cannot all be stonemasons I suppose, Aragorn.”

“No. Do you want some detailed to you as gardeners?”

“Aye, Aragorn. I know that my father has promised that some Elves will journey hence from Mirkwood, but they will not be willing to settle in the City. No, they shall dwell in Ithilien. For the City gardens, Men are needful.”

“Very well, Legolas. When these Men return to Minas Tirith, I shall ask Faramir to assign to you such of them as are well suited to cultivation. No doubt,” Aragorn added, smiling, “you shall set them to planting cherry trees and pear trees and melon vines.”

Legolas groaned and shot a quick glance at Gandalf. Fortunately, the wizard was deep in conversation with Imrahil and did not notice that the subject of fruit had arisen once again. “I think,” said Legolas quietly, “that any further conversation on this subject will be—”

“Fruitless,” finished Aragorn, grinning fiercely.

“Ar-a-gorn,” said Legolas through gritted teeth.

Still grinning, Aragorn picked up an apple and bit into it. “Do you know,” he said, after swallowing a mouthful, “that some Men say that evil came into the world on account of a piece of fruit.”

“A piece of fruit? What an odd notion!”

“Perhaps not so odd.”

“But, Aragorn, how could a piece of fruit be evil?”

“I did not say that the fruit was evil in and of itself. It was the eating of it that was evil. Or, rather, the yielding to the temptation to eat it.”

Legolas considered. “From what you say,” he said thoughtfully, “it sounds as if the fruit was a symbol of how desire may corrupt.”

Aragorn nodded. “That is how I always took the story, and others like it. One might say,” he added, smiling a little, “that ancient tales are most likely to bear fruit if they are read with an eye to metaphor.”

“Someday our tale will be an ancient one,” Legolas pointed out, ignoring the pun. “Do you suppose folk will find the people and events to be symbolic of anything?”

“Most assuredly,” said Aragorn, serious now. “The One Ring will be taken to be an object akin to the piece of fruit, a symbol of desire and corruption, and our Frodo will be a sort of Everyman.”

“An Everyman?”

“Yes, for Frodo was in many ways unremarkable. That is, he was an ordinary person before circumstances dictated that he it was must needs struggle against temptation and so save us all. Thus he in his small person was any man and every man.”

“If Frodo was Everyman, then so was Gollum,” Legolas observed, thinking back to Sam’s account of how Gollum had appeared to be struggling with himself when he had grappled with an invisible Frodo.

“Aye, that is true. Frodo showed the courage and goodness that may lie within every man; Gollum, on the other hand, revealed the cowardice and greed of which all men are capable. Together they encompassed all that might be.”

“Do you suppose, Aragorn,” mused Legolas, “that our tale will be one of the great stories?”

“One of the great stories?”

“Yes, one of the tales that really matter.”

“If it is told well and told often. It certainly contains the elements that one would expect to find in a great story.”

“Then I hope it is told well and told often. I should like to think that you and I and Gimli will live on in Middle-earth, and that will only happen if our story survives our sojourn here.”

Aragorn looked surprised and then a little sad.

“I am sorry, Aragorn,” Legolas apologized. “I should not distress you with thoughts of mortality when you ought to be anticipating your coronation and your marriage.”

Aragorn shook his head. “I am not distressed on my account but on yours. You have put me in mind of something Gandalf said. He told me that by the time my grandson ascends the throne, the last Dwarf shall have returned to the earth from which he sprang, and the last Elf shall have passed beyond the Grey Havens. The Hobbits, he said, would perhaps linger a little longer, but in the end Man would be left in sole possession of this land. Gandalf said he told you that by your agency the future of Elves, Dwarves, and Hobbits would be assured but that in time you would come to understand that for those folk song must be the final sanctuary. Now I see that you already understand this. Does not this knowledge make you sad?”

“A little,” Legolas admitted. “But,” he continued, “you yourself will someday face death, and by your example I mean to bravely face a lesser loss. Moreover,” the Elf added, “like Frodo I may console myself with the knowledge that others shall enjoy this land and that I played a hand in securing their happiness.”

Aragorn shook his head, marveling. “Legolas,” he began, “As Gimli has observed, it is often said that you are—”

“Generous,” finished Legolas, smiling as he seized the opportunity to banter. He lifted his wine glass. “Come, Aragorn, enough of these doleful reflections. Let us toast poetry and song, in which a man may achieve immortality.”

“Ah, the toasting has begun,” Éomer exclaimed eagerly when he saw the Elf take hold of his glass. He held his own goblet aloft. “Elrohir, there is no longer any excuse to put off our contest. We are safe in Minas Tirith and have no obligations early on the morrow. Faramir, will you join in the game?”

“Faramir was just about to escort me to the garden,” Éowyn interjected hastily. Obligingly, Faramir arose and extended his hand to his betrothed. Aragorn, too, excused himself and left the room in company with Imrahil and Gandalf, the latter muttering something about the irrepressibility of youth. Elladan and Gimli remained, however, as did the Hobbits. The Dwarf and Elrohir’s twin both declared their intention of joining in the game, as did Merry and Pippin on condition that they be allowed to match one glass for two, an arrangement the other participants found agreeable. As for Sam and Frodo, they were appointed referees, for both declared that they wanted no drink stronger than watered wine.

For the other guests servants fetched bottles of the most potent vintages to be found in the wine cellars of Minas Tirith. Slates and chalk were also fetched, for Sam and Frodo were to keep tallies rather than rely upon the counting of goblets. “This glassware would not survive the evening were it to be piled upon the table,” Éomer observed. “Not like the sturdy mugs we make use of at Meduseld. So it is one goblet per drinker, and if you break it, you forfeit.”

Goblets in hand, the guests began the game. “A toast to Aragorn and Arwen,” proclaimed Legolas.

“Wes hal!” exclaimed the company before each downed the contents of his cup. Quickly the servants refilled the goblets (or, in the case of the Hobbits, half-filled them).

“A toast to Faramir and Éowyn,” declared Éomer.

“Wes hal!” came the response, and the second cup was drained.

“To Gandalf the White Rider,” offered Pippin.

“Wes hal!”

The toasts came fast and furious. To Frodo! To Sam! To Théoden! To Haldir! To Galadriel! (the latter proposed by Gimli). After an hour of tossing back goblet after goblet of wine, Merry and Pippin appealed to Frodo and Sam that the game be halted long enough for the participants to make water. The referees made a show of deliberating whilst Merry and Pippin grew increasingly fidgety until each like a stork stood one-legged, one limb twined about the other. At last Frodo and Sam agreed that the game might cease for a time, and Merry and Pippin scurried from the room in search of the garderobe. The others left the chamber at a statelier pace, but it is reported that Elladan and Elrohir scuffled for priority when they reached the necessary. It is moreover said that Gimli insinuated a foot into Legolas’s path so that the Elf stumbled, a misstep that allowed the Dwarf to get ahead of him in the line. As for Éomer, it is remarked that he took advantage of Elladan and Elrohir’s scuffling in order to precede both of them into the chamber of relief.

When the company reassembled in the dining hall, it seemed that the break had had a deleterious effect upon the coordination of at least one Hobbit. “Oops!” exclaimed Pippin as his glass slipped from his fingers and shattered upon the floor. “Well, according to the rules, I’m out,” he said cheerfully. ‘Éomer grinned wickedly. “We could ask Frodo and Sam to waive the rule,” he smirked.

“Oh, no,” Pippin exclaimed hastily. “I am all for fairness and abiding by agreed-upon terms.” As he spoke, a second crash was heard, and now it was Merry’s turn to announce a forfeit. “Pity,” the Perian said blithely, “as I was just warming up.” His flushed face perhaps spoke to the truth of those words.

Éomer, Legolas, Gimli and the twins now returned to the game. “To Edwen Nana, who would be horrified at our behavior,” toasted Legolas. “To Erestor, likewise,” proclaimed Elrohir. “To Gamling, who would not be horrified at all,” offered Éomer. “To Glorfindel, who would put us all to shame,” declared Elladan. “To King Dáin, ditto,” Gimli chimed in. Then he belched, and some of the wine sloshed over the brim of his cup as he waved it in the air. “’S’good wine,” he hiccoughed.

Several rounds later, the company lost another brave toper. “To Dwahfs whut go swimmin’ wit lil’ hawwy wimmin,” Gimli slurred. Legolas and Éomer exchanged knowing glances at hearing the familiar phrase, and the Elf moved to stand behind his friend. A few seconds later, the Dwarf toppled over backwards. Legolas caught him, and with the aid of the twins, Gimli was carried to a bench and gently laid upon it.

“Now it is down to three Elves and one Man,” declared Frodo. “I say that the game is weighted against Éomer. Let the Elves choose a champion, and it shall be between him and the King of Rohan.”

Legolas, Elladan, and Elrohir drew aside to debate who ought to represent their people. “I have matched cups with Éomer before,” Legolas pointed out. “I have taken his measure, so I ought to be the one.”

“But I have more experience in drinking games,” Elrohir argued, “and you know I have outlasted both you and Elladan, as well as the Lórien brothers. “Only Glorfindel has ever bested me.”

At length it was agreed that Elrohir would indeed be the elvish champion, and Éomer and his opponent sat facing one another on opposite sides of the table. With a flourish, Merry refilled Éomer’s glass, and Pippin did likewise for Elrohir.

“To Eorl the Young, son of Léod,” proclaimed Éomer, commencing with the first king of Rohan.

“To Fïnwe, first High King of the Noldor,” rejoined Elrohir.

“To Brego, son of Eorl,” came the reply.

“To Fingolfin, son of Fïnwe.”

“To Aldor the Old, son of Brego.”

“Turgon, son of Fingolfin.”

“Fréa!”

“Idril”

“Fréawine!”

“Eärendil.”

“Goldwine!”

Now at this point Elrohir confronted a dilemma. Since Elves are long-lived—immortal, really, barring accidents—their generations are few when compared with those of short-lived Men. After Eärendil, the only forefather Elrohir could toast would be his own father, whereas Eómer had remaining to him three kings of the first line of Rohirric rulers and eight kings of the second line. Elrohir supposed, though, that he could switch over to toasting Aragorn’s ancestors, as they were all descended from his father’s brother Elros. Still, they were considered Men, not Elves. He hesitated a moment. Then he grinned. “We are akin you and I,” he proclaimed, “for we are both descended from rulers and eminent folk. Why, we may as well be brothers, alike in power and dignity, and I feel such fraternal affection for you that I am moved to show it.” Swiftly, he reached over the table with both hands and seized Éomer’s face on either side. Pulling the startled Man toward him, he planted a kiss first on one cheek and then on the other. “Paugh!” exclaimed Éomer, and in his confusion he dropped his glass. It shattered upon the floor.

Elrohir released him and sat back. “Why, Éomer, you needs must forfeit,” he smirked. “What a pity, as the game was scarcely under way. I know I should have been able to continue for several more hours. Still, it has been a pleasant evening, and one that has culminated in the recognition of our kinship. We are sworn-brothers now, is that not so?”

Éomer slumped in his chair and wiped a hand over his cheek. “Sworn-brothers, eh? I suppose that means it would be considered bad form to kill you.”

Elrohir turned to Legolas. “What say you, Legolas? You have some experience in this matter, for Gimli is your sworn-brother, I believe.”

“Yes, he is,” said Legolas, “and I must confess that I have often been tempted to throttle him. However, it is indeed considered bad form to do so, and thus I have refrained.”

Gimli chose this moment to let out a particularly loud snore, which was punctuated by what Men call a ‘fart’.

“You show remarkable restraint, Legolas,” Éomer said dryly, “and I suppose I should strive to emulate you.” He turned to his erstwhile opponent. “Well played, Elrohir. I concede myself bested, but the sting of defeat is lessened by the fact that it was my sworn-brother who carried the day. I am thus able to rejoice in the victory of a kinsman.”

The company dissolved into laughter, and everyone conscious, even Frodo and Sam, indulged in a parting toast before withdrawing to their respective quarters.