Chapter Text
The final humiliation, Cirion thought, was that his father had sent Captain Beregond.
“Greetings, Éomer King,” said Beregond to his Uncle, after giving Cirion a long stern glance which made Cirion’s heart sink. “I have come to collect your sister-son, upon order of my Prince and my Lady.”
“Captain Beregond,” said his Uncle, giving Beregond a smirk. “How nice of you to visit! How is my sister?”
“Extremely ungainly and bad-tempered,” said Beregond. “The Valar save her from having any more children—”
Old Elfhelm scratched his grey head. “I did hear aright, that there were two babies?”
“Aye, Marshal Elfhelm,” said Beregond, and then stretched his arms out to indicate Cirion’s mother’s girth. “She looks like this, and Ioreth thinks we still have four weeks to wait—”
Deorthric sucked his breath in between his teeth. “Four horrendous weeks for all?”
“But Mummy is still well?” said Cirion, anxiously.
“She is, my Lord. Your father hovers over her like a broody hen, which does not improve her mood, I should add.” Beregond dug around in his bag. “In fact, I have a letter for you from her.”
Cirion took the letter gingerly and inspected it. “The pen has gone through the parchment in several places,” he observed. “I think I shall read this later.”
Deorthric howled with laughter, and pointed at Cirion. “Someone is in big trouble!”
“Hush, Deorthric,” said Lothíríel, but not before Cirion had caught a faint look of satisfaction flit across her face. He had not realised that his aunt must be as vexed with him as his uncle was.
Cirion sighed. “I suppose I must needs pack, Captain?”
Beregond inclined his head. “You suppose correctly, Lord Cirion. We return to Minas Tirith first, but your father has … plans … for you.”
“Hard labour?” said Deothric eagerly. “Will he be whipped?”
“Nay, back to Dol Amroth and the Navy,” said Beregond, giving Deorthric a quelling look.
“But I already did my turn in the Navy, and I prefer cavalry!” protested Cirion.
“Too bad, sister-son,” said Éomer. “You needed to think with your head, not … other parts.”
“Éomer!” said Lothíríel, but she looked amused again.
“You can argue this with the Prince,” said Beregond. “I am just the man who brings the orders and the letters.”
Cirion sighed, knowing that he had no chance of persuading Beregond to ignore his father’s orders. “Very well.”
“Good lad,” said Beregond.
“Stay and have a drink while Cirion packs,” said Éomer to Beregond. The message was clear: he was to go as quickly as he could; not quite utterly disgraced, but not far from it.
Cirion looked out at Edoras as he walked glumly down the stairs from Meduseld: the smoke drifting over the homely cottages, the green rolling fields, the horses. He went back to his lodgings and folded a stack of his jerkins neatly, thinking that Army training was a hard thing to shake, when he finally dared to open the letter from his mother.
It was possibly even worse and more humiliating than he had feared: to receive a letter from one’s heavily pregnant mother, instructing you to ‘keep your pants buttoned up, Cirion, and desist.’ He reflected that his parents had not had much success in keeping their pants buttoned up, given the number of siblings he had, but he did not think it would help matters to point this out.
His mother also said his father had decided that he was to be recalled from Rohan forthwith, and that he was to spend at least one year in Dol Amroth and never live in Rohan again. At this, Cirion wiped tears from his eyes: he regarded Rohan as his second home. Then his mother said that he had caused her great distress at a time when things were already difficult enough, and that she and his father were extremely disappointed with him: ‘I am trying to get through this pregnancy alive’—the pen had gone through the paper again at this point—‘Idis is going through a bad patch and I cannot even help her—and you carry on like a big fool?’ Finally she expressed a desire to beat Cirion’s backside with the flat of a sword next time she saw him.
Cirion began to cry in earnest, and wondered what ‘a bad patch’ meant with regard to his middle sister, Idis: was she ill? Or just moody and bad-tempered, like Finduilas had been at a similar age? Then Cirion realised he would have to go home and face the judgement not only of his parents, but also his picture-perfect older brother, Elboron and his very annoying older sister, Finduilas. Neither of them would ever get into a situation like this. Cirion had always felt glad that he was more at ease with social interactions than any of his siblings (not that it was a hard contest) but he was now beginning to wish he had inherited a little more of his parents’ reserve.
Cirion folded up the letter sadly, shoved it in his bag, wiped his eyes again, then blew his nose with his handkerchief. He turned as he heard a noise at the doorway.
“Ho, Cirion,” said his cousin Elfwine, leaning against the doorway, his narrow face serious, his dark hair in a long braid.
“Hullo, Elfwine,” said Cirion, trying to hide the fact he had just been crying, and not meeting his cousin’s eyes. Now he thought about it, he had not seen much of his cousin lately, nor spoken to him, and he wondered if he had to add Elfwine to the long list of people who were angry at him. “So, um, I gather I have been thoughtless. I am really sorry if I made things hard for you—I respect you greatly—”
“Hmm,” said Elfwine.
Cirion picked up the tone of doubt in his cousin’s voice. “I do! Really I do! You must believe me! It is just that—I think so highly of you that I never thought that anything that I could do would affect you—you know they call you Elfwine the Fair?”
Elfwine coloured. “I would rather be Elfwine the Brave. I like not Elfwine the Fair. It sounds a little … womanish.”
“It is better than Elfwine the Very Ugly and Stupid?” said Cirion.
Elfwine laughed. “True! You do make me laugh, Cirion.”
“I should be Cirion the Stupid, the court jester,” said Cirion, bitterly, turning back to his clothing and folding the trousers.
“You can’t be absolutely perfect in everything, Ciri,” said Elfwine. “Clever, handsome, warlike and utterly irresistible to women—I mean—you must have some flaws?”
Cirion turned to his cousin. “I have plenty of flaws! I am too loud! My family chides me constantly for my booming voice! I have a terrible temper! I lack tact!”
“None of these are flaws for a Rohir,” said Elfwine, glumly.
“O dear; I wish someone had said something to me earlier. I just got a bit—carried away.” Cirion wiped his eyes again.
“You were away on the borders, so it was a little difficult. Anyway, Father now wants to betroth me to Lady Erkenhild,” said Elfwine, pretending not to notice Cirion’s tears.
“Is she attractive?” Cirion racked his brains, wondering if he had slept with this woman, sorely hoping he had not. He did not think he had—from the name, she was likely one of Erkenbrand’s granddaughters—and he’d known well that Erkenbrand would have killed him if he touched one of his girls.
Elfwine coloured again. “She is actually very nice. I’ve known her since I was young. She has long, thick hair, the colour of honey—”
“Good.” Cirion finished putting the clothing in his pack. “I hope … well … I hope that you will still be my friend? I have been banned from Rohan forthwith, but my heart will be utterly broken if I have lost your regard too.”
Elfwine sighed. “I was a bit annoyed with you, but no, Cirion, do not fear; it would take far more than to lose my affection.” He paused. “I’m guessing that your parents are not happy?”
“No, they are not. Mummy has made that extremely clear.”
“I can’t decide which of your parents I’d rather not have angry with me: Aunt Éowyn or Uncle Faramir,” said Elfwine. “I suppose I’ll see you before you go?”
“I hope so.” Cirion roughly embraced his cousin. “I am really, really genuinely sorry about everything. You can ask your father: to me, you are so worthy that I did not even contemplate the fact that I might be causing you problems—”
“Thank you,” said Elfwine. “Take care.” He let himself out quietly.
