RECAP: Aragorn, Faramir, and Eomer are in Harad having a lovely time fighting massive armies of Haradrim, who are a bunch of weirdoes. Meanwhile, Arwen is pregnant and so is Eowyn. They are also in command while their husbands are away. This can't be good.
"I hate this," said Faramir.
"Boy, I've never heard that one before."
"Eomer, hush. Just be glad that it's over," Aragorn said wearily.
It wasn't so much the rigours of battle that wearied the King of Gondor. It was more his constant companions' constant complaining. Even Gimli and Legolas had never been quite this annoying.
"...and it's not that I mind fighting a war," Eomer was whinging, "it's just that I don't like it when it stretches out to two bloody years because our allies turn out to be a flock of bloody evil traitors in cahoots with our enemies."
"The very enemies we were supposed to be saving them from," added Faramir.
"The very same. Those bloody evil traitors," Eomer said again, glaring at the sea of corpses they were making their way through. Some of the bodies, disturbingly, were still twitching and groaning, despite the best efforts of the crack squads of Gondorrim and Rohirrim who were carrying away the saveable and hacking away at the unsaveable.
Eomer grimaced and turned to Aragorn. "We should not let the them off so easily. We cannot predict what they will do in the future; these people are so bloody weird."
Aragorn gave Rohan's king a sharp look. "We have discussed this before. What would you have us do against them? They have surrendered, and their army is crippled. They have agreed to reestablish trade with us, on favourable terms. There is nothing to gain from further fighting."
"That's what you said last time too. 'Oh, they were misguided, they didn't mean to be in league with Sauron,'" sulked Eomer.
"Anyway," said Faramir, clearing his throat, "what are our plans for the near future, my lord?"
Aragorn considered for a moment, then said, "Shall we return to Minas Tirith together to enjoy a feastday? The men certainly deserve a rest."
"Hell yes!" Eomer agreed.
"That's not what I meant--but it is a a sound plan, nonetheless," smiled Faramir. "Though may I request that I first return to Ithilien, to see my wife, and then join you in Minas Tirith soon after?"
"Of course," said Aragorn, remembering that the steward had not even met his firstborn child yet, who was already two years old by now. Speaking of which...Arwen would have given birth to their third child a year ago. How strange that he would come home and not know his own child! And how much would Miriel and Anariel have changed? Would Miriel still dote on him and drive her mother insane? Would Anariel still drool all the time? (probably not, he decided)
But he would know Arwen still. That woman had changed but little, in all the years he had known her.
"It would be fun to surprise my wife and show up unannounced, don't you think?"
Faramir and Eomer gave him funny looks.
"With all due respect, my liege," said Faramir, which was clearance to say anything he wanted no matter how insulting, "I do not think the queen is the sort of woman who likes unexpected surprises...."
"Nonsense, Faramir! Remember when I threw that surprise birthday party for her? She loved it!"
"Because she knew it was coming."
"She did not!"
"Please take into account this evidence, Aragorn: when we 'surprised' her she was in her best party attire, she had had her hair done, she even had a speech prepared. And she must have noticed all the horses parked outside." [1]
Miffed, Aragorn said, "Well, she'll be surprised this time and she'll like it. Just watch."
Faramir could only roll his eyes.
"Estel, you little brat. You know I hate surprises."
Arwen refrained (for obvious reasons) from performing a curse that would plague her husband and his offspring for all eternity. She did get to yell at the guard who had delivered the news of the king's return, but the man had scuttled back to his post too quickly for her to have a satisfying session with him.
She began to pace the room, trying to think up solutions in the few minutes left to her before Aragorn came to the Citadel with his retinue. Occasionally she looked out the window with a bleak sort of hope that something had changed.
No such luck. The picketers were still out there.
As Aragorn approached the Citadel with his army, he felt a wonderful feeling of expectation building in his chest. His wife and children were behind those familiar white walls.
It was certainly good to be home.
The adoring crowds were a nice touch too. Ah, look, a whole bunch of them were waiting for him in front of the gates to the Citadel. Funny, they looked rather upset. Perhaps he should have given advance warning of his return after all. But if they had not been expecting him, then why were they all holding those large poster signs?
"'Give us money or give us death!'" the mob chanted in unison.
Beside him, Eomer squinted to read the signs. "'Better working conditions or none at all!' 'Down with the bitch queen!' 'Show me the money!' Those are strange words with which to welcome home a victorious army--hey! Watch the goods!" he yelled as someone shoved a sign in his face.
Aragorn suddenly wished that he had paid some attention to economic matters in the city instead of leaving absolutely everything to Arwen. Or that Faramir were here to deal with this. Or that he could sneak into the city through the sewers the way he used to. But with an army that might be difficult.
Amidst the commotion, he demanded, "What in Manwe's name is going on?"
One of the guards manning the Citadel gates made a sort of burbling sound.
"They're, um, you know, um, the militant unionist radical socialist tradesmen from all the, the what-do-you-call-them, guilds, in the city. Um. Sorry, we meant to tell you earlier, but you just showed up out of blue and all."
A more composed guard standing nearby added, "They're calling themselves the Union of Minas Tirith's Unions, or UMTU for short. They've not let anyone in or out of the Citadel for days now."
"Damn right we haven't! We won't bloody stop until you give us our bloody dues!" yelled a protestor whom Aragorn recognized as the master of the Builder's Guild.
"Master Builder," said Aragorn loudly, "good day to you. May I ask what your complaint might be?"
The burly guildmaster seemed taken aback at being addressed civilly.
"Well, Your Highness," he began, "we have already filed a formal complaint through all the proper channels, and all the details are there in the paperwork...but to outline the basics, we're very, very upset with the policies set in place by the current municipal administration regarding the tariffs placed on imported goods and services, or rather the lack of them. This year alone the tariffs in my guild's sector have been lowered by four percent, which, combined with reduced government support to the city's private sector has led to a staggering decrease in productivity across the board..."
By this point a glazed look had settled across Aragorn's face. He heard nothing for the next few minutes. The Master Builder, fortunately, didn't seem to notice his liege's lack of attention because he continued to ramble on.
"...an absolutely shocking outrage! Shocking! And in conclusion..."
This was Aragorn's cue to start listening again.
"...we, the Union of Minas Tirith's Unions, or UMTU for short, demand a lot of compensation."
Aragorn's blinked.
"Riiiigghht," he began. "Right-o." He looked at Eomer, who shrugged, clearly bored and in his not-my-problem mode. No help there.
"Perhaps," said Aragorn slowly, "I should first consult the Queen, who is, after all, in charge of the business administration of the city..." He found himself trailing off amidst the angry muttering of "Who do you think started this mess?" and "That bitch queen."
"Or, hm, perhaps we should wait for the arbitration of the Steward Faramir?" he added weakly.
The Master Builder looked unimpressed. "Well, where is the Steward? I thought he was supposed to be with you. He's not dead, is he?"
"Dead?" said Aragorn in surprise, and immediately regretted it as a great murmur of rumour rose around him.
"What did they say?"
"The Steward is dead, they say."
"The Steward is dead!"
"I heard he was killed by an oliphaunt in Harad!"
"I heard he died of poison!"
"I heard that his wife is a horse-wench!"
"I heard that shoes are on sale at Goodie Cooper's barn!"
"Goodie Cooper! Her cows produce the best leather in town! What ho! Why are we standing around here for? Let us shop!"
"This is stupid," said Eomer. Then, in a louder voice, he yelled, "The Steward is not dead, but you lot will be if you don't let us in now!"
"Oh yeah, you and what army?"
Eomer gestured at their army.
Aragorn sighed.
"Master Builder," he addressed in his I-am-the-king-so-shut-up-and-listen voice, "I order you to let us through immediately. We shall negotiate with you after we have rested and have a better understanding of what is going on."
The man was clearly hesitant in his reply. "We do not wish to compromise the picket line, my liege…"
"But you must," said Aragorn sternly.
"Very well. But your party will be the last that we shall let through."
"Understood."
"Hello, Arwen."
"Hello, Estel."
They stared at each other. There were so many things they were supposed to say, so many poignant words of affection or anger or who knows what, if only they could reach across the endless gulf that time and distance had wrought--
Two and a half seconds later, they were in each other's arms.
"I missed you so much!"
"I missed you more!"
"Did you know there is a strike going on outside?"
"…Of course I know, do I look like a fool? We will talk about it later."
"Pappy!"
"Miriel!"
"Pappy!"
"Miriel!"
"How are you, my queen?"
"Oh hello, Eomer. I did not see you there."
"I have been getting that a lot today."
"Welcome back, father."
Aragorn looked downward at a tiny replica of Arwen.
"My goodness, Anariel…you can talk now!"
The tiny replica of Arwen glared in such a way as to put her mother to shame.
"Anariel-dearest, do not make that face, it will freeze that way."
"As if you are one to talk, Arwen."
"Did you say something, Estel?"
"Nothing! I mean, no."
"Dearest, you must come and meet Aearien and Aduilien."
"...Who?"
"Your daughters."
"...Wha?"
"Did no one tell you? I had twins."
"...Oh. Well, that was my cue to faint."
And he did.
A week later, Aragorn was having breakfast when he took delivery of the following cheery notice:
We have the Steward (rumours of his death were greatly exaggerated) and his wife and child. They unwisely attempted to cross the picket line.
Sincerely,
The Union of Minas Tirith's Unions
"Oops," said the king. "I knew I was forgetting something.
Arwen looked up from her bowl of fruit and gave him an arch look. "What have you there, husband?"
He mutely handed over the note, which she scanned quickly and then discarded. "Well," she said, "all for the best anyway. Can you imagine the air of smugness we would have had to endure being cooped up in here with them? They managed to have a boy-child on their first go."
Aragorn had to agree.
Oh we'll march day and ni~ight
By Ecthelion's white tower,
They're evil capitalists
And for that we're real sour. [2]
Arwen looked out the window at the singing, marching picketers and resisted the urge to throw something at them. Doing so would not be constructive, she knew, since she'd already tried it a few times in the past hour. Most of the throwable objects in the Citadel were so valuable that when she hurled one at the picketers they would just pick it up and say something like, "Ooh, solid oak!" and then they would sell it to pay the healing bills for whomever she had hit. The victim would be picketing again the next day with a bandage on his head and a look of righteous fury on his face. Totally unproductive.
She suspected the bad singing was supposed to get on her infamously bad nerves, but growing up in Rivendell had made her mostly immune to any sort of lyrical attack.
"Bother," she said out loud. "Everything is solid oak in here."
A clanking of armour and a sudden onslaught of horse odour told her that Eomer was approaching.
"To what gracious Vala," she said without turning around, "do I owe my undying thanks and praise for granting me the pleasure of a private visitation from the most esteemed King of the Mark?"
She looked over her shoulder haughtily, for effect, and realized her sitting room door was still closed.
"Sorry, milady, what did you say?" asked Eomer, his voice muffled through the solid oak door.
"Nevermind," she said loudly. "You may enter."
A grunt, a jangle, and a thump sounded from behind the door.
"Um...I think it's locked."
"For goodness sakes," she grumbled and signalled at her maid in the corner, who was not there because Arwen had sent her away, she remembered belatedly. Huffing in annoyance, the queen stalked over to the door and flung it open.
"What?" said Eomer "What did I do now? It was not my fault, I swear. And why are you looking up for?"
"Heavenly guidance, to help me suffer fools such as he who stands before me," she didn't say. Instead she gestured wordlessly for Eomer to enter and take a seat.
"Thanks," he replied cheerfully. "Is this chair solid oak? Very nice."
"Yes, I'm having it burned tomorrow."
"Oh. Well, have I told you about the time we set fire to this very large pile of Uruk-hai? The smell was just awful--
"I can imagine. I apologize for being blunt, but I am rather busy trying to end the strike, as you know. For what reason did you seek me out, Eomer?"
The King of the Mark actually blushed and twisted his hands together nervously.
"You see," he began, uncharacteristically hesitant, "that is, I need your help in a matter of some little importance. I do not wish to distract you from your duties, of course, but we so rarely meet that I--"
"It is no trouble at all," said Arwen quickly, becoming interested despite herself. She felt a bit guilty now about lying about how busy she was--throwing objects out the window didn't count as being busy.
Eomer gazed at her earnestly, eye to eye, and said, "I need a wife."
A moment later he found himself hauled bodily out of the room and the solid oak door shut in his face.
"I already have a husband, you ignoramus. Valar help me, I don't know where you people get your ideas about Elves--"
"That's not what I meant!" he yelled back. "I need you to help me find a wife!"
After a moment the door swung open sheepishly.
"My apologies," said the queen. "I've been rather on edge lately. And yes, I will help you. I think I could use the distraction."
"Many thanks," replied Eomer with a gracious bow. "May your ancestors smile upon you."
"Oh, they do."
"Right."
"So what sort of woman are you looking for?"
"Human."
"That's a good start," answered Arwen slowly.
"I've had enough of Elves, no offence."
"Oh yes, my husband told me about your little episode with Legolas. I take it you have exhausted all your options at Edoras?"
"Yes, all the women are very exhausted there. Heh heh."
"You men. Always telling the same jokes. So then you wish for a Gondorian woman of noble birth? Any preferences regarding colouring or size?"
"I would prefer someone with something like a richly dark mane of hair offset by pale flawless skin, to make a nice contrast to my own colouring," he said, pointing at his ruddy face and cornbread hair.
"Hm," Arwen hmmed, twirling a strand of her rich dark hair around a finger, "that sounds rather familiar. Well, that sort of woman isn't going to just walk up and declare herself to you--"
A horn sounded gaily from outside the window. The two nobles paused and looked outside, where an attractive woman with a richly dark mane of hair offset by pale flawless skin led a retinue of servants and soldiers through the city streets toward the Citadel. Eomer gasped and stared at her, enraptured.
"Never have I seen such a vision of loveliness before this day!" he sighed.
"Really," said Arwen in annoyance. She waved her hand around vaguely and pointed at herself, but Eomer did not notice her in his distracted state. Sighing, Arwen said, "Actually, you have met that woman before, at your sister's wedding. She is Lothiriel, cousin to Faramir and daughter of Imrahil. I think you even spoke to her."
"Oh, that explains it," said Eomer, not taking his eyes off Lothiriel, who was really just a speck from this distance. "I was completely sloshed at Eowyn's wedding. I don't remember a thing about it."
"Figures," replied Arwen, her arms crossed but her eyes focused sharply on Lothiriel. Come to think of it, Imrahil's daughter had sent a message to say that she would be coming to visit, but Arwen had forgotten about it completely amidst the commotion of the strike. Oops.
Eomer suddenly gasped. "Alas! The picketers have laid hands on the beauteous Lothiriel!"
Oops. She had forgotten about them, too.
Still...this turn of events could turn out to be fortuitous, or at least amusing. Arwen noted Eomer's flushed features, his hands gripping the window sash tightly. A droplet of sweat slid down his temples and took up residence on his chin. What a transparent man.
"She is unmarried, you know," she said, not wasting any subtlety on someone who clearly would not appreciate it.
He nodded slightly, eyes wide, and enquired, "Does she have any other suitors?"
"No serious ones, at the moment."
"Is she intelligent?"
"Not really, but she is well educated."
"Her age?"
"A secret, but I can tell you that it matches yours well."
"Rich?"
"Very."
And then Eomer surprised her by turning to look into her eyes with an unexpected intensity.
He asked, slowly and carefully, "Does she like horses?"
Arwen gave him an incredulous look and replied, "Yes?"
"SCORE!"
The next thing she knew Eomer had hauled himself over the window ledge, grabbed onto the ivy clinging to the walls, and begun climbing/sliding down the thirty or so metres of treacherously empty space to the ground below.
"Ow ow ow ow ropeburn ow ow," she heard him say.
"Eomer, you fool! Get back here!" Arwen screamed, but for once screaming did not avail her. "Hang your whole damnable country of fools!" she cursed instead. "Hang them to Mandos's Halls! Hang them to Sauron and Morgoth and...and Ungoliant! Hang them all to--"
"Um," said Aragorn's voice behind her, "is there something I should know about? Whatever it is, it's not my fault, I swear." He gave a nervous cough.
"Estel," she greeted him curtly, "that fool Eomer is climbing down the ivy on the Citadel walls. He will get caught by the picketers! And if he breaks his neck--"
"Ooh, that has to hurt," said Aragorn, looking out the window and wincing.
"Curses. I really do not want to look. How bad is it?" Arwen asked, massaging her forehead.
"He fell about...seven or eight metres, although it is difficult to tell from here. I think he is unconscious but not badly hurt. His chainmail may have helped. And...goodness, is that Lothiriel being held by the picketers? What is she doing here?"
"Visiting."
"And more besides," said the king. "She is struggling now against her captors...good girl! She is free! She is running to Eomer...she is almost there...now she is checking him over...checking him all over..."
"No lurid details, please."
But Aragorn was hardly paying attention to her, which would have irked her if she hadn't already passed into a state of advanced vexation.
After a tense pause he continued, "I think Eomer is awakening...yes, he is definitely awake now. Very awake. And...ooh, that has to hurt."
"You already said that."
"True, but this time it is because Lothiriel slapped him."
"I should have known that would happen," said Arwen, who decided it was safe to look down now that her husband had confirmed that Eomer was fine and unlikely to file a lawsuit against Gondor.
Dol Amroth, however, might find reason to go to war against Rohan, or at least call for a restraining order against its king. Arwen, Aragorn, and the picketers watched mutely as Eomer hit on fair Lothiriel.
Who didn't slap Eomer again, remarkably. Arwen wasn't sure what he said to her, but even from up here she could tell it was working.
"He is approaching his goal...she is beginning to relent...he is taking her hand...!" said Aragorn breathlessly.
"I cannot believe it."
"...and now she has taken his hand in return...they are helping each other up...and they are embracing! SCORE!"
Aragorn whooped in a most un-kingly fashion and did something that would be called an 'end zone dance' at some point in the distant future.
"Men," was all Arwen could say.
Eomer and Lothirel were taken away by the picketers, of course, but the newly-formed couple hardly seemed to care.
"Young love," sighed Arwen, "is so sickening."
"Now, dearest, do not be jealous."
"I am not jealous."
"Do you remember when I was courting you?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
"Me too."
The royal couple sat there morosely for a while, staring out the window at the sea of picketers.
"I feel old. I do not seem to like war and conflict anymore. Did I tell you what a horrid time we had in Harad?"
"Yes, dear."
"Do you think if we wait long enough they"--Aragorn gestured at the picketers--"will just go away?"
Arwen raised an eyebrow and asked, "How did you ever get to be king again?"
"Because you helped me write my resume."
"Exactly."
They sat and pondered some more.
"So what are we going to do about this situation? They now have Faramir, Eomer, Eowyn and Lothiriel--four rather important prisoners, and all we can do is throw furniture out the window at them, which they just sell in order to fund their campaign. And I know that any day now Faramir is going to start helping them--that man has always had socialist leanings. We are like rats, trapped in this citadel, unable to strike back, unable to...what is it?"
Arwen sat up straight, an evil gleam in her eye.
"Who says we can't we strike back?"
Arwen glanced around the hall surreptitiously. Everything and everyone was in its place. She cleared her throat to gain the people's attention, and began the opening ceremony.
"We are gathered here today to celebrate the coming together of two who are very near and dear to my heart: The Union of Minas Tirith's Unions and the Municipality of Minas Tirith.
A lot of people grumbled.
"Now, I know we have had our differences in the past," she continued blithely, "but I truly believe that today, with all of these fine members of the community gathered in council, we shall reach a reconciliation that is mutually agreeable to all parties."
The Master of the Artisan's Guild stood and said politely, "Reach reconciliation? My well-sculpted ass we will."
"Your well-sculpted ass will be full of crossbow bolts in about five seconds if you do not behave," Arwen stated with a sweet smile.
The members of UMTU looked around and noticed that the Citadel guards who had been standing around, looking ceremonial, were now holding lots of very pointy weapons.
"I have just received word," Arwen announced, "that my elite soldiers have retrieved the Steward and the King of the Mark from your headquarters. Now, (here her smile sent shivers down the backs of everyone present) "it is time to negotiate."
Not everyone went home happy, but the people who mattered were very happy.
Arwen sat back in her council chair languidly. "That went rather well."
"It did," replied Aragorn, equally languid. "Why did I not think to use coercive force?"
"Because you are not the one wearing the pants in this relationship."
"...But I am the one wearing..."
"A figure of speech, Estel."
"Ah."
And he leaned over and kissed her.
"...What was that for?"
"Because I love you, and I missed you."
"...You did."
And she leaned over and kissed him.
"...Mmmm..."
"...Hrmrmm..."
"I just had a wonderfully...suggestive idea," said Arwen.
"So did I. Why don't we give the twins names that people will actually be able to remember?"
And Arwen leaned over and slapped him.
"Ow. Hey, Arwen, wait! It was merely in jest! I think you chose lovely names, very fitting! Arwen...!"
And Arwen let him into the bedroom anyway.
[1] "And she must have noticed all the horses parked outside." Something I've noticed about surprise parties is that the gazillion cars parked outside the victim's house usually give the whole thing away.
[2] The picketing song is adapted from an episode of the Simpsons in which the power plant employees go on strike to get their dental plan back. Homer is the union leader. You know, the episode where Lisa gets braces?
Author's Notes: Ack, it's been over a year now. My apologies.
The whole idea of having a strike in Minas Tirith was inspired by the Teaching Assistants at my school having a bloody annoying strike last year. What a fiasco that was. Barricades, people getting bumped by cars, chainsaws...and it all ended very anti-climactically.
Silverfox, thanks for pointing out that the firstborn kid of the King and Queen of Gondor gets to be the official heir. I didn't know that. Good thing this story is already AU or else I'd be having a hernia right now. Also, thank you for the female Elven names! I'll use at least one of them in future chapters.
And thanks to Artemis for naming the twins! According to Artemis, Aearien means "daughter of the sea" and Aduilien means "daughter of twilight."
To the anonymous reviewer who wanted to know where to read Bored of the Rings…well, as far as I know the whole book isn't online, but you can read excerpts of it at . If you want to read ALL of it, then go buy it.