OoOoO

Dawn washed over the walls of Minas Tirith, bathing the city in a glow as golden as honey and as pink as spring roses. Pigeons cooed sleepily from their roosts in the bell towers, their voices echoing through the slumbering streets. The last stars of eventide lingered overhead as the sky faded from black to indigo to blue. Soon the bakers would begin their baking, filling the Circles of Minas Tirith with the scent of fresh bread. This was the time of day that Eruthiawen loved best.

With her long, glossy auburn tresses unbound and falling about her slender waist, the eldest daughter of Aragorn and Arwen stood at her balcony railing and watched the city wake up. The rising sun reflected in her grey eyes, eyes that anyone who had known Lord Elrond Half-Elven of Imladris would recognize in an instant. The coolness of the morning did not trouble Eruthiawen, clad as she was only in a cream colored night-shift. This high up in the Citadel of Minas Tirith there were few if any prying eyes to trouble a princess at leisure.

Eruthiawen took advantage of the calm to order her mind for the coming day. It was a habit she'd cultivated over time as her responsibilities gradually increased in parallel to her age. Every morning with the dawning she would arise and watch the stars fade while drawing up an unspoken schedule for herself. Today there were the usual lessons with their tutors, luncheon with visiting nobles from the harbor city of Pelargir, a quick trip to The Old Archives to search for previous copies of existing trade agreements with Dale, and finally a singing lesson to round out the day, time permitting.

Eruthiawen's pleasant daily ritual was abruptly interrupted by her chamber door swinging open without so much as a knock. There were only two people in all of Middle-Earth that would barge into her rooms in such a way. Both exasperated and pleased concurrently, Eruthiawen turned from the sunlit rooftops of Minas Tirith to greet her sisters.

"Do you never knock, Túrien?"

"Since when have you ever knocked before inviting yourself into my chambers?" Túrien parried.

As per her usual, Túrien's midnight black hair floated behind her like a cloud of ink. Only Arwen had sufficient influence to convince her middle daughter to let her brush and order her willful locks. Once Eruthiawen had been able to bully Túrien into letting her style her hair as well, but those days were long past.

Eruthiawen knew she needed only wait a moment to discover Almárëa's whereabouts. Sure enough, a bright smile beneath matching bright eyes stuck itself inside the doorway.

"May I come in, Eruthia?" Almárëa asked politely, using the nickname she and Túrien had bestowed on their elder sister in their toddling days.

"You may. You see Túrien; a child five years your junior can summon up more manners than you."

"I'm not a child." Almárëa pouted.

"You are twelve years old, which makes you a child Almárëa." Túrien said. "Even Eldarion isn't of age for another month yet, so by the reckoning of the laws he's still a child too."

Túrien flopped down onto Eruthiawen's chaise sofa, her lean arms and legs dangling over the sides. Eruthiawen knew for a fact that Túrien could present herself well, when the inclination happened to seize upon her. Those inclinations were firmly reserved only for formal settings though. One of their mother's favorite stories to retell was the evening she had found Aragorn and a nine-year-old Túrien both sprawled on the hearthrug, sound asleep like a pair of gangling hunting hounds before the fire.

"On that note, it seems both strange and somehow wrong that he and the others have gone off to war with Adar. Even the city feels unlike it did before with them gone."

Sighing, Eruthiawen abandoned any further attempt at day planning. With her sisters lounging on the furniture she ducked behind a screen in the corner of the room. Most noble girls in Minas Tirith their ages had personal maidservants. Arwen however insisted early on that her daughters were perfectly capable of dressing and grooming themselves, as per the customs of the elves. Even the queen herself relied solely on her own handiwork to prepare for any public appearances and events of state. Whenever laces in hard to reach places proved to be an issue, the princesses would simply call down the hallway and summon whichever sister happened to be available to help. Today however Eruthiawen's gown was a simple yet elegant cobalt blue selection which she stepped into without a second thought.

"I hope you have something more practical than that to wear today." Túrien remarked when Eruthiawen stepped out from behind the screen.

"Is this not practical enough for lessons and a political luncheon?"

"Eruthia!" Almárëa's little pink mouth screwed up in a scowl. "You promised!"

Eruthiawen hesitated, instantly going back through her list of activities for the day. Lessons, yes. Lunch, yes. Archives, yes. Singing, yes. Could she have forgotten something else? Then she actually took notice of her younger sisters' clothing. Both Túrien and Almárëa were clad in the plainest smocks and kirtles they owned, as nondescript as could possibly be managed from the wardrobes of princesses. Now that she thought about it, Eruthiawen wondered if they had borrowed such outfits from the Citadel servants.

"Ha, so you did forget after all!" There was a note of smug satisfaction in Túrien's voice. Standing, Túrien caught hold of Eruthiawen's wrist and pulled her back toward the screen. "You agreed that you would join us in going for a jaunt around the city today. And before you try to protest, I would also remind you that you promised to come along for the sake of 'keeping me from getting Almárëa into trouble'. Isn't that right, Almárëa?"

Almárëa bobbed her head vigorously. "Yes, you promised you would come, Eruthia. Come on, pleeeeeeeease!" Then the dreaded secret weapon was brought out to bear; a doe-eyed stare bordering on tearful pouting. "Pretty please?"

What could Eruthiawen possibly say when confronted with both her own word and her sisters' pleas? 'The lowliest wretch who upholds their word has more to be proud of than the mightiest liar', their father was fond of saying. The list of duties she had assembled for herself was crumpled up and tossed aside like parchment in the wind. Hopefully their tutors, Lord Faramir and their mother would forgive them.

"Very well, you have won." Eruthiawen admitted defeat, allowing Túrien to pull her blue gown off over her head.

With a squeal of delight Almárëa was scampering off down the hall. A few minutes later she returned with another plain cloth smock and matching kirtle for Eruthiawen to dress herself in. Pulling on simple leather shoes and tying their hair back in single braids, the three princesses thought they might escape excessive notice out in the city. It was a vain hope though; if one of them alone was distinctive then the three sisters together were nothing short of an exclamation point on the page of Gondorian humanity. No matter how thick or thin, the blood of the Eldar has never been content with anything less than extraordinary, after all.

They slipped out a servants' entrance around the side of the Citadel. The morning was still young enough that there were few people about to notice the princesses masquerading as commoners as they passed under the white stone archway that led down into the First Circle of Minas Tirith.

OoOoO

Their departure did not go wholly unnoticed, however. Eyes as grey as the sky before a storm narrowed with quiet mirth as Arwen Undómiel watched her daughters make their escape.

"I am still admittedly surprised that you did not at least have someone follow to keep an eye on them." Éowyn commented.

The White Lady of Ithilien and the Queen of Gondor stood in the shade of the White Tree, escaping the girls' notice, so intent had they been on not being noticed themselves. Éowyn was staying in Minas Tirith while Faramir served as Steward in Aragorn's absence. Lothíriel was also a guest of the White City at the present, but the Queen of Rohan preferred to wake a few hours later in the morning than Arwen and Éowyn. With the dawn still young and rosy on the horizon, Arwen and Éowyn went to the edge of the great Citadel to watch Eruthiawen, Túrien and Almárëa as they scampered down the streets of Minas Tirith in search of fun.

"Would you have done so?" Arwen asked Éowyn.

Up close, Éowyn was oddly comforted to see subtle creases around Arwen's eyes to match those which age had wrought on her own face. They were an endearing sign of the years which made the former daughter of elf-kind more approachable. The queen still retained her pointed ears though; little peaks which poked out through her dark tresses beneath the crown of Gondor.

"No." Éowyn admitted. "At least, I can imagine how little I myself would appreciate such an escort, if I were them. I do not have daughters though, and cannot say for certain."

Arwen smiled. Turning away from the city below, she approached the White Tree and sat on a bench beneath its pale eves. Éowyn followed, her buttercup yellow skirts rustling over the polished white pavement.

"The girls are not entirely unsupervised, even so."

"No?"

"When I overheard Almárëa swearing the servants to secrecy, I heard that Eruthiawen had agreed to come and was satisfied. My eldest is two and twenty, and I have faith that she will keep her sisters safe and out of any severe trouble."

Éowyn raised an eyebrow. "What about less severe trouble?"

Arwen laughed, a musical sound which softened the shoulders of the Citadel guards nearby beneath their swan-feather helms. "That I leave for them to experience for themselves. They are my brothers' nieces, after all. Besides, I know the mood of the people. They would no sooner see harm come to my children than to their own. They will be safe." Then it was the Evenstar's turn to raise her eyebrows at Éowyn. "I never imagined you to be one to fret over spirited young women, Shieldmaiden."

"Only here in the privacy of your confidence do I confess that I once yearned for spirited daughters such as yours, Arwen." Éowyn looked away to the sunrise, its glow bathing her fair face and making the white in her hair shine like new snow. "Instead I have a kind and gentle son, every inch his father's child. Elboron has never given me reason to fear for him, ever. Now that he has gone to war at your own son's side, I...I find my old yearnings returning with vengeance. Sons must serve their country on the battlefield; that is the way of the world. If I had a daughter though, I would never have to fear for her the way I must now finally fear for Elboron."

Gazing down at the collar of her wine red gown, Arwen fingered the crystal brooch that hung there. Fashioned into the shape of Eärendil's sky-bound vessel Vingilot by the jewelers of Imladris, it had been a gift from her father on her five hundredth birthday. The pain of her separation from her father, and her mother as well was ever present, sometimes closer to the surface than others. With a small, half-sad smile Arwen shook her head.

"Nay, daughters too can sometimes venture as far if not further from their family's arms than sons. I know my own father feared more for me throughout the War of the Ring than he ever did for my brothers. Danger for Elladan and Elrohir came in the form of sharp claws and cruel blades. The Doom of Men itself dogged my footsteps from the moment I met Aragorn, and my father knew it. Ah, how he grieved, even when I was still at his side."

Éowyn once had been reverent of Arwen to the point of being uncomfortable touching her. Now though it came easily for her to squeeze Arwen's wrist comfortingly. She half-smiled at her friend, one mother to another.

"Perhaps it is just the nature of children to fill their parents' days with both love and worry in equal measure. The moment Elboron was first laid in my arms I swore that I would rend apart anything that ever dared threaten him with my bare hands." Then a grim chuckle escaped her. "It seems I must now either go and tear to pieces the armies of both Rhûn and Harad, or be proven a gross exaggerator."

Arwen chuckled in amusement at the mental image that conjured. "And I have no doubt you would be more than capable of striking fear into the hearts of your enemies even today, mellon-nin. Still, we must allow our sons their turn, yes?"

"I like it not, but I suppose so." Éowyn grumbled. "How I would like to have my sword in hand, and feel the thrill of battle just one more time!"

Measured footsteps from the White Tower of Ecthelion alerted Arwen that they were no longer alone. The weight of the tread was too heavy to be Lothíriel, but too light to be a Citadel guard. Turning on the bench, Arwen smiled in greeting and urged Éowyn to turn with a toss of her head.

Faramir approached the two of them with an open roll of parchment in hand, consternation tightening the edge of his smile. The love was untarnished in his kiss when he bent to press his lips to Éowyn's though. Arwen he greeted with a respectful bow of his head.

"Pardon for disturbing you as your leisure, Your Grace, Éowyn." Faramir indicated the parchment he held, which Arwen now saw was a half-drafted toll agreement. "The delegation from Pelargir will be arriving soon, and I am struggling to come up with an acceptable rebuttal for their proposed waterway toll. They have been most insistent that as a port city, Pelargir ought to be free to charge those seeking to sail past them on the Anduin. Knowing how you and Lord Aragorn prefer the Aunduin to be left open, I thought perhaps you might have some suggestions for how to word this diplomatically?"

Reaching out for the parchment, Arwen's eyes swept down the tight, precise lines of text. The dock-masters of Pelargir were hardly being diplomatic in their own wording, she thought to herself. Still, being thousands of years old made the queen nothing if not exceptional at dealing with narrow minded mortals.

"Have you a quill, Faramir?" Arwen asked. Ever thinking ahead, Faramir promptly produced one seemingly from thin air. Point hovering in mid-air, Arwen paused. "Do you mind if I write on this?"

"Consider it a draft, Your Grace. I was planning on re-writing it before lunch regardless."

"Faramir?"

"Yes, Your Grace?"

Arwen gave the Steward an amused look. She could practically feel Éowyn's shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth. Good manners were instinctive to Faramir almost to the point of inconvenience.

"How many years must you and I consider ourselves friends before you will finally consent to addressing me by name, not title?"

Faramir looked chagrined. According to Éowyn, once a habit took hold of her husband it was like trying to redirect a river to change it. "Ah yes, my apologies...Arwen. In my defense, I do not keep forgetting intentionally." Faramir grinned, a boyish expression that brightened his entire face. Arwen completely understood how this good-natured, lordly man could have claimed the heart of a mighty woman like Éowyn.

Her thoughts now turned to matters of state, Arwen spared one last moment to wonder after her children. Where was Eldarion now? Was he safe and whole, alongside Aragorn? Where were Eruthiawen, Túrien, and Almárëa? Were they drinking warm cider and eating baked bread in the marketplaces, teasing passing youths and chatting with the friendly elders on their doorsteps? Arwen could not answer those questions, but she could answer Faramir's. Sometimes the divide between queen and mother could be an uncomfortable gulf to cross.

OoOoO