~Edoras 63 IV~
“You may enter, mi’lords.”
Though the voice was steady, the eyes were rimmed with red, and Elrohir laid a consoling hand on the steward’s shoulder. A step behind, Elladan smiled his thanks, murmuring some suggestion that brought a brief gleam of approval to the old man’s face. As they stepped through the door, a flurry of movement met their entry into the dimly lit chamber.
“Uncle!”
The exclamation had scarcely reached Elrohir’s ears before he found himself engulfed in a warm embrace, and he returned the gesture, chuckling affectionately despite the sober circumstance. “I never thought to find myself uncle to a prince, yet now I am claimed by two,” he said, releasing his host with a final squeeze. “It is good to see you, pen neth, though I would wish the tidings brighter.”
“I am no longer deserving of the endearment,” Elfwine said with a faint smile. “I have not been young in the reckoning of my people for many years. But I am glad to see you.” His smile faltered. “He has asked for you...for you both,” the prince added, casting an apologetic glance at Elladan before moving to embrace him, as well. “Forgive me, Lord Uncle. I intended no slight.”
“None taken,” Elladan assured him, the long-familiar title bringing with it a welcome flash of amusement. Over the years since the war, the economic ties between Imladris and Rohan had developed into a deep and abiding friendship between rulers, making the twins a well known, if somewhat sporadic, presence in the prince’s life.
From the beginning, the boy had been most at ease with Elrohir, the elf-knight’s brash disposition and skill with horses reassuringly familiar to a child of the Rohirrim. Elladan’s diplomatic reserve and position as nominal Lord of Imladris had made him a figure of some awe, though no less affection, in the young prince’s eyes, and these roles had not altered as the years passed.
A fit of hoarse coughing sounded and Elfwine hurried to the side of the large bed that was the focal point of the room. “They have arrived, Father,” he said, beckoning the twins closer.
“Open the bloody shutters, will you?” Éomer rasped, his voice unexpectedly strong. “I cannot see in here.”
The ineffectual fluttering of the healer’s assistant was cut off by a spirited oath. “Tell them, Elladan. I have had enough of dim light and stale air.”
“It will make no difference,” the elder twin assured Elfwine, helping the prince throw back the heavy wooden panels to flood the room with the golden light and crisp scent of a spring evening.
“Now I can make out your faces,” the elderly king announced, patting the edge of the bed in invitation. “I have forgotten much that I thought I knew, and learned again much that I had forgotten. But you are still pretty as most any maid, the both of you.”
“Father,” Elfwine began, his cheeks flushing despite his years. “You should not...”
Elladan laid a reassuring hand on the prince’s arm. “Any maid but yours, perhaps,” he replied as expected, the age-old ribbing comfortingly familiar.
“Aye, any but mine,” Éomer agreed with a wistful smile, his eyes growing distant. “I miss her, my friends.”
“She waits for you,” Elrohir said quietly, “and misses you, as well.”
A suddenly clear gaze turned of the elf-knight. “You believe it true?”
“I do.”
Éomer smiled, tightening his frail fingers around Elrohir’s arm.
“Then I will believe it, also.”