Faramir headed downstairs apace, worried about both what could happen to his daughter if he did not go, and what his wife would do to him if he dared go back upstairs.

Finduilas was still in the care of Nimcarch, who snarled at Faramir when he tried to reach for her.  His daughter hung onto the animal and giggled.  “Daddy!  She doesn’t like you.  She likes me better.”

He was going to kill that Elf.  “Finduilas, sweetling, where are your Eam Greneleaf and your Eam Gimli?”

“Playing.”

There was a growl and a shout from the Great Hall.  Playing.  Right.  Faramir was briefly torn between leaving his daughter in the care of a wild animal (albeit an Elf-tamed one who seemed more interested in grooming her than eating her), and finding Legolas and explaining, very patiently and very sternly, exactly why This Was Never Going to Happen Again.

Before he could decide, said Elf leaped back into the room.  “Tolo, Bregolas!”

Another great cat, this one dun-coated and dark-muzzled, leapt into the room, almost bowling Legolas over.  “Ai!  You’re glad to see your Ada, aren’t you?  Shall we say hello to your sister?  Yes, lets!”

Faramir froze as Finduilas was suddenly wrapped in a wrestling bundle of two large panthers and an enthusiastic Elf.  He eventually managed to reach a hand in and drag her out, gaining a nice scratch wound in the process.  She was about to pout, when another figure entered the room.  “Eam Gimli!”

“Hello, little gem.  Have you been playing nice?”

She nodded.  “Yes, but I think Bregolas is not.  Look, he made Daddy bleed!  His hand is all red.”

“Thank you for noticing,” Faramir muttered.

Legolas turned quickly, looking concerned.  “What is this, then?”  He came over and examined Faramir’s hand.  “The wound is not deep, my friend, and it bleeds freely enough that I think it will not fester.  I apologise, though.  Clearly such a thing is unacceptable.”

“I am glad you see it that way,” Faramir replied, relieved.  Perhaps now Legolas would understand that large carnivorous animals were not appropriate play-mates for the children of Men.

“Indeed.  Bregolas, say sorry now.”  The Elf’s voice was that of a mother scolding a young child.  The paler of the two animals leapt up, nudged its great head against Faramir’s side (and no, it was not cute.  Absolutely not), and then licked.  Licked the wound from top to bottom while Legolas beamed like a proud parent.  Nimcarch apparently thought this to be a wonderful game, as she decided to join in, leaping up with both paws onto Faramir (claws thankfully withheld), and licking at face and neck, purring all the while.

“Daddy, look!  They do like you after all!”

-----

“Dyslic, ungleaw, awyrgedlic, earmlic æglæca!  Faramir, how could you!  Did we or did we not have this discussion?”

“We did, dear.”

“And did we or did we not decide that having these Elf-bred fiends of animals in the house was a bad idea?”

“We did, dear.  But look!”  Faramir lifted Pigen up with some difficulty.  “How could you say no to that face?”

Éowyn gave the panther-cub a stern look, but had difficulty maintaining it.  “Are you talking about the animal, or Legolas’ sister?” she growled, but there was no real threat behind the comment.

“Just hold her.”

Éowyn sighed, and took the cub into her arms gently.  Little Pigen stirred from sleep, rolled over, licked at her neck gently, and then returned to slumber.  “I suppose she is rather sweet.  Why Pigen?”

“Apparently Finduilas enjoys her Sindarin lessons much more when an Elf is in charge.”

“Hmmph.  You don’t want a silly Elf-name, do you, little one?”  Faramir raised an eyebrow as Éowyn continued to speak to the sleeping cub.  “No, you want a nice Rohirric name.  We’ll call you Lytelwyn.” She raised her gaze to Faramir, as if daring him to challenge her decision.

“That’s a lovely name, dear.”

“Mother, mother!  You’ve had her for ages.  It’s our turn with Pigen now,” cried Finduilas.

“Pigen now!” echoed Boromir, clinging to his sister’s side.

“We’re calling her Lytelwyn now, dears, but all right.  Play nice now.”  She turned back to Faramir as the children dragged Pigen –sorry, Lytelwyn - off towards the fireplace for some rough-and-tumble games.  “Éomund has just been laid down to bed.  He should sleep for several hours yet.”

Faramir smiled.  “So we have some time to ourselves.  What with the, ah, Elf-bred fiend babysitting.”

She raised an eyebrow.  “Indeed.  I’m sure we’ll find some way of occupying that time, though.”

“Any ideas?”

“Well, I might have a few suggestions,” laughed Éowyn, “but you’ll have to catch me first!”

If any of the servants noted that the Princess was running in the general direction of the Master Bedroom, and did not seem overly worried if the Prince caught her, they wisely chose not to comment.

A/N:  Names, names, names.  What fun I have with names. Pigen is ‘Tiny’, and Lytelwyn is ‘Little Joy’.  Eowyn’s first line translates as ‘foolish, ignorant, abominable, wretched wretch.  Bregolas, other than rhyming amusingly with ‘Legolas’, means ‘Fierceness’ in Sindarin.  Translations/sources for other names are given in chapter one.  This is obviously set early-fourth age, and I assume since Faramir was ‘Prince of Ithilien’, then Éowyn’s title would have been ‘Princess’.

Tolo = come!  (imperative)