“Come, Arwen, are you certain this is entirely necessary?”

Arwen twisted another lock of her husband’s hair back and pinned it into place.  “Are you telling me you have never had your hair done in elven fashion before?”

“No—simply not such an outrageous elven fashion.”

She made a show of dropping one of the elaborate gold hairpins that had been supplied for her purpose.  “I’ll have you know, my lord, that my own grandmother perfected this style in Doriath in the First Age, and it is only with her good graces that I am even permitted to copy it on you.  Were I you, I should not complain.”

Galadriel…  Aragorn added her name, and that of her husband, to the list of people that he would have to avoid at all costs.  He had the feeling that she would be the sort not to keep this a secr—suddenly his head sunk into his hands.  She would be sailing, wouldn’t she?

“Hold your head high, love, I won’t be able to do it right otherwise.”

Wearily he raised his head, trying to keep the litany of elven heroes of Ages past who suddenly could (and probably would) be privy to his mortification.

Merry and Pippin were currently ransacking several chests of jewels which had been pooled together for the sole purpose of the day’s event, trying to find the perfect match.

“Did you say the pins were also only here because of your grandmother’s good graces?”

“Yes.”

“Then why, in the name of Atalantë, did you not get whatever other jewelry matches with these pins and save me the time and delay of those two miscr—”

Pippin fixed Aragorn with an expression best associated with a pup on the business end of his master’s boot.

“—hobbits rummaging around and creating a mess?”

“In case you could not tell, the style itself is old, and so are the pins, which Lady Galadriel told me only last night she kept as a keepsake of Celeborn’s courtship.  That also means that if you lose any of them today, your life will be in considerable danger.”

“These come from Celeborn’s courtship?”  The King spluttered for a moment.  “Why?”

Arwen smiled a mystifying smile.  “I believe her words to me were, ‘Anything for a good cause.’”

Éowyn, in the meantime, was facing considerable difficulty with Faramir’s hair, even though all she was doing was gathering it together and placing it in a decorated net.  Not only did its silkiness make it impossible to keep together for more than a few seconds, but there was also the fact that he was trying purposely to keep her delayed.  Every few seconds, he twitched his head, sending all the hair flying from her grasp, whilst reciting love poetry to her.

“My love is like the golden dawn,

The herald of the”—twitch—“day,

Her hair it gleameth like the sun,

Her eyes a mist of grey…”

Merry looked up from his task with a bemused look.  Was he coming up with that on the spot?

Another twitch, Éowyn bit back a Rohirric curse.  Merry rose and walked over to her.  “I think I can help you a bit,” he said.

“How?  Unless you plan on getting it in that cursèd net—I don’t think you could hold him down.”

“No, it’s much better than that.”  Merry’s voice dropped down to a whisper.  “Kiss him.”

“What?”

“Kiss him for as long as you possibly can, and he’ll get short of breath.”

“You know this how?”

“The lasses back home wear bodices—not as tight as that… thing, but it still works.  It’s mighty fun when you get the hang of it.”  Éowyn gave him a dubious look; Merry, with a smug smile on his face, made his way back to the pile of necklaces he was sorting through.

“What did you tell her?” hissed Pippin.

Merry only grinned.  “Watch and see.”

Faramir was on his seventh quatrain when Éowyn finally decided to take action.

            “And when she smiles, ’tis like the—Mmf!”

            Aragorn was about to rise from his seat, but his wife detained him with her arm.  The kiss deepened, until it was certain that all decorum had been breached, and even Merry was a little concerned.  Finally Éowyn broke it off, panting from the effort as she rose from her knees.  Faramir took two breaths before falling unconscious on the chaise.

            “I would call that a success,” said Éowyn.  “Merry, hold up his head for me.”  Merry complied, and she scooped up her beloved’s hair and slid it into the net.  “Lawks,” said Merry.  No one had ever fainted for him before.

            As Éowyn walked briskly over to a nearby washstand for some smelling salts, Pippin looked at his cousin incredulously.  “How did you learn that trick?”

            Merry shrugged, setting aside the heavy sapphire necklace that he had finally decided on.  “Practice.”

            “You mean you were off kissing lasses in Buckland and you never told me?”

            “I never said it was more than one…”

            “Who?”

            “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

            “You…”

This interjection was echoed by Faramir, who had just come to after a particularly strong whiff of the salts.  He put a hand to his hair, only to find that it had been successfully captured.  “Of all the low-handed tactics…”

“Would you have preferred I subdue you otherwise?”

“We are not yet wed!” he hissed.

Arwen finished with the last strand of her husband’s hair.  “Meriadoc?  Peregrin?  Have you found the best matches yet?”

“Yes, my lady,” said Pippin.

“Very well.  We shall proceed with that, then… and afterwards, the cosmetics!”