Epilogue 2 – Carrying On the Tradition

Hirilian’s motherly ears caught the high pitched wail from the sitting room. She rushed in, drying her hands on her apron as she went. Little Éowyn sat upon the floor, her hand to her head, wailing as her small, chubby face turned crimson, the tears streaming down her cheeks.

Hirilian lifted her up and kissed the top of the blonde little head, murmuring comforting nonsense until the small whimpers died down. Once she had calmed her daughter sufficiently, she turned to the boys who stood awkwardly by. "Widfara, what happened?" she questioned her eldest son.

"She bumped her head again," the five year old explained matter-of-factly. He had never been very vocal, Hirilian reflected, Éowyn’s head still resting on her shoulder.

"She was trying to get up on that table like you said not to," Harding put it, pointing to the forbidden piece of furniture. "She slipped and hit her head on this corner," he added, indicating the offending edge.

Ever had Harding been more than willing to talk. At times his incessant chatter had worn on the nerves of his rather reticent older brother and Widfara had been know to take his younger brother to task about it. He was very mature for his age and was not above scolding his brother when he felt he had done something he should not have.

Éowyn squealed and wriggled in her mother’s grasp, pointing to the floor the while. Hirilian placed her youngest back on the floor. As she left the room, she was forced to step strategically over all the blocks left on the floor.

As she cooked, she reflected on her children. Widfara, the eldest, was the exact replica of his father in appearance, his golden hair and shining blue eyes resembling Ceorl’s so closely, it was somewhat uncanny at times. He had always been serious, quiet and respectful. She rarely ever had to scold him and he did small chores around the house without being told. Harding, on the other hand, had ever been a handful. The small boy looked like a blonde version of her own brother, Belecthor. Like his uncle, Harding was always into new things, finding new ways to worry his mother. She had no idea where the boy’s talkative habits sprung from, for her own family had never had any great talkers among their ranks and Ceorl wasn’t exactly an amazing conversationalist either.

She smiled as she thought of her baby. Éowyn looked exactly like her namesake. She even acted the same, much of the time. Hirilian had always been close to her grandmother, and therefore, was glad Ceorl allowed her to name their only daughter after the Shieldmaiden of Rohan.

Beleg sauntered into the kitchen, his tail wagging a greeting. She smiled down at him as he flopped sleepily down in the corner. The puppy Legolas had given to Athelwyn had grown tremendously, true to his lineage. When standing beside her, his shoulder reached her waist and his huge head could see over the kitchen table. His large feet dragged mud all over the house, but he was a big help with the kids. She had often found all three of them riding him around the house like a horse.

He rolled over on his back as she bent down to rub his belly. All four feet in the air, his eyes closed, his hind foot thumping on the ground, he most certainly did not look the part of a fierce guard dog, but he served that purpose well during the night. Several intruders had been warned off before they even reached the front stoop. She had heard his deep, menacing growl before and it was definitely a frightening sound. His deep chest rumbling like a thunderstorm and his long teeth shining in the moonlight he posed a grim threat to any who entered uninvited and unwelcome.

She rubbed his head and turned back to her cooking after wiping her hands on her apron. They were expecting Ceorl home for dinner and she wanted it to be ready when he arrived. She had learned quickly, as had Athelwyn before her, that Rohirric men had amazing appetites at the end of a long day.

She heard Athelwyn’s happy greeting in the other room. "Hello, mother," she called from the kitchen. Athelwyn made her way through the toys to the kitchen where she removed her cloak and sat down wearily in a chair with a sigh. She fondled Beleg’s ears as he placed himself dutifully by her side. "Ceorl is on his way home," Athelwyn announced.

"Where is he now?" Hirilian asked, stirring the stew with one hand and turning the meat with the other.

"His company was stabling their horses when I saw them."

"We shall give him a while longer," Hirilian said, sipping a bit of stew from the ladle; not quite ready yet. "He still must report to Uncle."

Éowyn wobbled into the kitchen, still unused to using her stubby little legs. The small girl had only just learned to walk, but her new found freedom was a burden upon her mother. No one ever knew where the two year old would be found next.

She toddle over and attempted to climb onto her grandmother’s lap. Smiling fondly, Athelwyn lifted her up and kissed her chubby face. The little girl giggled and clapped her hands, drool oozing down her chin. "Drama," she said loudly in her small voice.

"Yes, Grandma," Athelwyn said happily, wiping the baby’s chin with a rag. "What have you been doing today? Hm?" Éowyn giggled and babbled unintelligibly, her small arms waving in the air. "She is a joy," Athelwyn said, looking fondly over at her daughter-in-law. Ceorl had made the choice completely on his own, but she could not have picked a better wife for her only son.

"Yes, she is," Hirilian said, brushing a kiss on her daughter’s head as she passed. Éowyn, trying to discover who had kissed her, nearly fell backward from Athelwyn’s lap before righting herself and looking over her shoulder.

"Mama," she said flashing her mother a four-toothed smile. Commotion erupted in the sitting room. "Papa!" they heard Harding shout. Éowyn, hearing her father’s voice, called out loudly. "Papa, Papa!" she cried, wriggling in her grandmother’s grasp. Once she was placed on the floor, she reverted to the surer method of transportation and crawled swiftly from the room, gurgling the entire way. Hirilian followed her youngest into the next room. Finally sick of stepping around them, she pushed the blocks out of the way with her foot.

Ceorl caught his daughter up in his arms and held her high above his head. She laughed aloud, her small feet wriggling in the air, her hands covered in slobber as she tried to stick both of them in her mouth at once. As Ceorl lowered her to kiss her cheek she grabbed a handful of his golden hair and pulled, thrusting it in her mouth.

Laughing, but in pain, Ceorl gently removed his hair from her grasp and shifted her to the crook of his arm. With his free hand he pulled his wife to him and kissed her lightly.

"How are you, love?" he asked quietly in her ear as Harding, hanging on tightly to Ceorl’s leg, chattered noisily, Beleg panted loudly beside them and Éowyn squealed down at her eldest brother who stood silently yet happily by.

"I am fine, dearest. How was your trip?" she asked, leading him into the kitchen. On the way, Ceorl handed Éowyn to his mother with a filial kiss on the old woman’s brow. Harding, after riding his father’s leg to the kitchen, finally let go and ran to Beleg who had flopped down in the corner of the sitting room.

"Worth coming home to you," Ceorl said, his arm around his wife’s shoulder as she finished preparing dinner. Hirilian smiled happily as crying once more echoed in the other room. Let Athelwyn take care of it, she decided. Right now, she was just happy to have her husband at home once again.

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Thank you Éomer, Grey Wonderer, and dr_seuss_is_cool for your reviews. I’ve enjoyed writing this story, and I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it. I can only regret that it’s finally over. :)