Posted: November 2004
Title: What Gamling Discovered
Author: Haleth
Type: FCS, FCHet
Characters: Legolas/Éomer, Gimli/Lothiriel
Rating: erm… PG-15? Euphemism, innuendo, supposition, descriptions of foreplay but no actual sex. You know, comedy.
Warning: Slash and het.
Many thanks to betas and wonderful reviewers: Sundew, Miranda Bell, Huan the Hound and Theresa Green (from whom I shamelessly stole the Shadowfax bit).
Summary: Why Legolas, Gimli and Éomer were left out at the end of ROTK. What Lothíriel talks about with her best friend. How Gamling, perhaps, is not as well-informed as he likes to think. But the real question is, who's the father?

*****

The halls and chambers of Edoras, built, rebuilt, and added to over the years, were full of secret passageways and hidden doors. Clever portals built into the woodwork so as to be invisible to the uninformed eye connected draughty corridors lined with thick tapestries, which told the history of the land and its people. Of all the residents of the capitol, Gamling knew the way through these passages better than any.

He had studied their layout from a young age, and had spent many an hour, when other children played and rode and mock-battled, memorizing the plan. His father, and his grandfather before him, had served the king of Rohan. Part of that service was the ability to slip quietly and swiftly from room to room, delivering messages, or retrieving information, whether or not the original possessor of the information was willing to part with it. Into almost any room in the sprawling complex of timber-framed buildings at the top of the city he could slip, unmarked, and he knew every route and short cut by heart.

It was not surprising that Gamling would, on occasion, stumble across a scene he did not particularly wish to witness, or hear something not meant for his or anyone's ears. He was, however, a scrupulously discreet man. He never revealed his vast store of knowledge, unless it concerned the security of his liege. And anything he did learn that was of no possible interest to the well being of the Riddermark, he was, for the most part, able to forget, or at least store away so securely it would never occur to him again unless, for some reason, it was required. Thus, he prided himself on being aware of the doings of the entire court, the intrigues and mysteries and scheming and indiscretions, yet, at the same time, he was not a gossip.

Thus, the current king, Éomer son of Éomund, while reluctant to ask for help of this nature, trusted Gamling enough to ask him to find out why his wife the lovely Queen Lothíriel had been somewhat distant of late. Gamling did not relish the idea of spying on the wife of his lord, and the queen of his people, but Éomer had all but ordered him to do so.

Her recent behaviour had been rather peculiar. In the last weeks, she had grown distant. She stared into the thin air at times, seemingly unaware of her surroundings. She sometimes neglected to thank others for their efforts on her behalf. She was less demonstrative with Éomer, in public and private.

(Gamling had, of course, noticed all this, with the exception of the cooling of her affections toward Éomer in private. He stared sharply at the ceiling when his lord revealed this information and strove to promptly forget it. It was not germane to the matter at hand.)

In any other royal, the slightly cool behaviour would have been deemed perfectly acceptable. Queen Lothíriel, however, was not most royalty. When she had first arrived at Edoras, the Lady had been more than polite and friendly to everyone. She had been gracious and charming to all at court, generous and kind to the servants, and unfailingly loving toward her husband. While she was not behaving in a rude or difficult manner, she was not being her usual self.

Therefore, he agreed to help, because if there were any way to ease whatever problem might be causing this change in behaviour, Éomer would be in a much better mood.

Gamling slid silently through many halls to the well-lit room he knew Lothíriel often used in the daytime hours. There she sat with her ladies in waiting, working on a new tapestry that would take its place in the Golden Hall when completed, a tableau detailing the final battle of the War of the Ring. The finest weavers in Rohan had already made the cloth, showing the Black Gate and field in foreground and the fires of Mount Doom erupting in the distance. The ladies gathered around the cloth every day to hand-stitch the figures of the warriors in battle atop the landscape.

On this day, only one other, the Lady Míran, who had travelled from Dol Amroth to live in this inland city, accompanied Lothíriel. The two ladies were, as Éomer had grumbled to Gamling on more than one occasion, "thick as thieves." If Lothíriel were to confide in anyone, it would surely be this woman.

Gamling inched his way around the room, in the dark, narrow space between the heavy wall hangings and the outer walls, to a place from which he could easily hear the conversation.

"…and then the gentleman climbed back out the way he came in, without so much as a fare-thee-well!"

"Oh, Míran, the stories you tell!" Lothíriel giggled.

"It's true, my lady, it happened not three nights ago. The Lady Théresyn told me so herself."

"But how did she know he was the one who sent it to her?"

"Why, by the scent, of course!"

Lothíriel tittered girlishly and continued with her work.

Gamling was confused. The queen seemed quite herself, relaxed and happy, chatting with her friend. There was no trace of melancholy or aloofness.

"Oh, that is looking wonderful," the Lady Míran said, peering over at the patch of tapestry Lothíriel was embroidering. "It's a marvellous likeness. The texture is exquisite, and that colour – wherever did you find it?"

"I had the wool custom-dyed to match a lock of his hair."

"It's so rich. So realistic looking. Is his beard really as soft as it looks?"

Gamling felt his face redden.

"Softer!"

Gamling did not wish to hear intimate details about his liege.

"Especially when he rubs it across my bare breasts."

Gamling especially did not need to know that detail.

"Ooh, it must be lovely. And his hair is so long too."

"Hmm, I love to take it out of its binding and brush it for him. Then he brushes my hair and we spend the night rubbing it all over each other."

Gamling began to inch his way back the way he'd come. His task had been to overhear what might be making the queen unhappy, not to learn the intimate details of those things that did make her happy.

"Is the height difference a difficulty?"

Height difference? King Éomer was tall, but not that tall. It was not as if Lothíriel were Hobbit-sized. Her Elven blood had graced her with a decent height.

"What is that naughty thing the boys used to say? Ah, yes, ‘everyone is the same height when they are lying down'."

"My lady! Where did you hear such a thing?"

"Why, from my cousins, of course. They loved to say rude, shocking things when they visited. Terrible boys, they were. Grew up to be fine men, though. Until…"

"Oh, Lothíriel, don't be sad. Don't think on Boromir too much. I know, it's a terrible sadness to lose your first love, but he did die valiantly for the greater cause, and now you have this new home and new love."

Boromir? Gamling remembered the son of the steward. He had been well-loved in Rohan.

Evidently, he'd been well-loved in Dol Amroth as well.

Lothíriel sighed. "It's true. He was a hero, and I shall honour his memory. We could put some token in the tapestry, the horn of Gondor in the corner there, perhaps."

"We'll find a way to work it into the design."

Gamling considered this information. Boromir had died quite some time ago. He doubted Lothíriel's grief for her first love could be the cause of her sudden moods.

"Are you sure about the armour?"

"Of course. I've taken it off him enough times." This was said with a saucy laugh. The lady was definitely not suffering from grief for a lost love.

"He looks so splendid. And fierce."

"Hmm, brave and fierce in battle."

Gamling was pleased to hear this. He was rather proud of his king; Éomer was a formidable warrior.

The lady Míran bent over her work and asked casually, perhaps a little too casually, "And when he is off the battlefield, is he so fierce then?"

Goodness! Gamling had to get out of there immediately! But Lothíriel had risen and was surveying her work from the near side of the stretched tapestry, which brought her to within inches of Gamling's current position behind a hanging depicting the coronation of Helm Hammerhand, who had not, in fact, been known as Helm ‘Hammerhand' at the time of his coronation. Gamling concentrated on that historical fact in an attempt to ignore the conversation on the other side of the tapestry, since sticking his fingers in his ears and humming loudly was not an option if he wished to remain hidden.

"Not at all," Lothíriel murmured. "He is gentle as a lamb. That's why he is so dear to me. And why we can keep at it all night long."

The other woman made an appreciative noise.

Gamling wished he could sink into the floorboards.

"He touches me as if I were something precious. ‘A sparkling gem', he calls me. He strokes me with care, always mindful of his hands being too rough for my tender skin. He kisses with passion, but never too forcefully, and he kisses me everywhere, cherishing every inch. And when he kisses me there…"

There was a torrent of giggles from the other side of the tapestry.

"Oh, he does it for hours! I save the ‘embroidery' for my portrait of him – I am not exaggerating! He licks and kisses and pets me endlessly until I've reached my peak dozens of times before he ever takes his pleasure from me. I am always well-prepared for him when the time comes. Which is good, for he is…" there was a pause in which Gamling could imagine a pretty blush on pale cheeks, "…generously endowed."

Gamling blanched.

"You lucky girl. Imagine a lover who's well-endowed and considerate."

Gamling wanted to imagine no such thing.

"Oh, my, how the time flies. We should be getting ready for dinner."

"Are you sure you're feeling up for dinner?"

"Of course. I've only been feeling queasy in the morning. The midwife said that's to be expected, especially this early on. By this time of the day, I'm ravenous. We'd best hurry along. Éomer has been picky about promptness, lately."

"I've noticed that. I wonder what's wrong. He has been acting rather peculiar lately…"

Lady Míran's voice trailed off as the two women left the room.

Gamling slid out from between the tapestry and the wall. Well, that would explain it. Her distractedness. Moodiness. Coolness toward her husband. The lady was expecting. That would be enough to make anyone act oddly.

He looked down at the tapestry, where it was stretched over a wooden frame. There, in the midst of a battle, was Lothíriel's needle left mid-stitch in the helmet of a warrior who was indeed fighting ferociously. His eyes shone with the intensity of his battle lust, his hands gripped his weapon aggressively, and the strength in his limbs was evident even with the stitching only half-completed.

But the eyes were almost black brown, not the hazel of the king's eyes. And the weapon was an axe, not a sword or lance. And the limbs were a good deal shorter, though no less brawny, than Éomer's.

Gamling stared down into the face of Gimli the Dwarf and felt his head begin to ache.

Would he have to be the one to tell his lord and king that his wife was distracted and cool towards him because she was carrying on a mad, passionate love affair? With a Dwarf?

And if she were carrying on an affair with the Dwarf, then that would make the child…

Éomer entered the room at that moment. "Ah, Gamling. I thought I might find you here. Well, what have you discovered?"

Gamling moved his body so it blocked the king's view of the tapestry.

"I, um, nothing really, sire."

"Come now, Gamling. I know you were listening to the ladies. What were they talking of? And whatever are you hiding? Oh!"

Eomer stared down at the lovingly-stitched figure of the Dwarf.

Gamling wasn't sure what to say, but he could see that Éomer already knew. He looked a bit resigned, but not at all upset or surprised.

"Yes, well, that is a problem isn't it?"

Gamling nodded cautiously. Éomer was taking this whole thing a little too calmly.

"Well, there's nothing for it. We'll have to hire someone, won't we?"

"Sire?" Gamling wondered what sort of person Éomer wished to hire. An assassin, perhaps?

"Yes, we'll have to find someone who knows exactly what they're doing. Someone accurate and precise, and efficient."

All good qualities in an assassin, Gamling had to agree.

"I mean, this won't do at all. We can't have Gimli looking better than everyone else on the tapestry. It's supposed to be depicting the history of Rohan, not Lothíriel's bloody boyfriend. Tell you what, Gamling. Find out who the best embroideress is in the city and we'll pay her to come in at night to add in a few extra Éorlingas. Lothíriel will never notice."

"Sire?"

"I've already asked Míran to help. She's agreed to make sure I have a central place on the tapestry. I suppose," he gestured toward a large space in which the form of a horse and rider was roughly basted, "that will eventually be me.

Éomer looked to the upper right edge of the battlefield and saw a neatly stitched and exquisitely detailed rendering of a young man from the Eastfold. Robb, Éomer thought his name was. The lady Míran had a thing for the young and well-muscled, it appeared.

"Perhaps we'd best hire someone to do my portrait as well. It's bad enough having Lothíriel's boyfriend get all the attention without some young upstart being the other main attraction."

Gamling nodded with what he hoped was the appropriate level of obsequiousness.

"It's not as if I don't appreciate the contribution of every warrior at the battle, but this is supposed to be an official record of our history. I'm not a braggart, but I am the king. I was at the battle and fought as heroically as anyone else did. Yes, we'll have to get a seamstress to make sure I'm rendered in as much detail as the Dwarf."

Gamling nodded. How else could he respond?

"Silly woman," Éomer muttered. "She has no idea how to conduct an affair with discretion. After all, you don't see me putting up monuments to the beauty and heroism of Legolas, do you? I'm a bit more judicious than that."

Gamling was dumbstruck. Confounded. Flabbergasted. His jaw swung down uselessly for a few seconds. "Legolas, sire?"

Éomer looked at Gamling. "Yes, Legolas… honestly, Gamling. I thought you were supposed to know everything that was going on in Edoras!"

Gamling smiled weakly. Queen Lothíriel and Gimli son of Gloin. King Éomer and Legolas of Ithilien, late of Mirkwood.

Clearly, the world had entered a brand new age after the fall of Sauron.

"Well, have you found out what's wrong with her, or do you think she's merely mooning over her Dwarf?"

Gamling stuttered for a few seconds. "I, um… not sure… I belief that might be it, sire. She was spending a lot of time discussing his, er, qualities."

Éomer rolled his eyes. "Oh, for the love of… don't you listen to her twaddle, Gamling! I may not be as well endowed as Gimli but face the facts – no one is. Except for another Dwarf, of course… and Shadowfax. But I pleasure her every single time!"

Gamling nodded in that special way that aides to the king are taught to nod. "Of course, sire. I have no doubt of it. It's simply that she seems, well, quite taken with him." And taken by him. And...

Oh, what Gamling would have given to have not heard what he had heard moments before!

"Yes. Well. I can't very well expect her to not enjoy her lover, can I? After all, I get so much enjoyment from mine"

Gamling was sure he did not want to hear any more.

"And Legolas is not without his own charms. Beautiful, graceful, and endowed not too shabbily, I might add."

Gamling seriously considered sticking his fingers in his ears and humming loudly.

"See what you can do to hire someone to fix up this tapestry a bit. I'd better get to dinner."

"Yes, sire," Gamling bowed low.

After Éomer left, Gamling took one last look at the vivid image of the Dwarf on the tapestry. And froze. There, beneath the intricately plaited, custom-dyed beard, under the layers of carefully stitched chain mail and tunic, he could see a telltale bulge – not overtly noticeable, but there if one searched for it. Evidence of the endowment of the Dwarf.

Gamling left the room in search of a good needleworker.

And a stiff drink.

*****

THE END

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