It had been years since the Golden Hall had been so full. There were people crowded into every possible nook and cranny. The tables were piled high with food and a great pig was roasting over the central hearth. The walls were draped with the finest tapestries and flags, each bearing the dancing White Horse or gleaming Sun of the Mark while torches bathed the hall in warm light. The air was thick with the scent of bodies, smoke and roasting meat. Everywhere, everyone held cups and tankards of ale, each and every one of them focused on the King and his niece.

Hilde sat among the crowd gathered for the Victory Feast in Meduseld, one of the few whose eyes kept darting elsewhere. Éomer stood next to Théoden, for once not wearing his armour, but a simple green and brown leather tunic. Hilde wondered at the faintly unsettled look in his eyes, though his stance and face betrayed nothing; it still had not completely sunk in that he was to be Rohan's next King, and he chafed a little at taking what he still considered to be Théodred's place. Every now and then she would meet his gaze, a smile coming to her lips as his eyes latched onto hers.

Thus far, only Haleth and Éowyn knew of their pledge; neither Hilde nor Éomer could bear to keep their decision from their siblings. As for everyone else, they wanted to wait until after the feast to share the news. The feast was for the memory of the dead and for the living to celebrate victory. They had no desire to diminish that.

At the head of the hall, Éowyn was climbing the steps of the dais. Kneeling, she offered the goblet she held to the King before moving to stand on his other side. His face somber, Théoden looked down into the goblet in his hands. Then, with a deep breath he raised his eyes, surveying those assembled as he held the goblet out before him. Everyone in the hall who was sitting rose to their feet.

"Tonight we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country," he said, the faintest of wavers colouring his tone with sorrow. Hilde fought back her own tide of sorrow that threatened as the King raised his goblet in toast. Forcing a deep breath into her lungs, Hilde raised hers as everyone else in the Hall did the same. Glancing beside her, she met Haleth's eyes. His dark gaze held the same flicker of grief and haze of memory she was sure her own did. Up on the dais, the King continued, his voice rising. "Hail the victorious dead!"

As one, the entire Hall responded, male and female voices exclaiming together before cups were lifted to lips and everyone drank heartily. Then, with a roar of clattering tableware and grinding benches and chairs, the occupants of the Hall began their feast. Hilde couldn't help but smile; in Rohan somber remembrance always gave way to near riotous celebration, and she loved it. The people of her country had always believed that sorrow must always give way to, and indeed merited, merrymaking. Loss always made life look sweeter.

Before long instruments were broken out and songs began chorusing loudly around the hall, clashing and joining in ways that never managed to be unpleasant. Laughter and shouts echoed across tables and everywhere ale flowed freely. For the first part of the feast, Hilde stayed with Haleth, sitting near him and a few of the other families of Meduseld. There had been few words to describe the relief Hilde had felt when she learned a handful of the boys of Meduseld had survived the battle of the Hornburg; she had feared her brother would be alone among his friends to have survived. So eventually she left the boys—and handful of girls, she noticed wryly—to themselves, all laughing again as she had feared they couldn't. A few watchful mothers and the odd father remained nearby, one giving Hilde an amused nod of reassurance as he caught Hilde repeatedly glancing back toward her little brother. Finally laughing quietly at her own surge of protectiveness, she moved off into the crowd, intent on finding her own companions, claiming a fresh mug of ale as she went.

She finally began edging toward a particularly large gathering near the southwest corner of the Hall, where some particularly loud carousing was growing. As she neared, the particular shouts and cheers made her realize that a drinking game had broken out. As she jostled her way through the gathered men and women toward the centre of the gathering, she discovered with no small amount of amusement that it was between the dwarf and the elf. Already a small pile of tankards had begun collecting before the two companions, Gimli enthusiastically throwing himself into the contest while the elf was somehow patiently matching him cup for cup. She couldn't help but smile widely when she caught Éomer's eye where he leaned against the ale cask; he was overseeing the contest, handing the elf and the dwarf full cups as fast as they were emptying them. Judging by the way his eyes twinkled at her, and the near empty cup in his hand, her horselord had already had a couple himself.

Even when he turned back to the cask, handing the dwarf yet another cup, her eyes stayed on him. She couldn't help but watch him appreciatively; he was a fine specimen of a man, well muscled and strong with dark blond hair that gleamed like burnished gold in the low light. The simple cut of his tunic somehow only emphasized his height and the broadness of his shoulders, while the colour intensified the dark green eyes that made her breath catch. More than that he was a good man. He was bold, fierce and true like many men of Rohan—though perhaps not so merry as many upon first meeting him—with a due pride that came from being a Marshal of the Mark and one of their land's greatest fighters. But beneath that was a man with a kind and generous spirit, who loved his sister and his uncle dearly, and a man who looked on her with tenderness, admiration and respect. Her heart fluttered like a young girl's when she realized with a flash of true understanding that she was actually going to marry this man.

And she was not the only one eyeing the King's nephew appreciatively. Many of the young women scattered through the crowd were watching Éomer with equal admiration, and every now and then one would try her luck, edging forward with a coy glance, a seductive touch or an enticing murmur. But every time one of them tried, Éomer brushed them off, barely seeming to notice their advances. That pleased Hilde to no end...but that didn't stop the jealous urge to teach them not to make moves on her man from heating the blood in her veins.

As she watched the game, an arm snaked its way around her waist, pulling her down into a waiting lap. A flicker of annoyance surfaced in her. Instantly Hilde was ready to fend off the amorous advance—she had already fended of a few on her way over to where the game was being held—and deftly twisted out of the man's arms, before dumping what ale remained in her cup over his head when he tried to pull her back to him. A loud chorus of laughter rang around her as she twitched her blue skirts out of his grasping fingers. Glancing back over at her betrothed she felt a pleased blush rising to her cheeks. As the rider had grabbed at her, Éomer's face had darkened and he took an unconscious and aggressive step forward. Now, as she flicked the spilled drops of ale from her fingers, his expression had cleared, one of pride surfacing on his features as he laughed along with the others around them. His eyes dancing with mirth and pride, he filled another cup, this time handing it to her. His gaze didn't leave hers as she accepted it, a grin playing about her own lips as she took a long drink. She'd had a fair bit to drink already, and the room was starting to glow.

"Aarrr! It's to dwarves that go swimming with little hairy women, eh-ha," Gimli's gruff, and very drunk, laugh sounded amid boisterous laughter, followed by a loud belch that invariably drew cheers from some of the equally drunk men who were gathered around him. It was enough to break the spell growing between the shieldmaiden and the horselord as their gazes had locked. Hilde couldn't help but laugh along with the rowdy onlookers as Gimli eagerly reached for another cup. The dwarf was a favourite among the crowd, but though Hilde was rooting for him herself, she couldn't help but think the elf was going to win. He seemed just as calm and poised as ever.

All eyes were suddenly on Legolas as he hesitated in reaching for his next cup, looking at his fingers in troubled wonder.

"I feel something, a slight tingle in my fingers," he said quietly. Across from him Éomer's eyebrows rose probingly, his expression echoing the bewilderment around them; Hilde was desperately trying to stifle her laughter. The elf glanced between Éomer and Gimli, his expression one of deep concern. "I think it's affecting me." Beside him Gimli rumbled with drunken amusement.

"What did I say," he slurred, drawing more laughs, "He can't hold his liq..." The entire crowd positively howled as the dwarf's eyes crossed before he keeled over completely. With the most amusingly mild look of surprise, Legolas' gaze shifted from his unconscious friend over to Éomer, who was himself stifling his laughter.

"Game over," the elf shrugged, the barest hint of a smile coming to his features. Of course, that only sparked more uproarious laughter before the crowd began to move on. Unfortunately, no matter how she tried, Hilde somehow got dragged along with the crowd, losing sight of Éomer where he and the elf were picking up the dwarf from where he had fallen. Somewhere along the way she had lost her nearly empty cup.

A few tables over, the Halflings that had been retrieved from Isengard were rousing the crowd with a high-spirited song and dance, drawing the crowd from the drinking game. Hilde had never seen a Shireling before Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took had accompanied the King's party back from Saruman's fortress. In fact, though she had heard of them in tales, she wasn't entirely sure she had even believed they were a real people. But, like everyone else, upon meeting them she had liked them almost immediately. They were such endearingly good-natured little folk, and were almost impossibly lively. It wasn't long before she was joining everyone else in clapping along with their energetic tune.

She was enjoying herself so much that she almost didn't immediately notice when someone grabbed her arm, pulling her over to one of the more shadowed corners before falling back onto an empty chair, drawing her into his lap as he went. Grumbling with exasperation, she struggled for a moment before she realized just whom she was being pulled up against. With a smile and a lightly annoyed swat she settled herself on Éomer's knee, her own arms finding their way around his neck.

"You are lucky I lost my mug of ale, horse-master. Or you would be covered in it right now." Éomer laughed, holding the cup he held in his hand teasingly before her before taking a slow, taunting drink. Of course she played along, grabbing at the cup, giggling a little when some of the dark brew sloshed over the edge. He was too fast though, pulling it out of her reach. What he didn't expect was for her to lean forward and place a hard kiss on his lips. Thus distracted, she easily snatched the cup from his fingers, pulling away to drink with a triumphant laugh.

"That was not very nice, Hilde," he chuckled, reaching to retrieve it, but this time she was the one snatching it back before he could grab it, grinning wickedly. His eyes darkened as she teased him by taking another drink from his stolen mug, his hold on her waist tightening. Her breath hitched. Before she knew it his hand was fisted in her hair, his mouth was on hers and she was hungrily kissing him back, her own fingers tangling themselves in his hair as she pressed herself closer.

The cup of ale was quickly forgotten, falling to the floor with a dull thud, its remaining contents sloshing over the floor.

***

The Hall was nearly empty as the King stood in conference with Éomer, Gandalf, Aragorn and the others the morning after the Victory Feast. Hilde knew she wasn't supposed to be eavesdropping in such a manner, but she was curious what was going on.

It had been early when Théoden himself had woken Éomer, insisting that he come to the Hall at once. That it was something important went unsaid; he hadn't even spared Hilde a glance where she lay tucked against Éomer's side. As the king strode out of his nephew's room she had met Éomer's gaze with concern; that the Marshal was as startled at the King's behavior as she was was clearly written in his eyes. He hadn't wasted a moment. As soon as he was dressed he had left her with a kiss, urging her to go back to sleep saying that it was likely nothing. Hilde had wanted to believe him, but he was barely gone before she was dressing herself, following him to the Main Hall, stepping over sleeping bodies as she went; it seemed almost every bit of floor space was taken after the revels of the night before. He shot her a disapproving look when he caught sight of her behind him, but said nothing beyond a warning to stay out of sight.

In the Hall, Gandalf was already speaking quietly to the King and the others. Before she and Éomer had even reached it they could just make out his voice. With a gentle squeeze of her fingers, Éomer stepped around the corner, joining his uncle. Hilde waited a moment before moving forward herself, peeking around the column in whose shadow she hid.

"Sauron moves to strike the city of Minas Tirith. His defeat at Helm's Deep showed our enemy one thing. He knows the Heir of Elendil has come forth," Hilde frowned for an instant at the wizard's words, something niggling at her memory as Gandalf nodded toward Lord Aragorn. "Men are not as weak as he supposed. There is courage still; strength enough, perhaps, to challenge him. Sauron fears this. He will not risk the peoples of Middle Earth uniting under one banner. He will raze Minas Tirith to the ground before he sees a King return to the throne of men." Hilde had to quickly stifle a gasp at what Gandalf said sank in, her eyes widening in shock not just at the new threat against Gondor.

The Heir of Elendil, the Heir to the Throne of Gondor. Aragorn was the Heir to Gondor's Throne. No one else seemed surprised by the wizard's statement; they must all have known already. She caught sight of Éomer glancing in her direction for the briefest of moments from where he stood near Théoden. A part of her wondered why he hadn't told her, but then common sense took over; of course he wouldn't have. If Aragorn's lineage was meant to be general knowledge, he would have been introduced to all as the Heir of Elendil. No. It had not been Éomer's secret to tell, Hilde concluded. Out in the Hall Gandalf had turned to Théoden.

"If the beacons of Gondor are lit Rohan must be ready for war." Hilde's heart began to thrum in her chest. As much as she had hoped their part in this war was over, Hilde had known in her heart that such a thing was impossible. She found herself unconsciously nodding in agreement with the wizard; it was the right thing to do. She could see in the way Éomer straightened that he accepted such a reality himself. Théoden turned, fixing the White Wizard with a questioning glance. Something Hilde didn't like swirled in his eyes as he did; bitterness.

"Tell me, why should we ride to the aid of those who did not come to ours? What do we owe Gondor?" Hilde's jaw dropped. At first she thought she had heard wrong. Could he have really just said that? Around the King the others watched him with similar disbelief, save the wizard; Gandalf watched Théoden with a mixture of irritation and disappointment. The casual resentment in the King's tone stunned her. She couldn't listen anymore, and stumbled away from the Hall.    

A/N: Thanks for reading!

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