Yours to Command

Fire

Fireboat, fireboat, carry my wishes across the sea.
To the bride and groom long life and healthy children,
Good fortune and love that lasts the test of time.
Fireboat, fireboat, carry my wishes across the sea.

(Traditional Gondorian wedding blessing)

***

Dotted with hundreds of flickering lights, the Anduin stretched before Éomer like a river of stars. Far away behind them in the west, the last lingering traces of the sun still painted the sky a lighter shade of blue, but here in Osgiliath night had fallen. A lot of the town still lay in ruins, but even in the dim, orange light of their torches they could see signs of the rebirth of the former capital of Gondor all around them: walls newly whitewashed, houses rebuilt, gardens carefully tended.

Along the banks of the river, people had gathered to launch their fireboats and the bridges were crowded with spectators leaning over the balustrades. The crowd was in a festive mood, and laughter, snatches of songs and music floated through the still night air. Huge bonfires had been erected along the way, emitting sparks and plumes of smoke, and already impromptu ring dances had formed around them. The whole area was packed with people, but seeing the triple banners of the tree and seven stars, the swan-prowed ship and the white horse, they soon made way. Faramir and Éowyn riding at the front were showered with good wishes, the Steward of Gondor being much beloved by the common folk.

Once they reached a large square fronting the Anduin, they dismounted, and leaving their horses in the care of some of Aragorn's men, made their way to the riverbank. Stone steps ran the whole length of it, leading down to where large flat rocks lay half submerged in the water. The Mûmakil Stones, Faramir had called them. Legend had it that many years ago a wizard had turned a host of the huge creatures into stone when they tried to attack Gondor.

His squire had remembered to bring along the carefully wrapped fireboats and Éomer now stopped to look for Lothíriel. He spotted her a little way off, being helped down the uneven steps by Amrothos, who had joined them on the way to Osgiliath.

But before he could call out to the princess, he found himself hailed by Lady Wilwarin. She gave him a winsome smile.

"Oh, King Éomer, would you give me a hand? These steps are a bit slippery."

He had no problems with his footing himself, but then he wore sturdy riding boots. Politely he offered her his arm, and clinging tightly to him, she managed the descent without any mishaps.

Her glance lingered on his empty hands. "You have no boat of your own?" she asked, offering him hers.

It took Éomer a moment to take in the import of her words, for he had been distracted by the sight of Lothíriel and her brother taking off their boots and placing them carefully on the lowest step of the stone stairs. What were they up to?

Lady Wilwarin still held out her fireboat. Lavishly decorated with tinsel, it sported no less than three masts, rigged out with small canvas sails.

Éomer motioned to where Oswyn stood patiently waiting, holding the two packages. "Thank you. But my squire has mine."

"Oh!" for an instant she seemed disconcerted, but Éomer had no time to ponder on this, for a little downstream he saw Lothíriel and Amrothos step out onto one of the boulders jutting into the river. It wobbled slightly and although they both laughed, he could not help worrying about Lothíriel's safety. Somehow her brother had not struck him as the most reliable of persons. Fortunately a quick look up the bank showed the familiar figure of his Marshall.

"Elfhelm!" he called. His voice carried easily over the noise of the crowd; a skill he had acquired on the battlefield.

The Marshall took the steps two at a time. "Éomer King?"