#this is also set in the Too Wise verse just FYI

[theemightypen]

“So. It was you.”

The sound of furious whispering is the first thing that greets her as she enters the royal chambers. The second thing she takes note of is the equal parts humorous and endearing sight of the heads of her three children bent together, clearly conspiring something.

“Olfete, Ecwen, Elfwine,” she says, smothering a smile when they all jump in surprise. “Dare I ask what mischief you’ve gotten into this time?”

Olfete cringes–as the oldest, and most level-headed, she’s most accustomed to to cleaning up the messes of her younger siblings, with varying success. Ecwen, on the other hand, offers her best, most guileless smile, which means something is afoot indeed. Elfwine, at only 3, hasn’t mastered lying in any capacity, so it’s he who answers her, saying, “We let Fi out of his stall!”

Fi is what poor Firefoot has been dubbed since Olfete began talking. He’s in his old age now, much more gentle than he had been in the height of the War, little as Eomer wants to admit it. All of her children are as fond of him as their father, but generally with more disastrous results.

“Ah,” Lothiriel says. The mess in the courtyard–an overturned watering trough, a very shaken groom, and a rather muddy warhorse–makes much more sense now. “I see.”

“It was Ecwen’s idea,” Olfete says. “I tried to stop her but–”

“Tattle tale!” Cries Ecwen. “You helped! I couldn’t lift the latch on my own anyways, Modor knows that–”

“I helped too!” Elfwine declares, proudly. “I gave Fi an apple!”

“Did you now,” Lothiriel murmurs. She drifts closer and Olfete–holding off a now wailing Ecwen with one arm–presents her free hand for inspection. It’s dirty, certainly, but there’s no other sign of injury. Ecwen’s hands are much the same and Elfwine’s are entirely clean, likely thanks to his smaller role of apple provider.

“And why did we decide to unleash Firefoot on Edoras?”

“Faeder said he needed a good walk soon!” Ecwen says, through tears. “We were just trying to help!”

“Who was to walk Firefoot once you’d released him?” She asks, gently lifting Ecwen to place her on her hip. She’s nearly too big for it now, at 6, especially with the way the new babe has set her stomach to swelling, but Lothiriel knows there is no better way to calm her middle child’s tears.

“W-well, I thought I could hold his bridle,” Olfete admits in a small voice. “I am 9 now, and Faeder said that is plenty old enough to manage my own horse–”

“Yes, your own horse,” Lothiriel agrees, giving a small sigh of relief as she settles into the chair nearest the fire. Her back hurts nearly all the time now, and it is not helped by Ecwen’s added weight. “A gelding or a yearling, swete, not Firefoot.”

“But Fi likes us!” Elfwine protests, coming to lay his head against her knee. “He does, Modor!”

“I know he does, lytling. But Firefoot is much bigger and stronger than you. It isn’t safe for the three of you to let him out by yourselves. You need to ask someone to help you take him for a ride. And you should always as your faeder’s permission first.”

She doesn’t miss the guilty look that crosses Olfete’s face, nor the nervous way Ecwen starts chewing on her fingernails.

Oh, Valar.

“Olfete, Ecwen,” she sighs, knowing the answer before she can truly formulate the question, “did you even ask Faeder if Firefoot needed a stretch?”

“He said so last night at dinner!” Ecwen protests. “He did–he was telling Uncle Eothain–”

Resisting the urge to groan, Lothiriel places a finger to Ecwen’s lips. “What have I told you about eavesdropping, dohtor?”

“That it’s not nice manners. But Faeder’s voice carries, Modor! I didn’t mean to hear it.”

“And he’s let us all ride Firefoot before,” Olfete adds. “Even Elfwine.”

“I held the reins!” adds Elfwine. “Faeder said I was good!”

That is news to Lothiriel, and certainly something she and Eomer would discuss in detail later. Once he’s been fully convinced of his beloved horse’s lack of injuries. And once likely all of their children have been suitably chastised.

“That is beside the point,” she says. “He was with you then. If Firefoot were to accidentally hurt one of you, or you to accidentally hurt him…”

She trails off, watching realization dawn on all three of their dear, sweet, troublesome faces.

“Faeder would be sad,” Elfwine says, lip quivering.

“No, Faeder would be furious,” Olfete amends, twisting her fair hair nervously.

“Nu uh!” Protests Ecwen, contrary to the last. “He’d be proud of us for being eorlingas and taking care of Firefoot–”

“So,” comes Eomer’s voice, cutting across their daughter’s argument, “It was you.”

All three children flinch. Elfwine tucks himself more securely against Lothiriel’s legs, Ecwen does her best to hide her face in Lothiriel’s hair, and Olfete–who takes after Lothiriel most, in all things–turns bright scarlet.

Lothiriel can’t say she blames them; Eomer looks anything other than happy. She shoots him a look–be gentle, they meant well–that has his shoulders relaxing, at least a little, as he crosses the room to stand in front of them. In nearly 12 years of marriage, Lothiriel doesn’t think she’s ever seen him so stern.

“Faeder,” Olfete starts, “it was my fault, I turned the latch–”

“Yes, under considerable duress,” he interrupts. “Or at least that’s how Heurbrand tells it.”

Herubrand, Master of the Stables since Eomer was a boy, would not lie. Lothiriel presses a hand to her temple. Ecwen, for all her good intentions, is trouble made flesh in many things. In contrast to Olfete’s natural responsibility and Elfwine’s innate sweetness, she is the source of most of the mischief the children get up to. It would seem now is no different.

Ecwen is crying again, tears dripping down on Lothiriel’s neck. “I just wanted to help,” she whispers miserably. “Modor says–”

“Modor says to help when you can and if you can, Ecwen. Firefoot is not your responsibility. You could have been hurt. Olfete could have been hurt. Elfwine could have been hurt. Poor Freca very nearly was hurt when he tried to get Firefoot back in his stall.”

“Is he alright?” Lothiriel asks. Freca has been a loyal groom for years and has a family to feed.

“He is fine, thank Bema,” Eomer confirms. “But you owe him an apology, Ecwen. And Firefoot as well. He is an old man, now, dohtor, and does not do well with surprises.”

Lothiriel purses her lips to keep from smiling. Eomer’s eyes narrow; he knows her too well to not easily read the he’s not the only one so clearly writ on her face.

“I will go with her,” Olfete offers. “I should apologize to them too; Ecwen could not have opened the door without my help.”

“Yes,” Eomer agrees. “And then to your rooms. You will eat dinner alone tonight.”

“B-but the spring festival starts tonight–!”

“It does. And you should have thought of that before disrupting Firefoot and the stables.”

Lothiriel presses a kiss to Ecwen’s forehead before gently depositing her on the floor. “You owe your faeder an apology too, swete. It was kindly meant, what you did, but not well done.”

Sniffling, Ecwen murmurs a muffled sorry into Eomer’s hip as she hugs him. Eomer sighs, stroking her hair once before giving her a nudge towards the door. He chucks Olfete under her chin as she passes him, earning a wobbly smile. She takes her younger sister’s hand and leads her back out into the hall.

“M’I in trouble too?” Asks Elfwine, finally removing his head from her leg.

“That depends on what your role in this was, my son.”

“He gave Firefoot an apple,” Lothiriel murmurs. Eomer pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Yes. You’ll stay with your sisters during dinner as well. And no more rides until the festival is over.”

Elfwine frowns. “But Faeder–”

“I agree,” Lothiriel interrupts. “And it is high time you had a nap, Elfwine.”

His frown only deepens, but he mercifully doesn’t cry even when one of Lothiriel’s ladies appears to take him to the nursery. Eomer sinks into the chair opposite her with a groan when the door closes behind them.

“Bema, what did we do to deserve this?”

“I certainly got up to my fair share of mischief as a child,” Lothiriel says, crossing the distance between them to run a soothing hand through his hair. “And with a sister like Eowyn, I suspect you did too.”

Eomer snorts. He wraps an arm around her waist and reaches for the swell of her stomach with his other hand. “And yet we have been mad enough to try for another.”

“I do not recall you complaining during the trying–”

He snorts again. “Well, I may be mad, but I am certainly not a fool.”

She’s still rolling her eyes, albeit fondly, when he rises to pull her into a kiss.

“And perhaps,” he says, pulling away just enough to press his forehead to hers, “this little one will be less trouble?”

It’s Lothiriel’s turn to laugh. “Do you truly think we could be so lucky?”

Eomer’s expression softens. “Do you not think we already are?”

And what can she do but kiss him for that?

(Five months later, when Mistress Deorwyn emerges from the birthing chamber to inform Eomer is father to twin boys, he cannot help that think that lucky may not be quite the right word.

“Well,” Lothiriel says, smiling despite her weariness, “they do call you ‘the blessed’, my love.”

“I did not think they meant it in terms of number of children,” Eomer grumbles–though he remains as helpless as ever at the sensation of one of the babe’s–their babes–tiny fingers wrapped around his own.)

[mittensmorgul]

Just read your post where you said that s4 went almost exactly how Chuck might have wanted it. Had a horrible thought: what if it was HIM that changed Dean's voicemail msg to Sam calling him a monster? That voicemail has always been a huge sticking point for me (does Sam even know Dean never said those things???), but now I guess I can blame it on Chuck instead of Ruby or Zach or whoever?

Heck... I mean, I think (ironically now, knowing how much Zachariah disdained Chuck when he didn’t know he was God all that time) it’s amusing to think about now that *we* know he’s God... I get a kick out of thinking now that all of Zachariah’s plots, all of his schemes, his direct threats to Chuck-- showing him visions of what will happen and telling Chuck to write, and even the role he cast for Chuck in his awful end!verse as the inventory manager of their camp with little other influence in anything-- were just so... petty in hindsight. Aah, if only he’d known the guy he disregarded so badly was actually the one writing all those idiotic plots for Zachariah. :’D

Full disclosure: I wrote about this in a fic once... and suggested in that fic that it was Zachariah who changed it, because he is just that petty. There’s also a strong argument that it could’ve been Ruby, but I never thought she had that kind of power. Then again, maybe she did, when push came to shove maybe she could’ve altered a voicemail. But we do know it is within the power of angels to do that, because Cas has done it before, too... in 4.15. Or I should say, we don’t know if it was a voicemail or just a phone call he faked as having come from Bobby, but either way it amounts to the same result-- voice faked over phone. The only demon we’ve ever seen do something similar was Asmodeus, and that was only because he’d stolen and been consuming Gabriel’s grace... But who knows what powers Ruby may have had at her disposal for doing her job to bring Sam to kill Lilith? So I’ve always figured it didn’t matter much one way or the other in canon, since plot-wise it was equally likely to have been BOTH of them. Especially since we would learn that Heaven and Hell were both working toward the same goals of starting the apocalypse.

So now, in a world where we KNOW Chuck was God, that he wasn’t just writing down his “visions” but actively guiding the story as he wrote, it’s incredibly amusing to imagine that neither Ruby nor Zachariah even knew about the altered message, and that Chuck had just changed it as a bit of insurance to make sure his plot came to fruition. Because that’s DEFINITELY something that’s within in his power. And he is just that manipulative.

Here begins the Shameless Self Promotion portion of this reply:

(for reference, I wrote about this in the sequel to Revenge of the Subtext, called These Are Words In A Script. I wrote that fic back in 2015, during the post s10 hellatus, just for reference purposes on where it fits into canon... but I’m still lol’ing at the title in this post 14.20 world, even though it’s a line from 6.15 The French Mistake, since TFM is the premise for what’s happening in this fic series-- zapped to a world where they’re actors, but a very DIFFERENT alternate universe than the one in 6.15 (Jensen and Misha are married in that universe, there is no explicit cockles anyway, even if they aren’t OUR Jensen and Misha)... and the follow up fic is Sam having to protect Jensen and Misha for three days while they’re trapped in the Supernatural Universe. This bit about Zachariah having changed the message was one of the things they told Sam about, that they believed he deserved to know about his own life. It’s in Chapter 5: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5437508)

(or read the whole series if you’re interested, it’s about a Supernatural convention Dean and Cas have to pretend to be their actors at in an alternate universe, so... fun if you enjoy SPN cons! :”D: https://archiveofourown.org/series/327056)

Funny enough, in that fic, one of the things they also tell Sam was that some folks seriously believed that Chuck had been God all along... because I wrote this before s11 began airing. The fic didn’t post until 12/17/2015 only because the original fic was a dcbb, so I couldn’t post a “sequel” to it until after the dcbb had completed that year. and heads up to anyone who does go read it? I wrote it, so the premise is destiel, but the fic is set in a completely different alternate universe, like the one from 6.15 but one where Misha did not get murdered by a rogue angel, and not *our* universe... just fyi...