Leaving the stables Éomer trailed a step or two behind his older cousin, reluctant to face again this noisy echoing stone city.  Their trip from the gates halfway around the First Circle to these stables had been enough for him.  The towering white walls shut out the world he had known until now, a world of hills and dales, of grass, tree and open sky – and not even market day at Edoras could boast such a crowd.

As Éomer hurried a little to keep Théodred’s green jerkin in sight, waves of discordant voices struck his ears painfully and the miserable bareness of the stone houses and streets made him feel trapped.  The lack of horses – he even saw people pulling small wains! – completed his sense of alienness.  He had left Edoras only a few days earlier, almost swollen with pride at his new status as a man and filled with joy at both the thought of a trip in his big cousin’s company and at seeing the sights of Minas Tirith.  Now, overwhelmed by the noise and strangeness, he shivered a little and thought miserably of home as, hunching his shoulders under his new riding cloak, he ploughed on, grimly focussing on Théodred’s familiar form in front of him.  He didn’t hear the loud greeting or see the dark-haired man that bounded down from a road rising up from their circle.  He became aware of him only when he brought Théodred to a sudden halt by embracing him – sending Éomer crashing into his back.  Even as he struggled to steady himself, a black and silver-clad arm reached to clasp his shoulder and he was greeted by a smile that warmed like a flaring fire on a bitter winter’s night.

“So this is Éomer?  Welcome to the White City, lad!”

Théodred, with a friendly cuff on the shoulder for his clumsiness, stepped away from between them.  Through a flush of embarrassment  Éomer  took in a man dressed richly in Gondor’s silver and black, tall – even yet an inch or two above him and a full hand’s height above Théodred  – and fair of face.  A long silver sword hung at his side, in a scabbard delicately etched with a silver tree and seven shining stars and a silver collar around his neck bore a large white gem.  Almost Éomer could have dismissed him as a court dandy - the sort that some of the Riders spoke contemptuously of as ‘Gondorian Gentlemen’ - if it wasn’t for the solidly muscled frame that spoke of strength, just as the fire-bright eyes spoke of spirit.  The hands that held his shoulder and arm were as calloused and strong as any to be found among the Riders of Rohan and the hilt of the elegantly-housed sword was rubbed with use.

Watching with amusement his pink-cheeked cousin’s obvious admiration Théodred announced with elaborate courtesy,

“Éomer, allow me to present Boromir, son of Denethor,  High Warden of the White Tower, 27^th Steward of Gondor to be, Captain-General of the mighty Gondor Army –”

Théodred broke off to duck a punch from Boromir.  He grinned as he stepped back.

“Well, we don’t have such pretty princes in Rohan!  And I did bring my cousin here to see all of the sights.”

Boromir shook his head and sighed in mock exasperation before addressing Éomer. 

“And you’ve had to put up with his company alone for a week?  I pity you, Éomer, I really do – the more often I have had to put up with this rustic’s company the more I understand why the women of Rohan prefer horses.”

Éomer guffawed, as Théodred opined that he would have worn his best cloak if he had realised that Boromir was going to be considering him as a possible bedmate and Boromir shot back a reply crude enough to make a Rider blush.  This was not one of the grave, scholarly Gondorians he had feared to meet!  True enough Boromir’s rich clothing, dark colouring and sharp-edged Westron marked him as strange but in every other way he seemed as bold and gay as a true son of Eorl.  Perhaps even the endless noise of this barren stone city was going to be bearable.

Théodred clasped Boromir’s arm again and grinned at his friend.

“What of your baby brother?  Are we to see him?”

Boromir’s laughter rang out.  “Faramir?  He’d better not hear you call him that!  He’s three and twenty now – and a Captain these last six months in Ithilien.”

Théodred grimaced unrepentantly.  “Well, he cannot have been more than ten or eleven when I saw him last – when I came for that council meeting.  He was away with your uncle when Father and I came in 2999, I think.  At any rate, it seems I won’t see him this time either.”

“No, he is at home – he has been ill.  Caught some sort of aguish fever and was brought home six weeks ago…”

Boromir fell silent and glancing from one to the other Éomer saw that Théodred looked concerned; indeed, even he could tell that the quiet unhappiness and worry on Boromir’s face was foreign to him.  

“If he is unwell you must be wishing us to the abyss… there’s no need for us to bother you any further – there are inns a plenty we could stay in,” Théodred said quietly.

“Oh no, you don’t get out of it that easily!”  Boromir said with a sudden return of good humour.  “You dine with the Steward at eight.  Faramir’s well enough now – just easily tired.  I would that he had come down to meet you, but I couldn’t stir him from his book… he’s still as book crazy as ever; you two should get along well.”

“Well, if we dine at eight then we’d better make some haste – or for once My Lord Denethor will be right and we will smell of horse.”

A glance at the sky confirmed the truth in that and, catching up one of their bags, Boromir began to lead them up through the circles of the city.  Éomer walked silently on the far side of his cousin, content to listen as Boromir pointed out inns they must visit and exchanged scraps of gossip with Théodred about matters of court. 

As they waited for a heavily laden wain to squeeze past them, Théodred returned to the subject of Faramir.

“It should work rather well,” he mused, “if Faramir loves books and reading I’ll finally get the guide to your libraries I’ve always wanted – and you can entertain this heathen warrior who thinks books are only good for archery practise.”

“I was eight!”  Éomer said indignantly as Boromir laughed.

“I would advise you to not try that on any of Faramir’s books – for he will surely use you for target practise if you do.”  He sobered.  ‘Yes, Théodred, I daresay he will be pleased to show you his precious libraries – though I would fain see him do something other than read.  He seems little interested in anything else these days…  I wonder sometimes if he does not wish to return to Ithilien.”

“Is he not a soldier?” ventured Éomer.

“Yes, though perhaps a reluctant one.”

Éomer scowled a little in thought, resenting this Faramir who brought such worried gravity to Boromir’s face.

“Then it should be his duty to try to return to service as soon as possible.”

“Éomer!” Théodred rounded on him.  “Time enough to speak of a soldier’s duty when you have stood against something more fearful than half a handful of wargs!  If you have nothing better to say than that you can hold your tongue.”

Éomer shrank in the face of his cousin’s fury, suddenly  looking – and feeling – the fifteen year old boy he was, no matter how well grown or armed.  Since he’d come to live at the Golden Hall his thirteen year older cousin had been mentor, playmate and hero – but it was the look on Boromir’s face which made him apologise in a voice that teetered on the edge of breaking.

It was several moments before Boromir replied, but when he did the dangerous look had faded from his face.

“Faramir needs no-one to teach him about duty – and your cousin is right, you would do well to not speak of what you have not experienced.”

“Indeed,” said Théodred grimly.

Boromir shook his head.  “Leave it, Théodred.  He is just a child who does not understand what he is suggesting.  I should not have spoken my thoughts so.”

As they continued up the hill, Éomer let himself slip back until he trailed the older two by a dozen ells.  Not even the gradual appearance of the occasional garden or the opening up of views over the lush river plain could cheer him.  Boromir would never forgive him – indeed even Théodred would probably never forgive him, he thought as he walked along in miserable silence. 

They waited for him, though, at the entrance to the Citadel tunnel; the tall figure elegant in his black and silver and the smaller as warm and comforting as a hearth fire in his worn riding clothes.

“Come on,” said Théodred, “and try not to behave like a son of a Wose in future.”

Éomer nodded, ashamed.

“Boromir says we have time to go and seek Faramir in the Steward’s gardens before we must bathe and dress for dinner,” Théodred added.

Éomer took his place once more at his cousin’s side and, abandoning his unhappy contemplation of the ground, began to take an interest again in his surroundings.  Up here, the high walls and crowded buildings that had made him so uncomfortable in the lower circles were lacking.  It was possible to see out over the walls to distant hills and river and small gardens lined the roads.  Watching the open sky Éomer began to feel better. 

He followed the others through a set of carved wooden gates to find a garden of smooth lawns and trimmed and formal flowerbeds.  To be surrounded by plants instead of stone comforted him – though it was still as strange to Éomer as anything else he’d seen this day.  The gardens he knew back in Rohan were tightly packed, with narrow pathways only left bare.  Vegetables, herbs and fruiting plants surrounded the houses, with perhaps a sprinkling of brightly coloured flowers.  Grass was for horses to eat and around a house was simply a waste of good growing space. 

Swiftly, Boromir left them through the garden - between flower beds, through hedged gates and around neatly-shaped trees.  They found Faramir lying down on the grass by a pond, engrossed in a book.  At Boromir’s call he stood up, somewhat stiffly and seemingly reluctantly, to come to meet them.  He was as tall as Boromir, Éomer noted, and dressed alike in a formal court outfit of black and silver.  His belt wore no scabbard though.  Like his brother, he had the inky-black hair that seemed so common here, but so strange to Éomer - who was accustomed to considering his cousin’s brown hair to be very dark.  Again like his brother, Faramir wore it short, cropped around his shoulders, and free.  Their faces, too, bore resemblance close enough to call them brothers.  In little else, though - as Éomer saw it - did they resemble each other.  Where Boromir was broadly built and brown of skin and had eyes that could burn with fury or gleam with laughter in a flash, Faramir was thin to the point of being bony, pale of skin - and his eyes watched you coolly and remotely as though from behind a sheet of ice.  He bowed politely at Boromir’s introduction but stayed a step or two back.  This, thought Éomer, somewhat resentfully, this reserve and hauteur, was what he had expected from Gondorians. 

While Éomer returned the greeting with as little enthusiasm as Faramir gave it, his cousin smiled with his usual warmth and asked if he could see the book Faramir still held.  Faramir gave him a slightly startled look but passed it to him.  The look of surprise on his face as Théodred held the book with respect and turned the pages with loving care was enough to make Éomer scowl

Softly, in Sindarin marked by the rolling accent of the Rohirrim, Théodred read,

“A Elbereth Gilthoniel,

silivren penna míriel

o menel aglar elenath!

Na-chaered palan-díriel

o galadhremmin ennorath,

Fanuilos, le linnathon

nef aear, si nef aearon!…”

Faramir shook his head a little in apparent disbelief.  Clearly, he had never expected to see a Rider of Rohan touch a page with the same delight he did – or softly read a poem in Sindarin.  Éomer scowled more deeply and kicked the ground.  .  Does he think we are animals or wild men?  Thought he Théodred would eat it?

Théodred looked up, eyes shining.

“I can see why you did not wish to leave this to meet us.  I would that we had such books in Rohan.”

“Do you not?”

“No - my people are not scholars.  We are singers of songs, not writers of books.  There are men in my father’s hall who can recite more than a hundred years of kings and their deeds, and sing of the bitter cold and aching bellies of the Long Winter as though they had been there – but books are rare and I am one of the few who will read them.”

The distance had faded from Faramir’s voice.  “There are many – thousands!  - in the library that you may borrow while you are here.  There are scrolls and books that go back to-“

“You can extol the virtues of every dusty, mouldy volume in all of Minas Tirith later – if you must!”  Boromir broke in. "But for now, the guard at the Citadel has just changed; before the hour is out Father is going to expect us at his table.”

Faramir grimaced but Théodred handed the book back with a smile.  “Well, I refuse to live up to his expectations and come late and dirty, so lead us to our room – and a plentiful supply of hot water.”

Following once more Éomer wondered with trepidation just what sort of monster Denethor was that everyone seemed almost afraid of him.  Well, no, he corrected himself – Boromir and Théodred wouldn’t be afraid – reluctant to displease him, perhaps.  Théoden King spoke of him respectfully, though not warmly, as a good leader, excellent strategist and reliable neighbour while Grandmother had spoken of the beautiful young wife who had withered and died in the sea-less stone city and of how Denethor had become a grey and grave man.  On their ride to Minas Tirith, Théodred had warned Éomer that he’d find the court here very different from Edoras – more formal and mannered, less friendly and less forgiving of exuberance or lapses of manners – but he’d spoken little of Denethor, saying that he had met him rarely.

Their room was up two flights of stairs; Éomer would fain have stood out on their small balcony for a while, enjoying the fresh breezes and novel perspective, but the moment the maids left after delivering the ewers of water Théodred began hounding him.

“Hurry up!  Get yourself washed and dressed and I will do your hair.”

Éomer cast a hasty glance at his mass of braids, even as he began to strip off his travel-worn garments.

“Oh, Théodred, they will do!”

“For dinner with the Steward of Gondor?  I think not – I’ve seen muckheaps look neater.  Now hurry up, and be thorough – unless you want me to come and scrub your face for you!”

Éomer made a face at his older cousin, which Théodred, busy shaking out creases and road dust from their court clothing, missed, before sluicing himself thoroughly with water and making use of the soft brown soap that stood beside the wooden tub.  It was, he admitted to himself, rather nice to be clean - even though this fuss about Denethor, Steward of Gondor, was beginning to annoy him.  His mother’s brother was, after all, King of Rohan and Théodred himself would one day stand in his place.  He thought the fuss even more unnecessary when Théodred, who was washed and dressed before Éomer had even finished lacing his tunic, began combing his hair ruthlessly. 

“By all that’s good, Éomer, I begin to think I should have asked Éowyn to loan us Freawaru to dress you and do your hair,” Théodred said, grinning, as he swiftly wove Éomer’s hair into its long braids.  “She is probably accustomed to dealing with nurselings that squeal and wiggle!”

“Yes,” said Éomer, rubbing his smarting scalp as Théodred began work on his own brown hair, ‘she raised you, didn’t she?”

***************************************************

AN: 

* Happy birthday, Nessime!  This was as close to an Éomer story as I could get.

*Very grateful thanks to Antigone Q for helping me to sort out my POV confusion – remaining confusion is all mine and all light shed would be welcome  ;-)

*The poem is by JRR Tolkien, as you probably knew

*The nurse’s name is from a list I found of OE names.  I know nothing of Rohirric so pleas let me know if there is a problem with it.

*As always, any feedback would be very gratefully received.  I’m happy to have grammatical, canonical or factual errors pointed out.  My particular concerns are:

- characterisation – are they all (a) in character in your opinion (b) sufficiently different from each other

- POV – have I stayed in the correct POV (I’m having terrible troubles following all the 3^rd person rules currently)

- dialogue, my eternal weakness – does it sound real to you?

Author's Notes:

Well, first of all it is very late - and I do apologise for that. It's mostly been work (memo to self - don't start story just before school starts for the year) with a wee dash of stage fright thrown in. I don't normally post by chapters - and everyone saying 'Can't wait to see the next bit/Denethor/whatever and saying 'Wonder where you're going with this' did panic me more than a smidgin ;-) I think the answers maybe (1) there's nothing terribly special about this Denethor and (2) I'm not terribly sure now that it is going anywhere much - it's just having a nice chat along the way ;-)

I'm terribly nervous about it because it is sooo not my usual style and this chapter is quite beta (so poke as many holes as you like) but I felt I better get it out there before I totally freeze on it. It's not sounding very Tolkien at all and not much happens and … oh I can pick holes in it all night!

The Rohirric is Old English, I hope. I used an on-line translator and know absolutely nowt about it so it isn't very grammatical or good and any suggestions would be very welcome.

Sceotan - warior, archer

Earn - eagle

Seofon Gafeluc - seven spear

Heolfor-Eorcanstan - blood-jewel

Faramir's terms for the stars come from Tolkien's writings and are partly there as a tribute to my Star-gazing friends.

Lastly, big apologies to those still waiting for me to reply to your kind feedback - work really has been horrific, but I'm almost over the worst so I should get to it soon. (It'll have to be soon 'cause after that I'll be swallowed up by Australian Swimming Championships and the Sydney Easter Show and will be lucky to even see an Easter Show.)

Oh - and in case you don't recognise it - my last line is virtually directly stolen fromTolkien.

***********************

Faramir was waiting for them in the corridor outside their room.  The enthusiasm that had animated him when he spoke of books had vanished and he seemed once more remote and uninterested. 

“Boromir thought you might need a guide.”

“Yes, and we thank you,” Théodred replied with his quick smile.  “It has been many years since I visited here.”

Éomer stayed as close to his cousin as he could on their journey through the cool stone halls.  He felt almost as he had the day he had ridden for the first time with Théodred’s éored.  Blood beat swiftly in his wrists and throat.  How would he manage in the midst of these elegant strangers?  Miserably he tried to remember all Théodred had told him about Gondorian manners and customs - but all he could hear was Freawaru telling him that he’d be more at home eating in the stables.  His new clothes felt as strange and uncomforting as this foreign city did and with clammy hands he tugged at his cuffs, trying to cover the inch of wrist that seemed to have grown since the outfit had been sewn.  Beside him Théodred and Faramir were making polite conversation about their journey but Éomer let the words sift past him unnoticed – until Faramir indicated a door at the top of a last half-flight of stairs. 

“We dine here when it is just family.  Tomorrow night you will be in the Great Hall with the lords of Gondor but Father felt you would be too fatigued after your journey and would prefer a simple meal tonight.”

With a grin Théodred said, “Tonight and every night.”

To his surprise, Éomer saw an answering smile in Faramir’s grey eyes as he bowed them through the door.

They passed into a room panelled in dark wood with the tree and stars of Gondor inlaid in one wall in shining silver.  A large fire filled an arching stone fireplace against the chill of the spring night and a dozen or more sconces of candles lit the room.  The flames reflected in golden gleams from the bronze and silver dishes on the table.  It was an elegant room, with all that was in it clean-lined and well-made, but it was its emptiness that struck Éomer.  In his uncle’s Golden Hall and back in his father’s house in the east marches, a family dinner could include two or three dozen people - kin both near and distant, family retainers and such members of the éored as wished would all be crowded around the long board.  The room would be filled with noise as snatches of songs and bawdy jokes competed with discussion of horses, crops and battles while the babes of the family would likely be playing on a rug by the fire with the hounds curled up nearby in a contented pile.  Yet in all this room, as well as the three that had entered, stood only two figures.  Boromir was by the fire, one hand resting on the carved stone that ran above the fireplace while his other raised a silver goblet to his lips, and beside him stood a tall and kingly figure – Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor.

Silver streaked Denethor’s dark hair and fine traceries of lines marked the passage of years on his face but his bearing was still that of a warrior, well seasoned in battle and hardy as a spear of ash.  He was dressed in the same silver and black as his sons but of a plainer make; the very plainness seeming a mark of power.  Age apart, his face was but a darker reflection of those of his sons.

As he studied the Steward, Éomer felt his cousin gently bump his elbow.  With a start, he awoke to his duty and bowed deeply to Lord Denethor.  Théodred followed with a slight inclination of his head – deference to age and an older kingdom from one who is the son of a king. 

Boromir formally introduced them and Denethor replied with a cool speech of welcome.  He spoke first to Théodred, speaking of previous meetings and of their lands’ long history of friendship.  Éomer listened, noting how the warmth was only in the words and not in his voice.  He felt his own blood chill as Denethor turned to him.

“And welcome, Éomer son of Éomund, to Gondor and to our court.  It is a pleasure to meet the son of such a redoubtable warrior.  His deeds were noted even in these lands.”

The words were courteous and fair but Éomer stumbled in reply, feeling an ignorant fool, and was grateful when the dark gaze moved back to his cousin.  While Théodred made a graceful speech of thanks for Gondor’s hospitality and passed his father’s greetings to Denethor Éomer stepped back a little and, as his cheeks cooled, realised he had surmounted the first of the evening’s feared hurdles.  While the courtesies were being exchanged he had time to look around and feel again the strangeness of this empty room.  So quiet it was…. Was this what Grandmother had meant when she had spoken of Denethor becoming a grey and graver man - or were these just Gondor ways?  They did say back in Rohan that the Gondorians were a solemn and sober people – a stone city filled with stone people, they said of Minas Tirith.  Éomer glanced back to where his cousin still spoke to Denethor and past them saw Boromir smiling warmly at him.  Heartened, he smiled back; certainly not all in Minas Tirith were made of stone.

“Come,” said Denethor, raising his voice slightly, “We will sit down to our meat now – Faramir, strike the gong.”

For a moment, Éomer thought that the gong might be to call more to dine but as he followed Denethor to the table he realised that it was only set for five.  He was seated at his host’s left hand, with Faramir beside him and his cousin and Boromir across the table.  Éomer would fain have sat much further away from the Steward or at least beside Théodred but as he took his place he was comforted by an encouraging smile from his cousin.  They stood by the table as the servants carried in the roast meats and Éomer looked hungrily at the table as they waited.  Light yeast-risen bread, golden slabs of butter, platters of spring greens, dried fruits, honey, some slightly wrinkled late autumn apples, a red cheese, nuts and fresh sliced carrots and turnips were spread out on the white cloth covered table and it seemed an uncommonly long time since the midday meal that Théodred and he had eaten by the wayside.  The rich savoury smell of the roast meats was welcome too after their meals of dried meat and small game during their week of travel. 

As the servants left the room, Denethor turned to face the West.  Théodred had drilled him well in this and Éomer didn’t require Faramir’s jab to know to follow suit.  It was only his determination to show that a Rohirrim could match any of Gondor for courtesy and learning that prevented him turning to glare at Faramir.

Théodred had spoken of it as the standing silence so Éomer was surprised to hear Boromir softly speak.

 “Númenor that was…  Elvenhome that is… and that which is beyond Elvenhome and will ever be.”

As they turned and sat down Éomer caught the quizzical look Denethor gave his son – and realised that Boromir had changed the ritual so his guests would understand.  Éomer watched admiringly as Boromir, seemingly unconcerned by what his formidable father might be thinking, offered Théodred the platter of greens and helped himself to a generous serve.  Undoubtedly, Boromir would make a fine Rider; like he was indeed to the boldest sons of Eorl.  

“Éomer…  Éomer,” said Faramir in somewhat exasperated tones.

With the faintest of blushes, Éomer drew his attention back to his other companions to see Faramir offering him a dish of meat.  Théodred was frowning at him across the table and he blushed again as he served himself and muttered a thank you.  For a while then he paid attention to little beyond his dinner – and making sure that he ate it with such manners as would have delighted old Freawaru.  Faramir was as silent beside him and Denethor addressed himself to the elder two.  Éomer listened with no more than half an ear as he ate and drank, but gradually as his hunger was appeased, he realised that he seemed to be listening to two different conversations.  Taking another draft of the heavy red wine that filled his goblet and sandwiching a slice of cheese and apple together he began to try to make sense of them.

Denethor was asking Théodred about how many horses they had been able to run on the Eastfold during this past dry season and whether he thought that the foaling would be down if this spring remained as dry.  A sensible topic, thought Éomer approvingly as he reached for the jug of wine to refill his goblet.  Théodred, though, replied only briefly before moving on to other matters.

“Yes, we have had to reduce numbers a little – made a very good sale to the Beornings and moved others to the Wold - but grass cover has remained quite good, in truth.”  He paused briefly.  “I was wondering, though, what you think of the situation with Umbar at the moment?”

Denethor raised his hand as though averting the topic, “Nothing you need worry about, I feel sure.”

Watching slightly muzzily Éomer saw Théodred tighten his lips and Boromir grin as Denethor returned with polished urbanity to his chosen topic.

“I imagine you’ll want to see our mounted troops while you are here – though they are a small part of our army, of course, nothing like your chargers.”

“Indeed,” said Théodred politely.  “I hope also to see these new murals that Turambar has done; I have heard much of them.”

Boromir, still smiling for no reason Éomer could discover, said, “I’m sure that Faramir would be delighted to show you them – and converse with you in great detail about the history of mural painting since Númenor.  A tour of our cavalry stables is far more in my humble line, I’m afraid.”

Théodred gave his friend a narrow-eyed look and Boromir winced slightly.  Éomer watched them in puzzlement as he drank more of his wine, enjoying both the heady fumes and the rich smoothness of it over his tongue.  A meal without ale was considered a poor thing among the Rohirrim and Éomer had been drinking it since before he had come to live with his mother’s brother, but wine was rarer and kept for those who were older.  Truth to tell, when after their sortie against the wargs Théodred had given him a half mug of wine before he bound his arm Éomer had found it rather bitter - but the more he drank of this wine the more mellow it seemed.

Glancing sideways as he savoured his mouthful of wine Éomer noticed that though Faramir used his fork and knife with seeming interest little changed on his plate.  More fool he, thought Éomer reaching for another handful of nuts before turning back to see if Denethor and Théodred were still fencing in their strange pattern of parry and thrust.

“I believe you get some good hunting over in Rohan – coursing of hares, isn’t it?”

“Yes, many of the men do enjoy that.  I know little of it myself, I am more often needed in court and prefer to read when I am free.”

Éomer shook his head a little.  It made no sense to him.  He glanced around the table once more, feeling again the empty silence of this room.  Strange still it felt, strange and uncomforting.  He longed for the friendly warmth and noise of the Golden Hall… was this meal ever going to end?  He reached out with his knife to spear a piece of bread, only to be stopped by Théodred’s snapped, “Éomer!”

Cheeks burning, he put his knife down with an unwanted clatter and fixed his eyes on his hands.  Why, he wondered miserably, had Théodred ever thought to bring him?  Freawaru was right, as well take the pig herder as expecthim to manage in this land of polished manners and subtle undercurrents.  Through the blood that raced in his ears, he heard Boromir say chidingly,

“You are supposed to wait on your guest, Faramir.”

“Indeed,” added Denethor in a colder voice, “and little else are you doing, it would seem.  At the least do not play with your food, if you do not see your duty clearly enough to eat it.”

Faramir put his knife and fork down quietly and in a colourless voice asked,

“Would you like some bread, Éomer?”

Éomer managed a choked no, without looking up.  He clenched his hands fiercely.  It was years – years!  – since he’d cried and he wouldn’t do so now.  Gratefully, he heard Théodred say,

“Denethor, may my cousin be excused the table?  We have travelled far today and the hour is late for him.”

With cool graciousness, Denethor agreed.  “You may be excused as well, Faramir – you would do better to go to bed.”

Éomer scrambled to his feet, taking what comfort he could from Théodred’s friendly good night and Boromir’s reminder of their arrangement to ride together on the morrow.  Faramir followed him silently out of the room and stopped him with a touch as he turned away to try and find his room.

“Do you wish for bed?  It is yet early.”

Éomer hesitated.  Did he want to go alone to an empty room?  No.  He ached miserably for home and the friendly noise of the king’s household, and he felt slightly sick and uncertain on his feet.  Did he want, though, to spend time with this aloof, unfriendly Gondorian - if that was indeed what he was suggesting?  He half shrugged, and turned a little more towards Faramir, although he remained scowling at the floor.  Faramir seemed to take that as some sort of acceptance.

“I’m going out to the gardens to watch the stars.  Come.”

He turned and led the way down the hallway.  Éomer took advantage of Faramir’s back being to him to press his eyes against his jacket sleeve and then hurried to catch up.  By the third corridor, his voice was steady enough to ask something he was longing to know.

“Is it always this empty here?”

Faramir looked slightly startled and looked around the quiet corridor.

“Well, it is late evening – and this is not a route the servants use.”  He looked again at Éomer, for the first time with interest.  “But that is not what you mean, is it?”

Éomer, who was finding his legs felt as though he had just dismounted from a day of a dozen leagues or more, braced one hand against the wall while he waved around with the other.

“No, not just here – this house, where we ate …”

Faramir nodded a dawning comprehension as he answered slowly, “Yes, I suppose it is usually empty… now.  Uncle Imrahil says that when Grandfather was alive there were visitors much of the time - and even parties.  Grandfather’s favourite captains and lords would be in and out of the Steward’s house as though they were family and would dine here as often as not.  This is a quiet household now, though I had not thought of it as empty before.”

Éomer nodded at this answer he had more or less expected but didn’t speak.  Faramir too seemed to have nothing more to say.

When they were out in the gardens though, and he had piloted them to a long stone seat built into the wall overlooking the city, Faramir came back to the topic.

“Is it so different in Rohan?”

“Yes!”  Éomer took a breath.  “The room is full – all down the hall the big tables and the children playing… people call out for more ale and roar with laughter at a funny tale… the men come and go as they finish their duties and the food gets spilled on the tables and it doesn’t matter… and there’s singing and sometimes quarrels… once Beonoc cut off one of Leodwald’s braids!  There are so many people – you are never all alone and it is never, never silent like in there.”

Faramir, tucked compactly at his end of the bench, feet almost under him, arms around his knees, nodded thoughtfully.  “You must find it strange here.”

It was scarcely a question but Éomer answered it, with an almost whispered “Yes.”  He leant back against his end of the stone seat and looked up at the stars.  Foolishly, tears stung at his eyes.  Everything seemed too hard and Rohan too far away.  He didn’t belong here and already he had made a fool of himself…  Théodred must be regretting offering to bring him and Boromir, well, if he had thought Boromir kindly towards him earlier in the day that was before his boorish exhibition at dinner.  Éomer blinked fiercely, knowing in some part of him that he was making far too much of all this but the stars shifted dizzily above him and a black misery, foreign to his usually bold temperament, pressed down on him.

“Look at the stars,” advised a voice from the dark, a voice that was soft and somehow soothing, even though it had lost nothing of its sharp Gondorian accent.  “They do not change.  Here, Belfalas, out in the wilds of Ithilien, they are the same.  The Netted Stars…  Morwinyon…  The Archer…  The Swordsman…  Soronúme… they watch us wherever we are and we can watch them.  They are the same stars you see as you hobble your horses on the plains of Rohan, though you may name them differently.”

Éomer blinked, watching the brilliant stars waver, and then swallowed.

“Earn…  Sceotan…  Seofon Gafeluc….”

“Seven spears?  Is that the one you can see just above the top of the tower?  The seven stars close together?”

Éomer looked over at the patch of darkness that was Faramir and nodded then, realising that was of little use, added,

“Yes.  They are the seven spears of Fram, who slew the great worm, Scatha.  They are followed by Heolfor-Eorcanstan that came from Scatha himself.  As Fram slew him he reared up on his mighty legs and scattered his blood across the sky-” Éomer paused suddenly, realising that Faramir was probably laughing at him for being such an unlettered rustic.  Gondorians undoubtedly knew the only ‘true’ story.  “You don’t want to hear this,” he said, sullenly, picking at his sleeve.  ‘They are just nursery tales.”

There was no reserve in Faramir’s voice now. 

“I do, Éomer – I don’t know your legends because they are not in any of our books.  We call your Heolfor-Eorcanstan Borgil but I want to know your story.  Go on!”

As Éomer hesitated – was that an insult aimed at Rohan’s lack of books? – a voice broke in.

“And I thought only my little brother was foolish enough to sit in a cold garden in the dark discussing stars!” 

Boromir laughed as he stood there looking at them in the faint light of the stars and the sharp-edged moon.  He grinned down at Éomer.

“And I think your cousin thought that you had run away after one dinner with the steward’s family when you were not in your room.”

With a clap on the shoulder, Boromir moved away down to the end of the seat where his brother sat.  Éomer leant a little against Théodred, who had come to stand beside him, and almost tried not to listen to what seemed to be a private conversation.  Boromir’s voice was quiet and soft now, stripped of its usual bold and merry tones.

“And as for you … What would Father or the healers say if they could see you sitting out in the cold air like this?”

Faramir replied with few muttered words that were too soft to hear.  Boromir pulled off his jacket and began to put it around Faramir’s shoulders.  Suddenly, though, Faramir got to his feet and shrugged Boromir away.

“Leave me alone, for the Valar’s sake!  I am neither child nor imbecile and you are not my nursemaid.”

He pushed past Boromir and vanished in the darkness of the path back to the house.  With an exasperated sounding sigh Boromir came to join them, flopping on the bench at Éomer’s feet. 

“What did I tell you?  As prickly as a thornbush!” he said, looking up to where Théodred still leaned against the balustrade.

Théodred made excuse.  “He has been ill – and he is too old to want you fussing after him as though he was still your small brother.”

Boromir settled himself more comfortably and snorted in a friendly, though disbelieving, fashion.  “And you do not worry about this one anymore?”

“This one,” said Théodred, pulling one of Éomer’s braids gently, “is scarcely more than a yearling still – with as little sense!  Are you sober yet?”

Éomer felt himself colour with embarrassment.

“I am sorry,” he muttered.

Théodred’s hand clasped his shoulder.  “No need – it is I who should be sorry.  I should have been looking out for you and instead…”

“Instead,” said Boromir cheerfully, “you were busy trying to prove to my father that you would not recognise a horse if it climbed into bed with you.”

Éomer felt Théodred take a deep breath.

“I am sorry, Boromir - but I do not like being treated as though I was some groom down from the country with scarce enough lettering to write my own name.”

“He’s just being a good host,” protested Boromir mildly, “and talking about what interests you.”

Théodred shook his head.  “No – what he thinks should interest me.”

Boromir shrugged.  ‘You’re as stubborn as each other.”  He grinned at Éomer again.  “He is stubborn, your cousin, you know – stubborn and fierce.  He kicked me in the middle of dinner!”

There was a quiet chuckle from Théodred.  “You deserved it – talking as though you were some rough soldier who has never seen a book.  You – the steward’s heir and High Warden of the White Tower!  You are probably more educated than anyone in all of Rohan.”

“I must introduce you to my old tutor,” said Boromir, dryly.  “He will tell you with what difficulty he dragged me to my books – and with what relief he waved me off to war.  Thankfully the poor man had Faramir as pupil too or I might well have broken his heart.”

“Hmmm,” said Théodred.  He slipped down from the balustrade and pushed Éomer over so he could share the bench.  “Shall I tell Boromir how Grandmother once tied you to your chair when she got tired of you wandering away from your books like a newly weaned pup?” 

Éomer grinned but didn’t bother to reply.  The wine and the long day were combining to make him sleepy and leaning back against his cousin’s shoulder he let the banter drift past him.  He was no longer unhappy.  What if this city of stone did smell, look and feel strange?  Théodred was with him, as solid and dependable as he had been in those dark months when his father was already gone and his mother was fading.  What if Faramir – or some other as yet unmet Gondorians – did look down on him as unlettered and rough?  Boromir was as bold and gay as any Rider and he was speaking now of a plan to take Éomer with him in a few days time when he rode out to a nearby training camp.  He, Éomer, was a Rider of Rohan, there was nothing he need fear in this overbuilt town.  As he drowsed, Éomer felt one of his braids being gently pulled.

“Do not go to sleep – I certainly cannot carry such a longshanks to bed these days.”

“Not,” said Éomer, obediently opening his eyes and trying to watch the stars.  There was Heolfor-Eorcanstan, still shining as brightly as the day it flew from Scatha’s throat… what outlandish name had Faramir called it?  Still, he was right – the stars were the same and it did comfort you to know that…

“Come on, lad – you can’t sleep in the steward’s garden,” said Boromir, pushing his feet gently to the ground.

Yawning and stretching Éomer stumbled to his feet and followed the older two through the night-darkened garden.  The snatches of their talk that penetrated his sleep-fogged brain were about Faramir and whether he would be in bed or off doing something equally foolish as sitting in a cold damp garden - and whether this would bring back his fever.  Éomer snorted softly to himself.  Some captain this Faramir must be, who couldn’t even be trusted to look after himself.  When he was 23, no-one would need to nursemaid him.

When they stopped outside their room, Boromir caught Théodred up in a hug. 

“It is so good to see you again - I’ll even happily come and see those murals of yours.”

Straight-faced, Théodred replied, “And I’ll force myself to pretend to admire Gondorian horses.”

“So you should – after all we buy our stock from Rohan.”

“Such a useful way to thin out the weaklings from the herds…”

Boromir gave Théodred a friendly push and turned to Éomer.  Solemnly he put his hands on his shoulders and kissed him lightly on the forehead.

“Welcome to Gondor and our beloved White City.”

Éomer muttered an inaudible response and looked down, scraping his feet on the floor.  He knew then that, sore as his heart longed for the green open plains of Rohan, some part of his allegiance would always lie with this city of stone that Boromir loved so dearly… and with this dark-haired man who seemed so like to the swift sons of Eorl.

Éomer and Théodred breakfasted in their room and walked down to the stables in the milky light of earliest day.  The streets were quieter at this hour and Éomer found the stone walls pressed less heavily on him.  He stayed close to Théodred though: still feeling that if one were to be lost in this maze one might wander forever, as bewildered as the foolish mortals of legend who dared the Golden Woods. 

Boromir and Faramir were waiting for them when they reached the stables: Faramir sitting on the edge of a water trough reading a book; Boromir leaning in the stable doorway talking to a man filling water buckets.  Théodred hailed them and Faramir looked up for a moment before returning to his book while Boromir came forward with a cheerful grin.

“If I did not know that your Strongheart was already as vain as his master, I would say he would have his head turned by the admiration he is getting.  Arnadil here can speak of little else but this mighty horse.  I can see I shall have to keep him away from my studs or they will be too shy to perform.”

Théodred listened to his raillery with a smile, which widened as he spread out his hands and said with a shrug, “Like rider, like horse, as we say.”

Boromir gave a shout of laughter and turned to Éomer. 

“Modest your cousin is, is he not?  It’s a wonder he and Strongheart can pass by a lake on a still and sunny day without stopping to admire themselves.”

Théodred snorted.  “You, of course, give not a thought to your appearance.”

Boromir put a hand on Éomer’s shoulder and began to walk towards the stables, throwing back to Théodred,

“How else am I to remain a ‘pretty prince’?”

He looked down at Éomer as they stepped into the cool dimness of the stables.  “Our horses are ready, but I knew that you two would prefer to see to your own.  I would like to see your mount – Arnadil spoke highly of him too.”

Behind them, Théodred groaned.

“You are asking to see his horse?  You are prepared to spend all day here, then?  You want to hear of every mouthful of oats he has ever eaten, every ditch he has ever jumped, every field he has ever rolled in?”

“And why should I not?  Why should Strongheart be the only horse whose life I know in such exhaustive detail?”

Théodred merely grinned.

Just being in the stables had comforted Éomer, but as he slipped the wicket of Firefoot’s stall open and stepped in to greet his horse he felt at home for the first time since he had left him the afternoon before. 

“Firefoot, deore,” he whispered, rubbing his face against Firefoot’s neck.

 Firefoot nuzzled against his shoulder and whickered softly.  Éomer ran his fingers through his silky smooth mane and then gently scratched along the side of his neck.

“Deore…”

“Come, Éomer, or it will be mid-morning before we even leave,” Théodred prompted.

Looking up, Éomer saw the older ones watching him with indulgent smiles.  He smiled back, a little embarrassed, and went to collect his grooming tools from their high shelf.  When he turned back, Théodred had left to see to Strongheart and only Boromir remained.  Boromir leant his arms on the wicket and watched admiringly while Éomer groomed Firefoot. 

“He’s a fine piece of horseflesh – quite young, isn’t he?”

Éomer smiled shyly and proudly.  “He was five at the end of winter.  Father gave him to me the night he was born.  He said that he would grow up with me and by the time I was old enough to join an éored he would be ready to be my warhorse...”

In some haste, Éomer bent to run a brush over a dark fetlock.  Impossible even now to remember that cold night’s vigil in the stables without remembering Father and feeling that aching longing for him that never seemed to fade.  He blew out a sudden breath to keep the loose hairs from his throat.

“And Éomer has raised him and schooled him, and done an excellent job,” Théodred added, arriving back with Strongheart following him. 

“It looks like it.  He’s a beauty.  He is not of the Mearas, though, is he?”

“Half Mearas,” Éomer said.

“This one is his sire,” said Théodred, patting the smooth black flank of his horse.  “He took a fancy to one of Éomund’s mares – didn’t you, wicked one?”

Strongheart blew down the back of Théodred’s collar before lowering his head to nibble at his collar.  Théodred smiled at him before taking an easy step out of reach.  Boromir came forward to face Strongheart.

“Well, my beautiful black friend, do you remember me?”

With a soft whickering breath, Strongheart stretched out his muzzle to Boromir’s waiting hands. 

“There,” crooned Boromir, smoothing back his mane, “there, o lord of horses… for you would I almost swap Minas Tirith for Edoras.”

Firefoot’s hooves began to dance in a quick impatient tread, and Éomer turned to soothe him.  Distracted from his adoration Boromir looked up.

“Yes, we should get off – before someone thinks of some detail they’d like me to settle.  I’ll meet you out in the yard, having separated brother and book.”

Faramir and Boromir were already mounted when the cousins arrived.  Boromir was astride a bright chestnut gelding who fought with the bit and restlessly paced sideways as he waited.  Still, Boromir seemed to have him well in hand, Éomer thought.  Théodred rode a leisurely half-circle about them, though, and shook his head.

“Flashy, very flashy – as always!  But who’ll be riding who?”

Boromir merely grinned.  “You can talk – you are just decoration!”

With that, he urged his horse ahead and the two riders moved off together.  Éomer, watching with pleasure the fiery chestnut and the silky smooth paces of the black, fell in beside Faramir.  Faramir’s mount was a quiet bay mare, and Éomer eyed her critically. 

“Surely you do not ride her to war?”

Faramir raised an eyebrow.  “Are we riding to war then?  How remiss of me to not realise.”

The cool irony of Faramir’s tone made Éomer squirm and he was about to snap back at him when Boromir glanced back.

“Oh, old Rîn?  She’s a placid old lady these days, but she still has a good heart, and a lovely action.  We tumbled off her a score of times as lads; she was the first big horse we rode.”

Boromir had paused to wait for them as he spoke.  As he came up to ride knee to knee with Faramir, he said more quietly,

“All the same, Faramir, you’ll need to choose another horse soon.  Maethor is gone – and Rîn won’t do when you go back to Ithilien.”

“I know,” Faramir said curtly.  Kicking Rîn to a trot, he rode forward to where Strongheart and Théodred strode out easily.

Boromir sighed, sounding exasperated.  Éomer, unsure of what to say, rode in silence beside him.

“This is unlike Faramir," Boromir said eventually.  “He is weary, and still weaker from his fever than he wants to admit.  I would as lief he had stayed at home today.”

‘And I too,’ added Éomer silently as Boromir hesitated.

“I think he feared that you would think him a weakling.”

Éomer made a non-committal noise, unable to believe that Faramir would care what he thought.  Equally, he was unable, in truth, to deny that he did think him so.  All in all, Éomer was relieved that they had caught up to the two in front and no reply was possible.  They rode on together in a ragged line: Faramir, Éomer, Théodred and Boromir.  As they rode, Boromir, and occasionally even Faramir, pointed out local landmarks and features – from the marshes where they hunted ducks in autumn to the sites of long gone battles.  Éomer was content simply to be on horseback again, but Firefoot grew steadily more restive, chaffing at the controlled pace.  He danced impatiently along, crowding in towards Rîn, who eyed him warily.

“Valar’s sake, Éomer!” snapped Faramir.  “Is not the whole of the Pelennor Fields big enough for you?  Must you ride on me?”

Flushing a little, Éomer looked at Théodred, who had turned to see what the problem was.

“It isn’t me – Firefoot is getting restless.  Mayn’t I gallop on ahead?”

Théodred nodded and looked at Boromir.  He smiled at Éomer.

“Just to that hillock with the two rowan trees.”

“And then come back – sensibly – to meet us,” added his cousin.

Éomer grinned impatience at his fussiness, and moved off.  Once he was clear of the other riders it took little urging to make Firefoot break into a canter and then a gallop.  As they thundered across the close-cropped turf, Éomer felt exhilaration growing in him.  His heart sang in time with Firefoot’s hoof beats and his braids sailed back in the wind.  He stood up in the stirrups, urging his horse on - faster!  faster!  faster! As the hillock rose up in front of him Éomer laughed and, dropping the reins onto the saddle, stretched out his arms so just for a moment as he breasted the hill and the sun poured down on him, he was as a god, flying above the earth.  Field and plain, grass and sky stretched before him, and then he regathered the reins.  Sitting back in the saddle, he brought Firefoot to a halt a little over the crest.

“Good boy, o wondrous boy,” he said, patting a heaving flank.  With more half-panted words of praise, he smoothed his horse’s wind-blown mane and headed him back over the hill.  As he came over the curve of the hill, he saw Théodred was out in front of the others and heading for them at a swift and collected trot.  Éomer’s heart sank.  He had ridden Firefoot thus in the past, but never with anyone other than Éowyn to see.  She had been impressed, although she scoffed - but the look on Théodred’s face was far from admiring.

Éomer halted when he reached Théodred and slid down from Firefoot when Théodred dismounted.  Théodred walked a few steps towards him and then turned to look past him, over the grasslands.  Éomer, recognising his cousin’s fury despite his air of calmness, waited nervously for him to speak.  After a moment Théodred turned back to look at him.

“Of all the foolish things to do.  A child’s trick – a careless, wilful child – and you want to ride to battle…” 

There was both scorn and disappointment in his voice and Éomer bit his lip and struggled to meet his eye.  Watching him, Théodred shook his head.

“Your horse is in your care, and you threw your responsibilities away for a daredevil trick.  If he had been startled or had stumbled there would have been nothing you could do to save either of you.  You want to be a Rider, Éomer – behave like one.”

Théodred called Strongheart, and swung back into the saddle.  He waited as Éomer re-mounted, and then put a hand on Firefoot’s bridle before they could move off.

“I am disappointed in you, Éomer.”

Éomer nodded stiffly, not looking up even when Théodred patted him on the arm.

Éomer tipped his head back and did his best to look unconcerned as they rode back to where Boromir and Faramir waited for them.  Théodred had spoken quietly, but Éomer couldn’t have felt more flayed if he had shouted and sworn.   From the days when Théodred was the big cousin who would come to visit and put him up on his horse or feed him on honey cakes and nuts, Éomer had wanted his approval.  It seemed he had been waiting forever to catch up to Théodred, and it had begun to seem that he had finally done so these last few months.  Théodred had taken him out with his éored, and Éomer knew he had been proud both of his fighting skills and his courage when wounded.  It waited on his uncle’s approval but there had been a suggestion that he would join the éored in the autumn.  This trip had been another mark of his move into the adult world and a matter of great pride to Éomer.  Now, as he glared at Faramir, daring him to say anything, all he could hear were Théodred’s final words: ‘I am disappointed in you.’

Boromir greeted them both with a half-smile.

“We thought we might turn here and go back by the river.  I must spend much of today in meetings, I am afraid.”

“That will be fine,” replied Théodred, still in his controlled commander’s voice.  “Éomer, ride in front.”

His meaning was clear and Éomer blushed painfully.  To his surprise, the look Faramir gave him was nothing but sympathetic and he rode up to join him.

“Come, Éomer, I’ll show you where the path turns across the marshes.”

They rode, in silence, slightly ahead of the older two, and snatches of their talk came to Éomer.

“I think I am pleased I am not under your command – poor Éomer looks as though he has been beaten.”  It was Boromir’s voice, light and almost teasing.

A snort from Théodred.  “If his horse master back in Edoras had seen him, he would have been – and deserved it.  Such a reckless, foolish thing to do!”

“In Minas Tirith we have a saying that green horse and green rider leads to broken bones.”

“As long as it is not his horse’s bones he breaks – I’ll wring his neck myself if he does.”

There was a bark of laughter from Boromir and another oddly sympathetic glance from Faramir.  Éomer hunched his shoulders and looked away from him.  He needed no-one’s sympathy – he had deserved every thing that Théodred had said to him about foolishness, recklessness and poor horsemanship.  Eadgar’s beatings hurt, but almost he wished that he was facing his horse master back in the stables at Edoras.  Never would Théodred hit him, he knew, and in his misery that seemed what he deserved.

“Down here,” said Faramir, interrupting his thoughts.

They turned together onto a narrow, rush-lined path that ran down into the swamps.

“You rode well,” said Faramir quietly, and Éomer almost jagged Firefoot’s mouth in his surprise.

“Not even Boromir could have done it," Faramir continued.

Éomer felt a glow at being compared in any way to Boromir, but still he hastened to correct Faramir.

“Of course he could not – he is not Rohirrim!”

He hadn’t intended to be rude, but he saw, as Faramir’s face tightened back into the inexpressive mask he wore so well, that he had been.

“And isn’t that something to be devoutly thankful for?”  Faramir said with disdain as he edged his horse a little further ahead.

Infuriated, Éomer muttered, loud enough to ensure Faramir would hear,

“Your troops must be so pleased that you are no longer their captain.”

Faramir, a horse’s-length ahead on the narrow path, suddenly pulled Rîn around, crashing with her through the tall grasses at the side of the path. 

“What would you know?” he shouted.

Firefoot leaped explosively at the sudden movement – and, equally startled, Éomer came off. 

He was picking himself up from the mud and grasses when the elder two arrived, and employing every curse he’d ever heard in the stables.  To fall off in front of them all like a fumbling child!  He could have cried.  Instead, he went on swearing and brushing mud off his sleeve.  Seemingly as sobered, Firefoot waited quietly beside him.

“Well, I assume that you are not hurt,” said Théodred dryly.  “What foolish thing did you do this time?”

“Somehow I doubt it was all his fault,” Boromir said.  “It was your voice I heard, wasn’t it, Faramir?”

Faramir, who had slipped down from his horse and now stood at the side of the track leaning against Rîn, raised his face to meet his brother’s eyes.  He looked pale and strained.

“Yes,” he said, after a moment.  “I was angry and I startled Firefoot.”

Looking up at Boromir, Éomer realised that he could look just as stern as his cousin.

“And you’re supposed to be a captain.”

Faramir flinched.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking first at his brother and then at Éomer.

Standing there, mud-splashed and embarrassed, Éomer shifted uneasily.  It was a stupid thing that Faramir had done, but…

“It was my fault too,” he muttered.  He looked up, saw everyone staring at him and looked down again.  “I guess I said something…  I didn’t mean…” he stumbled, and then suddenly looked back at Faramir, “I like Boromir!”

Faramir held his eye for a startled moment and then his face broke into a smile.

“Oh, I think we all know that.”  There seemed to be only a gentle amusement in his voice this time, and no venom.

Cheeks pink, Éomer busied himself with getting back into the saddle and avoided looking at Boromir.  Boromir, however, didn’t sound at all discomforted.

“Handsomely said, lad – and, Faramir, I’m sorry.  Now, maybe we could make another attempt to get home before Mablung has a company out looking for me.”

He turned to Théodred.  ‘Perhaps this time if I ride with mine, and you follow with yours it might be safer.”

“Indeed,” said Théodred, solemn but with a smile.  “Next time, Boromir, I think we had best bring leading reins.”

Boromir laughed as he edged Lachsil past them to go to the front.  He paused beside Faramir as he scrambled into the saddle and spoke quietly to him.  Faramir shook his head and Boromir moved past him.  They stayed that way for the rest of the ride – Boromir in front, leading; Faramir a distance behind; Théodred and Éomer riding together at the back. 

***************************

Author’s Notes:

*Very grateful thanks to my three horse betas – Erinrua, Rochnáriel and Eruwestial.  Thanks also to the many people on the HA list who answered earlier questions about the ages of horses and silly things that young riders might do.  All mistakes remaining are my own – please do point them out.

*This is still very much in the beta stage – all feedback, nitpicks or suggestions welcomed.

*A reminder – in 3006, when this is set, Eomer is 15, Faramir 23, Theodred approx 27 and Boromir 28.

*I will get to explaining any Sindarin-based or Old English names/words I’ve used, but I’ve lost any notes I may have made so it will take a while.

*As mentioned above any feedback is welcome but I do have specific questions:

1) Leading reins or lead lines?  I don’t know much about horses, but leading reins is the expression I’m familiar with, however Erin, who is American, suggested lead lines as more correct.  I’m wondering if it is my horse terminology at fault (very likely) or if this is a nationality issue.  Any English people out there who know?

2) The ending – will it do?  I don’t normally write chapter fics so I’m a bit inexperienced in this sort of area.

3) Most crucial question – how believable is Faramir in his current cross and grumpy state?  There are specific reasons: one has been mentioned, others hinted at (I’m finding it a bit difficult while I’m inside Eomer’s head to do any more than hint.) but some readers have said that they are finding him unbelievable and I need to look at this.  As a reader would you be prepared to continue to put up with Faramir if the reasons aren’t explained until later chapters?