Éomer woke as the sun slanted across his face and automatically reached across the great bed, his body attuned to his bride even after a brief month of marriage. But Lothíriel's space was empty and he realized she must have arisen early in view of their riding lesson. With a great grin he flung back the furs and bounded out of bed and stretched, anticipating introducing his beautiful, clever wife to his favorite creatures and pastime. What a wonderful day it was going to be!

Splashing water over his face he sang snatches from a simple old ballad of Rohan, about a boy, his girl, and the horse who served them. He had always liked how the ballad could be sung in so many different ways: the salacious "éored around the fire" way, the manly "Rider and his horse needs no woman" way, and the seductive "persuade a coy maiden" way. As a smooth-cheeked lad he had always loudly sung nonsense syllables in place of any mention of the girl, but now his wife's enthusiastic responses had convinced him that the latter was his favorite version.

Lothíriel had been very reluctant about the proposed riding lesson, for she feared horses, but had capitulated under the onslaught of kisses and caresses and other wicked tricks Éomer had employed during the night. Éomer grinned as he pulled on breeches and a thin white shirt open at the neck- oh aye, very wicked. Whistling cheerfully, he bounded out of their chambers in search of breakfast and his wife.

He found them both in the Golden Hall. Lothíriel sat alone at the large table, her place empty save for a tankard that dwarfed her slender hands. Éomer bent to nuzzle the back of her neck, enjoying how she leaned back into him before he released her and threw himself into the adjoining chair. He beckoned over a servant who hurried to place some bread and cheese and a tankard of ale in front of him. "A fair morning to you, beloved."

Lothíriel smiled at him and Éomer blinked at the glassiness in her beautiful grey eyes. He stared suspiciously at her tankard. The former princess of Dol Amroth had proved to have a surprisingly hard head for ale, to his secret amusement, so she must have drunk deeply already. He felt a pang of sympathy and reached to squeeze her hand. "You need not fear, wife. I am accounted a good teacher and your mount is a gentle beast."

"Nay, Éomer, what need I to fear what even a babe in Rohan may master?" Her smile did not waver, and he smiled back, for she was hardly amongst the first in Rohan to find courage in the contents of a mug. He resolved to attend her closely and saluted her with his own tankard. "To you, fair lady, a toast."

"Aye, a toast to our people!" She heaved herself up, wavering only a little, and waved her tankard in the air. Éomer was only slightly splashed with ale, though he winced as a couple drops stung his eyes. His wife beamed at him, then screwed her face up in intense concentration as her husband laughed and began to drink.

"Hail the hairy frog blue bitten grandfather's runs!" she bellowed in barely comprehensible Rohirric, and drained her ale, tipping her head far back to get the last drop.

At least that was how Éomer hoped her words had sounded, as he wheezed in a desperate attempt to draw in air past a generous slug of ale inhaled the wrong way; the other interpretation was enough to burn his ears to coals. Stars momentarily sparked his vision as he truly feared for a while that he would strangle in his own Hall, on his breakfast ale. The indignity of the possibility spurred him to give a great cough that finally cleared his lungs and he slumped against the table in weak relief. He darted a quick look around the largely deserted Hall, relieved that it was between the usual surges of people coming and going. Only Elfhelm, preparing to ride out, was witness, and Éomer blushed as he noted how his Marshal's eyebrows disappeared into his forelocks. With a last wheeze, he grabbed his wife's arm and hurried her from the Hall.

Once they were outside in the fresh air and he had caught his breath, his natural optimism reasserted itself. Grasping Lothíriel's hand, he urged her towards the stables. The breeze caught their hair and blew color into their cheeks as they raced through the doors and into the moist warmth of the stables, redolent with hay and horse. Éomer shook back his own flaxen mane as he made his way to the stall from where a pale grey head poked forth.

"This is Snowflake, who shall bear you to no harm this day, eh, little beauty? Gentle as a lamb, beloved, so you need not fear leaving your seat." Éomer proudly rubbed the pretty little mare's forehead.

Lothíriel gasped behind him. "Ai, but you are beautiful! How can I fear you? We shall race the winds today, no?" Éomer's grin faded as he turned and realized Lothíriel was not directly behind him but was instead crooning and feeding a lump of sugar to the occupant of the stall two places down.

"Firefoot!?"

The big grey wore an expression best described as half-witted as he gently lipped at his rider's mate. Éomer, who was proud of his mount's irascibility, frowned.

"You are too easily swayed, friend."

Firefoot rolled a disdainful eye at him, making it clear who he vastly preferred at the moment, and cocked an ear forward when the queen of Rohan switched to the Sindarin tongue favored by Dol Amroth nobility, as she was wont to do at intimate moments. The soft Elven words, delivered in the rolling accents of the coast, rose and fell like the endless waves in the Bay of Belfalas; as always her speech stirred Éomer's blood, evoking memories of soft skin, soft furs, soft moans- he whimpered, acknowledging that right now there was at least one other stallion in the stable that the queen could tame by voice alone. Sternly bidding himself to behave, he caught Lothíriel by the arms and pulled her back against him.

"Nay, not Firefoot- he is a horse blooded by war, no lady's mount, and too big for you. You will be well pleased with Snowflake."

His wife turned in his arms and clasped him about his neck. Her storm grey eyes were heavy lidded, slumbrous, and by Béma he bid fair to drown in them. "But I wish for Firefoot, beloved," she breathed, running a finger into the open neck of his shirt.

Be strong! Be firm! Be... To his dismay Éomer felt as weak as water, his objections scattered like affrighted birds as Lothíriel pressed her lips against his ear and began pleading prettily in Sindarin. At least he believed she was pleading- in truth he had no notion what she said or meant, but nonetheless her words were highly effective...

Ten minutes later they were mounted on Firefoot, who had persisted in annoying Éomer with his foal-like attentions to the queen, and were trotting off to the hills in the distance, towards a quiet plain where the lessons could be held in privacy. Éomer held his wife firmly, noting the tension in her body, and marveled anew that she could have escaped learning how to ride all this time. He vowed to do all in his ability to ensure that the queen of Rohan would be one whom his people would hold proudly.

They reached the clearing and Éomer leapt lightly to the ground before swinging Lothíriel down after him. She staggered a little, giggling, and he hugged her before setting her on her feet and turning to shorten the stirrups for her. Firefoot nickered and he batted him affectionately on the shoulder. Finishing, he turned and saw that Lothíriel had pulled out a wineskin from her shirt.

"Dol Amroth Winter Red," she proclaimed, tipping her head back for an inelegant swallow.

"Ah, no more, wife." With effort he coaxed her to relinquish the flaccid wine skin, noting with some alarm that she seemed even tipsier than she had earlier. A cautious sniff at the wineskin sent his eyebrows shooting up and a dawning understanding of why Imrahil's offspring treated ale like water. He debated abandoning the lesson, but a curl of stubbornness quenched the notion before it was more than a fleeting thought.

With some difficulty he steered her to Firefoot's side. "Lothíriel, place your foot in the stirrup and raise yourself up." Lothíriel raised her foot. "Nay, the other one!"

She paused, a frown of perplexity on her face and balanced on one foot. "What of this one, then?"

Her husband closed his eyes and counted to ten. "Let us begin anew. Stand you here, wife, then lift your left foot and put in the stirrup as so." This step was accomplished after much wavering and some kicks to the unfortunate Firefoot's side, but Lothíriel seemed incapable of lifting herself up. Éomer attempted an inelegant push on the backside, which only resulted in a piercing shriek and disconcerting wriggle.

"Tickles!"

"Oof!" Éomer staggered as Lothîriel lost her balance and fell back against him. Frantically they fought for balance, then she giggled as she tripped and flattened her face against Firefoot's side.

Firefoot had been standing patiently enduring the bumps and delays, but enough was enough. With an irritated huff he sidled away from them, and Éomer only just managed to grab his wife before she landed face down in the grass. Steadying her, he stalked to Firefoot's head and shook his fist.

"Cursed orc bait, stand and mind yourself!"

But Firefoot only sidestepped and trod deliberately on Éomer's foot. Éomer hopped up and down for a few moments, swearing in highly colorful Rohirric stable cant, then limped to the saddlebags. "You push me too far, sir!" He rummaged a moment before he found what he sought and waved it menacingly in his horse's face.

Firefoot eyed the leading rein in his rider's hand and fixed an outraged glare on Éomer's face. Éomer could almost hear him. A leading rein?! I, Firefoot the Orc Bane, Firefoot the Wind Chaser, to be leashed with the tame aid used for foals, breeding mares, and- ponies!?

His own temper cooling, the king of Rohan knew he was in deep trouble. "An extra measure of oats a day for three weeks," he wheedled. Firefoot bared his teeth and snorted grassy breath into his face. "And a carrot." Snort. "And an apple!" Firefoot tipped his head, considering, and Éomer raised the leading rein.

"Oh, Éomer!"

The heartfelt wail snapped Éomer's head around. Somehow, while he and his horse had been in negotiations, Lothíriel had managed to haul herself up onto Firefoot's back and now sat clinging tipsily to the saddle. However, she was facing the wrong end of the horse and weeping as if her heart were breaking.

"Lothíriel, beloved, what troubles you?" Dropping the leading rein Éomer hastened to her side.

His wife hiccupped and pointed at Firefoot's rump. "Firefoot's head- it is lost!"

Éomer sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Lothíriel, his head is well, 'tis but that you are facing his- his-" He surrendered to the inevitable and raised his arms. "Come down, sweetheart, and let me remount you ere we go back to Edoras. You are in poor shape to ride alone."

Lothíriel's tears dried instantly and she scowled. "What is amiss with my shape?"

"Naught indeed!" Éomer hastily retreated. "But you are rather- ah, drunk."

"I am not a drunk!" Lothíriel shrieked, pounding her fist in emphasis- hard on Firefoot's rump.

Firefoot had been leisurely sampling the tender green grass and ignoring the argument going on above and behind him. The pounding on his rump, however, could not be ignored, however odd a Rider command. With a startled snort he trotted forward. The queen of Rohan screeched again and lurched forward (or backwards, whether by her or Firefoot's point of view). Mercilessly bounced up and down she made a panicked grab for his tail and yanked.

Firefoot's ears flew up and he leaped straight in the air, a skill Éomer would have sworn was impossible for even a proud scion of Felaróf's line. He shot forward, while Éomer scrambled to snatch up the end of the leading rein that he had dropped and pulled on it with all his might.

Unfortunately, he had neglected to attach it to Firefoot's bridle and the other end of the rein sailed through the air, bouncing the metal clip off his forehead. Exasperated, Éomer clutched his stinging forehead and yelled several blistering curses that a nine-year old Éowyn had overheard from soldiers, and which had earned him a mouthful of soap when the cook had overheard him (at least Éowyn had also shared her fried pastry).

Firefoot curled his lips and made a rude noise in return, but slowed his pace to a slow trot, allowing the king of Rohan to slowly catch up to him.

"É-o-me-mer, I th-think I am g-go-going t-to b-be-"

One look at Lothíriel's greenish cheeks was enough- not on Firefoot's beautiful, pampered, meticulously curried coat!

With a desperate creativity his bookish brother-by-marriage would have approved, Éomer ran up beside his horse and shouted, "Firefoot, left hard!"

His battle-trained steed promptly turned sharply left.

Lothíriel just as promptly flew off to the right and into her lord's waiting arms.

Sadly, with a lack of foresight the aforementioned bookish brother-by-marriage would have deplored, Éomer had forgotten the reason why he had had Firefoot fling Lothíriel off at all, as well as the effect her unusual dismount would have. Faramir (who was truthfully very bookish) would also have advised Éomer that ale and Dol Amroth Winter Red should never be mixed. Ever.

"Ooohh!" the queen of Rohan gagged.

"Aaggh!" her devoted husband yelped.

"Pttttt!" Firefoot, cautiously flicking his abused tail from a safe distance, bared his teeth as he offered his opinion.

Éomer staggered and sat down hard, Lothíriel caught close to him as he fell on his back. He grimaced as the odor of not-so-fresh breakfast ale and Winter Red rose from his shirt, and shifted to remove the painful pressure of Lothíriel's elbow from his stomach. Briefly he considered cursing, but he had exhausted even his impressive store. He scowled, then glanced down as he felt his wife stir against him.

Lothíriel wound her arms about his waist and nuzzled against his chest, her lips brushing the bare skin at his neckline. He felt the warmth of her breath as she sighed, "Ah, a teacher in truth, my Éomer. Not afeared any longer, not with you and F'foot here."

Éomer eyed Firefoot, who eyed him back before ambling over to nibble his hair. The king's chest heaved in a great sigh; his eyes closed and his shoulders began to shake in silent laughter. He turned dark eyes teary with mirth onto his wife's face as he smiled at her tenderly and dropped a kiss on her nose. "Pleasing news. We will have more lessons soon, though more, er, formal." He smothered another laugh in her hair.

"Mmm, 'twould please me." She frowned a little. "I would we work on dismounting- 'tis most disconcerting." She wrinkled her nose and pawed at his shirt. "Ah, Éomer?"

"Do not remind me," he grumbled softly before he laughed and pressed another kiss on her forehead. "Ah, 'tis no worse than after a week on patrol. Sleep for a while, sweetheart. I love you."

"Love you," Lothíriel mumbled into the warm hollow of his neck, burrowing even closer. She half-opened one eye when Firefoot huffed and lipped at her hair, and waved a hand aimlessly in the horse's general direction. "Love you too, F'foot- pleases me you bear your head once more." With a drowsy sigh she dropped her hand to rest on her husband's flat belly, tucking it into the waistband of his breeches.

Éomer tightened his arms about his wife and laid his head back. He gazed up at the clear blue sky, shifted to study Firefoot contentedly cropping the grass nearby, then finally looked back down at his sleeping wife curved warmly against him. A smile tipped up his lips and, nuzzling the dark cloud of Lothíriel's hair, he softly began to sing his favorite ballad, of a fair-haired boy of Rohan and his love for his raven-haired girl- and, of course, his horse.