Adventures of an Éored: Midsummer

Author’s Notes:

Oh my, has it really been over 9 (!!) years since I left my favourite éored on the dusty plains below Edoras and you, my fellow readers, thinking this was a one-piece? Well, it was never intended as such and while my main hobby has switched from writing to photography in those past years, I suddenly felt this unmistakable twitch in the back of my head, the heartbeat of a story longing to be finished (I just hope my English hasn’t become too rusty in the meantime…)

I also hope that my muse has woken long enough to actually let me do this, and that you, my dear readers, are still roaming ff.net and that you will let me know your thoughts just as you did back then. Of course, I will be equally happy to hear from anyone finding my stories for the first time. Cheers – and a happy New Year to you all!

Chapter 2: Meeting Legends

It was still early when Éomer made his way through the quiet festival grounds over to the horse corrals. The vast camp was bathed in twilight and nothing moved except for the occasional bird in the sky or on one of the many fence poles where they sat on their perch to examine their surroundings. Wherever the young warrior looked, tents small and large lay strewn across the plains beneath Edoras, a temporary city for the dozens of éoreds who would compete in this year’s festivities, its inhabitants still asleep.

Banners of all colours marked each éored’s camp space, not to be mistaken. And yet for now, they hung limply from their posts, as the wind which usually harrowed this sea of grass was likewise still dormant. It would only rise later in the afternoon, lifting the heavy fabric and unfold the shapes of horses, suns and dragons embroidered upon them in long hours of passionate work to the eye of the beholder, a splendid picture of superb artistry which belonged to the festival as much as its competitions.

Éomer loved this time of the day, the early summer mornings at least an hour before the sun showed its face on the horizon and turned the dew on the meadows into innumerable sparkling jewels for as far as the eye could see, until they quickly evaporated in the rising heat. Here, on the outskirts of their vast camp, the scent of fresh grass and horses was stronger than that of the cold ashes from the campfires, left-over food and the occasional spilled ale; the air cool and invigorating. A multitudinous choir of birds greeted the new day, the only sound aside from the young rider’s own footsteps and the occasional snore of those of his brothers-in-arms who had chosen to sleep beneath the open sky rather than in a stuffy tent.

Éomer smiled to himself. It had been a night to remember. Hundreds of warriors from éoreds all over the Mark meeting their kin and long-time friends, for these three days of the year released from their duty to protect the people of their ward from evil, celebrating the summer solstice together. A celebration of life, nothing less. It formed bonds among the men, renewed them, strengthened them. It gave them purpose.

He had loved the Midsummer Festival from when he was only a boy. He had marveled at the spectacle of the competitions, the sight of all those battle-hardened warriors proving their skill to the audience, their colourful ancient banners proudly rippling in the wind, but only now that he was part of the Armed Forces did he truly understand what it was all about. They had sung together, laughed together, shared their food and stories all through the shortest night of the year, until the first light of dawn had fallen onto the Great Plains again.

And still, Éomund’s son mused as he kicked aside a stone in his path, he had also felt a strong sense of competitiveness among some of the warriors while he had sat with his comrades, observing rather than competing in their boisterous telling of the many stories and anecdotes the past year had written into their lifelines.  He had noticed the calculating glances with which Thorvald and Bard had measured each other when their paths crossed shortly after their arrival, had felt the tense atmosphere as the two men greeted each other with only the barest of a measured nod. There was no question that this year’s wrestling competition would at least receive as much attention as the Great Race; too great was the rivalry between those two accomplished warriors.

A flutter of excitement stirred in Éomer’s stomach when he thought about what the next two days would bring. In the past years, he had been a visitor only, joining the festivities only on the day of the Great Race and the finals of the different competitions together with Éowyn and their uncle. This was the first time he was actually part of it, a challenger even. Not only moving between the warriors as a stranger, but accepted and belonging, and even more, allowed to be fighting for the honour of his éored despite his obvious youth.

The Great Race… All of a sudden, the feeling of an anthill in his stomach made a dramatic reappearance at the thought. Hundreds of warriors would be watching; Theoden-King would be watching… and his sister, too! All of Edoras would bear witness as he and Stormwing challenged the greatest racehorse the Mark had ever seen. What if Godric and Flame would leave them in the dust? What would his brothers-in-arms say? Wouldn’t he forever become the target of their ridicule if he failed?

A sharp right turn around the largest drinking tent brought Éomer closer to his destination. Up ahead, he could already make out the corrals in the brightening light, where large, multi-coloured shapes moved about calmly behind the fence posts. Yet just before his eyes had found his beloved Stormwing amidst the mares, movement to his left made him turn his head just in time to see a late fox slink away from one of the expired camp fires with a meaty bone between its teeth. The son of Éomund shook his head, a sigh escaping his lips.

It was too late for such thoughts. He had committed himself heart and soul to this undertaking. He had wanted to win the Great Race ever from when his father had first seated him before him in the saddle, and he had worked like a madman all this past year to bring himself into a position not only to participate in the name of his fellow riders, but to actually challenge the reigning champion with any hopes to succeed.

They had all lauded him what a fantastic rider he had become in the past months, even Arnhelm, who rarely handed out praise. And they had cast admiring eyes upon his mare, remarking how trim and fit the grey looked and praising her stamina and speed whenever they travelled around the Aldburg plains in performance of their duty. And whenever he sat on her back, the wind roaring in his ears and eyes, feeling the pulse of life, he could feel Stormwing’s will to go faster, ever faster, until there was no one left in front of them. It was like flying.

So yes, Éomer concluded as he came to a halt before the nearest corral, his eyes looking for the familiar light-grey shape. They were ready. As ready as they would ever be. No matter what happened tomorrow, he had done everything in his power to enter the challenge prepared. Whether it was enough remained to be seen.

And there she was, his precious Stormwing, in the far back of the corral together with the other mares, her head buried in the juicy grass for an early breakfast, relaxed and calm. With a proud smile upon his lips, Èomer let his gaze glide over her long, sinewy limbs, her heavily muscled shoulder and hindquarters and the flowing light grey tail and mane. Never before had a mare won the greatest race of the Mark. Perhaps they would write history tomorrow.

He clicked his tongue, and his smile deepened when heads shot up and dozens of ears flickered in his direction. And yet after a moment of thorough scrutinizing by scent and appearance, most of the mares immediately lost interest in him and lowered their heads again to resume their early meal, except for his beautiful mount who approached the fence in a swift trot, greeting her rider with a playful squeal.

“And good morning to you, too, Precious,” Éomer chuckled and extended a hand to caress the grey’s soft nose. Warm air was blown into his face in response, and affectionately, he buried it against the silken skin.

“How are we feeling today, Little One?” he murmured, rubbing a hand over Stormwing’s brow. “Ready to take on the world?” An explosive snort answered him. “Aye, so am I. I can hardly wait. But we must remain patient. They will show us the course later today, and only then I can plan our strategy. Just see that you rest and don’t quarrel with the other mares. I know you can be a haughty thing sometimes. Don’t anger them. It simply would not do to have you limping just before our great day.”

An indignant huff answered him as the mare butted her head against his chest, almost succeeding in knocking Éomer from the fence.

“It would also not do to incapacitate your rider just before the competition!” he scolded her, and yet laughed at the same time; on impulse quickly slipping onto Stormwing’s bare back and burying his hands in her thick mane. At once, he felt the powerful body between his thighs tense, only too eager to follow his commands.

“Easy, Precious, easy. We will not race today.” He turned her around and urged her into a swift, effortless trot along the fence, unable to suppress a broad grin as he felt the subdued power beneath him, only waiting to be unleashed. For a while, the son of Éomund cleared his head of all thought and just enjoyed the moment as he put his mount through some easy exercises first, then proceeding to bending her this way and that in order to improve her flexibility and heighten the mare’s awareness for his commands, riding backwards, sideways and in circles and even in place as Stormwing’s muscles gradually warmed with the effort and her moves became smooth and gliding like a cat’s. A wistful smile formed on Éomer’s lips. If only his father could have seen them like this!

“My, what a sight for sore eyes the two of you are!” a voice suddenly cut through his reverie, and as he turned his head, Éomer saw a familiar shape in a silken green tunic standing by the far fence, arms resting loosely folded on the crossbar. “Methinks I should warn Godric about a certain cousin of mine. So far, he only considers Thunderclap a threat.”

“Théodred!” Éomer beamed and directed his mount back to where his cousin had taken position, having watched them for Bema-knew how long. He extended his arm in greeting to the older man and inwardly winced when his hand was almost squashed in a firm handshake. “When did you arrive? I looked for you yesterday, though your riders told me you went to visit Uncle.”

“Aye. I gave him my report and stayed for dinner. I only returned to the camp in the middle of the night. By then, you were already fast asleep.” Théodred winked, and Éomer felt heat creep into his face.

“We travelled all the way from Aldburg yesterday and—“

“No need to explain yourself, Cousin. I know it’s quite a long journey, and the sun is relentless on the plains. Where is the wind when one needs it?”

“Aye. I hope the temperatures will go down a bit until tomorrow, or the race will become even more unpredictable.” A brief glance to the eastern horizon confirmed to Éomer that the sun was on the way and it would be another hot day. “I cannot remember that it was ever like this around the time of the festival.”

The remark earned him a sly smirk.

“Who knows, there might be a thunderstorm later on. It was rather humid the last two days, don’t you think? And yet whatever the conditions will be, I have to admit that the two of you certainly look ready to do battle. Elfhelm told me of all the relentless work you put into your preparations.” Théodred shrugged. “What can I say? It shows. I wish Uncle could see what you made of his little mare.”

“Perhaps he can.” A moment of silence passed between the two cousins; a good silence. A silence of remembrance.  At last, Éomer slid from his mare’s back, sending her off with a clap on the muscular hindquarters as he climbed back over the fence and cast a probing glance at the older rider he regarded as his brother. “You look rested, Cousin. How are things in the Westfold?”

“It is true, they’ve been quiet for a while,” Théodred mused, lifting an eyebrow. “But I don’t trust the calm. The Dunlendings know about our festival. As much as I loathed it, I only took a third of my éored with me and left the others with Marshall Erkenbrand. It would not be the first time the stinking filth decides to attack us during the festivities.”

“Aye, it’s the same in Aldburg. Elfhelm only took one third of our éored and one third of Findarras’ riders with us. There have been no orc-attacks for a while now that the days are so long, but who knows?” Éomer shook his head in disgust and frowned. “It’s a shame though. Everyone should be able to enjoy Midsummer, don’t you think, Cousin?” Kicking a stone out of the way, he followed the older man as he directed his steps in the direction of the stallions’ corral.

“I am quite sure that the people of Aldburg and Westfold know how to compensate their riders for the unlucky fate of having to stay back. Do you not remember the festivities in Aldburg from when it was your home? Did you find them lacking in any way?”

Éomer snorted.

“I was only a child then, Théodred. I had nothing to compare them to.”

“True.” Without warning, Théodred came to a stop, and his keen glance measured his cousin from head to toe. “You are certainly not a child anymore, Éomer. You have grown this past year, in more ways than just in height. Although that is astonishing as well: you are almost my height now. If you continue at this rate, this might be the only year you can participate in the Great Race with any hopes to win, because you will soon become too heavy for your horse, especially once you begin to fill out.” He looked into suddenly dismayed eyes.

“Gods, I hope not! I mean…” Éomer wrung his hands. “Of course I want to grow further,--“

“--and you want to be able to split orc-sculls with your sword strikes, which means adding some muscle to those long bones!”

“That, too, but I also want to win this race! You know what it means to me.”

“Aye.” Théodred chuckled. “My ears are still bleeding from all the times you went on and on and on about how you would become the greatest rider the Mark has ever seen, and how you would win the race each year you participated until old age stopped either you or your steed.” He laughed at the younger man’s dark glance.

“You will not jest like that after tomorrow,” Éomer grumbled, again to the older man’s amusement. As if to mock him, laughter rose into the quiet morning as the camp slowly rose from sleep behind them. Good-naturedly, Théodred clapped his shoulder.

“Ah well, Cousin, forgive me. I certainly did not mean to ridicule you. All the more as I heard nothing but praise from Elfhelm about the things you did in your first year... except for your little adventure in Firien Forest perhaps, but that would be unfair, as it was at the beginning.”

Éomer paled.

“Elfhelm told you about that? But I thought…”

“That he promised you to keep it secret? Don’t worry, I am the only one he told. I made him promise to keep me informed on your progress when you joined his éored, so that promise is in fact older than the one he gave you. But fear not, Father knows nothing about what happened in the past summer, and we best keep it that way. Not because of what *you* did, but for the good of your scout and commander.”

“Do you really believe he would punish them? Seriously, I mean? Like… banishing Arnhelm, or pulling him from our éored?”

Théodred’s eyebrows twitched as he turned his head, an unmistakable warning in his eyes.

“I dare not say what he would do, so my advice would be to just exclude it from your report when you meet Father tomorrow. Elfhelm will not mention it, and I trust that the two of you are in agreement about what you *will* tell him… are you, Éomer?”

A disturbing thought raced through Éomer’s head, and he came to a sudden stop.

“Aye, we talked about that, but what if Grima knows what really happened?”

“Grima?”

“He always knows about things he has no business knowing, even if we cannot explain where he gets his information most of the time. What if he heard about this and tells Uncle? What if I’m caught lying to him?”

Théodred snorted.

“No one is asking you to lie. You are simply leaving something out, something of little to no consequence to your éored or the Mark. After all, you are not expected to give a detailed report of each and every day of the past year.”

“But what if Grima asks me about it? Or perhaps he already told Uncle, and he will ask me himself? I cannot lie straight into his face!”

“I believe he would already have mentioned something while I visited him last night.” Théodred dismissed Éomer’s misgivings with a throwaway gesture. “Trust me, Éomer, there are limits even to Grima Wormtongue’s knowledge. He cannot hear about every little thing that happens in the field. Now, let’s no longer talk about him on such a fine morning. I came to show you something.” He turned on his heels and pointed with his bearded chin towards the corral they had reached during their conversation. “Do you not want to have a look at your main opponent in the race and meet his rider? Search for weaknesses?”

“Good luck with that,” an unexpected answer came from within the corral followed by a laugh, and as Éomer followed his cousin’s gaze, he beheld a slim young man with light brown hair, dressed in the earthen colours of Théodred’s éored, standing alongside a tall chestnut stallion with a brush in his hands.

His mouth fell open as he realized he was looking at a pair of living Rohirric legends. The Great Race had a history of centuries, and out of the hundreds and thousands of the greatest riders of the Mark and their horses who had competed in it, only those two right before him had managed to win it five times in a row, with no competitor ever having reached the finishing post closer than four lengths behind Godric and his magnificent Flame.

His breath involuntarily caught in his chest, Éomer feasted his eyes on the most perfectly built horse he had seen in the now seventeen years of his life. As he had already expected, Flame was tall, certainly quite a bit taller than his precious Stormwing. Almost nineteen hands, he estimated with a brief flash of reluctant admiration. Although heavily muscled at the perfectly angled shoulders and hindquarters, the stallion still appeared rather lean and light to him, a hint of his unmatched speed and stamina which Éomer had so far only witnessed from the distance of the Royal Stands for the past years of their reign as champions. The long red mane spilled over a muscular, elegantly curved neck and would look like raging fire once Flame moved fast enough. Likewise the long and thick tail which Godric was just now working on with his brush to loosen the knots and the dirt which had accumulated in the coarse hair during their journey, making certain his mount looked every bit the legend it was. He swallowed. Béma, what a horse this was! Did he really think he stood a chance with his little mare?

And it appeared that Flame recognized his challenger as he stood still like a statue in the brightening morning light: ears untwitchingly pointed in the direction of his breathless admirer whose scent he probed with quivering nostrils, answering Éomer’s silent challenge with a fiery look out of large dark eyes. A heartbeat later, the sun cleared the last mountains on the eastern horizon, bathing the plains in its golden light and igniting the stallion’s coat in a spectacle of red hues that would have awed even a colour-blind man.

“Éomer, meet Flame,” Théodred’s voice seemed to reach his cousin’s ears from the distance of another dimension. “Flame, meet Éomer.”

Author's Note: Okay, There are some truly adult themes present in this chapter as it heads towards the heart of darkness. Some rough language, too, but nothing too bad, I'd think. 

                       Yet I'm confident  that things will lighten up again with the next chapter. Hoping against hope that some of you might find it in yourself to drop me a quick line or 

                       two of feedback (be it negative or positive, yet hopefully constructive), I'm leaving you to your reading now. Cheers!

Chapter 6: The Exorcism of Thorvald

000

"Halt! Who goes there?"

The guard's voice sounded gruff and nervous, and a telltale prickle in the pit of his stomach told Éomer even though he could not see the man yet, that in all likelihood, an arrow was pointing in their direction. Not that he could blame the man. Even if was common practice to always have two guards share their duty at any given position, standing out here in the dark a good distance away from the camp was bound to leave any man jumpy. Not that anyone seriously expected an orc-attack to happen in the middle of the Mark during these shortest nights of the year. Cover was in short supply on the plains, making it difficult, if not impossible for orcs to reach their destination without running the risk of having the sun burning their skin on their way back, or worse, being detected by one of the patrolling éoreds. Yet it could never hurt to be careful, and so twenty positions had been established in a wide circle around the festival grounds in order to keep everyone safe.

"It is I, Théodred, Second Marshal of Riddermark," his cousin answered calmly enough, obviously having expected to run into their guards. "And in my presence are Grimbold of Westfold, Elfhelm of Aldburg and a few others of my riders."

In the meantime, they had approached far enough to make out the shapes of the two men before them in the pale light of the half-moon. And aye, Éomer noticed unsurprised, the taller of the two did only now lower his bow.

"Marshal Théodred? It is I, Héorulf... and Fastred is here with me, as well." His voice clearly betrayed his surprise over meeting his commander so far outside the camp at such an ungodly hour, but the warrior knew that it was not his place to question the cause of this strange event. "Everything has been quiet so far, although it seems that a thunderstorm is headed our way. Either that or it is just heat lightning. Is there anything we can help you with?" His puzzled gaze travelled over the little group, which accompanied the King's son.

"Aye, Héorulf." Théodred inclined his head in greeting at the two men. "We will leave the camp for a while, but we will not go far. I would like to ask of you that you reposition yourself for the next hour about three hundred paces further towards the festival grounds. We will inform you when we are done here… oh, and you might hear the odd noise coming from our direction. This will be no reason to be alarmed. Just ignore it."

It was obvious that his order did nothing to clarify things to the guards, and his cousin did not seem willing to lessen their confusion. Had Éomer not felt rather tense himself, he might have laughed at the other men's thoroughly bewildered expressions as they turned to leave with an implied half-bow.

"Aye, my Lord Marshal," Héorulf nodded. "We will be behind that next rise, should you need us anyway."

"Very well, Héorulf. Just one last thing: you never saw us, and you will not mention this to anyone. Have I made myself clear?"

"Very clear, my Lord Marshal. Come, Fastred." The guards slowly back away with a last greeting, and then disappeared into the night. For a while, none of the warriors spoke as they continued in the darkness, and yet all of them felt the tension rise with every step that they took.

000

"Are you certain you want to witness this, Èomer?" Théodred had silently inquired on their way over to the Westfold camp to see whether Thorvald agreed to his plans. The others were trailing a bit behind them, lost in their own dark thoughts, and so the older man had gladly seized the opportunity. "It will get ugly; that I can guarantee. And it is already late. A hard trial is waiting for you tomorrow; mayhap you should really make for your own camp in order to meet its requirements."

"Then why involve me in this affair at all, Théodred?" Éomer had asked, his brow furrowed. "You cannot first present a matter of such heavy consequence to me and then expect me to forget about it only because of the late hour. Now that I know the full extent of the problem, I need to witness the outcome. There are fates at stake, that I understand. You want me to learn, and I am willing to learn from this."

"All right then…" With a short affirmative nod, Théodred had come to a halt just outside the still mainly deserted Westfold camp, and for a moment, his pensive gaze had rested on his cousin, unmistakably sizing him up. "Just remember, you do not have to watch this. Should you, at any point of the fight, decide otherwise, I will not hold you to your word. You can leave whenever you want."

"I have already been in battles," Éomer had replied curtly. "I am not known to faint at the sight of blood."

"Well, it's your call, Cousin. Now stay here while I am going to establish whether Bard's rival will be ready to play." Théodred had clapped his shoulder and signaled for Grimbold to follow him while Elfhelm had left to catch their healer.

Temporarily left with Bard, Éomund's son had regarded his fellow rider for a few long, silent moments, anxious. True, over the course of the past year, he had seen how powerful the big warrior could be in battle, and yet at the same time, the scene of Thorvald deliberately hurting Gaerwolf repeated itself before his inner eye… and there was no question that the Westfold warrior had probably far worse ideas in his head about what to do with his rival.

"You need not be afraid for me, son of Éomund," Bard had replied to his unvoiced question, the slightest of smiles playing around his mouth while his gaze stayed glued to the scene before him, where their Marshal had reached his opponent's guards. "I can hold my own against Thorvald… provided he agrees to the plan. Although I cannot imagine why he would not. After all, this is what he wanted all along."

"It is strange to think of him in Findarras' place, as a captain."

"And yet he was, and he was good at it. The riders were eager to follow him into battle." Bard had sighed. "Théodred was right to remind us of this. It is easy to forget when things have been bad for a while. But we do owe Thorvald this chance."

"Is it true that he saved your life?" Éomer had inquired, to which the warrior had nodded.

"Not just mine, your cousin's, as well. And Eflhelm's. Grimbold's, too, though not in the same battle. He really was a force of nature on the battlefield. I suppose he still is… only these days, it seems he gathers all his energy from a dark place, and that slowly but surely it consumes him."

Together, they had watched in silence while their marshal had presented his idea to the Westfold warrior, and neither of them had been particularly surprised when Thorvald had quickly risen to his feet.

"So," Bard had commented. "I guess we will have a fight tonight…"

000

"I suppose we are far enough away now. This is perfect." Théodred eyed the natural hollow with a satisfied expression on his face and turned around to face the two combatants. "This is it, Gentlemen. Should any of you want to back down, now is the time to speak up. Otherwise, we will leave you to your business."

"I certainly have not come all this way to simply walk back now," Thorvald replied, his gaze fixed on his opponent in obvious anticipation. "Although I would not be surprised if Bard here decided to turn tail, now that he's about to get his just come-uppance."

Bard issued a grim laugh.

"Me? I'm looking forward to this, believe me. I have been waiting for this opportunity for a long time."

"Just remember…" Théodred raised his voice, "…that I will not allow you to seriously hurt each other. We will step in at once should you attempt to break each other's bones… or worse. Short of that, the rules of the fight are up to you. See that you get this matter settled once and for all, or Béma help me, the next time it is me you face!" With those words, the Second Marshal stepped aside and indicated to the other captains to follow his example. A hard tension suddenly filled the atmosphere as the two rivals walked into the middle of the hollow and turned to face each other.

Stepping up to his cousin, Éomer held his breath, suddenly certain that Théodred's idea would lead to a catastrophe. And it seemed that his anxiety had been clearly written all over his face, for at the next moment, he felt the Prince's hand upon his shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze.

"Do not worry, Éomer," Théodred whispered under his breath, his eyes never leaving the two warriors. "I've got this under control. Trust me."

Before them, Thorvald rolled his shoulders and there was a dangerous glint in his dark eyes in the light of the stars as he began to circle the younger man. "So, Bard… I hope you are prepared to receive the worst beating of your life. You certainly deserve it."

"Will you try to talk me to death, or are you actually going to do something, Thorvald?" the Eastfold warrior replied, cracking his knuckles in answer. "I'm right here. Let's see whether you have the guts to actually approach me!"

His opponent uttered a short laugh and inclined his head. Then he charged. With all the momentum of a wild Westfold ox, he leaped at the younger man. With a quick sidestep, Bard easily evaded his swinging fists and instead scored a hit to Thorvald's neck himself. His rival pivoted, and his grappling hand almost found purchase in the younger man's shirt had he not quickly bent backwards. Another punch missed the Eastfolder's jaw by the breadth of a hair.

Thorvald snorted.

"You fight like a craven, Bard! What is this? Are you going to evade me all night?"

"You are only too slow, old man!" Bard grinned. "I can see your blows coming from miles away! Perhaps you are still too drunk for this. Shouldn't we rather wait until tomorrow in order to grant you even half a chance?" He sidestepped another charge, this time succeeding in scoring a kick against Thorvald's standing leg and sending the big warrior to the ground. "See, you can't even walk properly! This is easier than fighting a blind Uruk!"

Now seriously enraged, his rival picked himself up, and in the brief light of a distant bolt of lightning, his eyes seemed to spray sparks of hatred as he threw himself at Bard with a roar, unleashing a fistful of sand into the other's wide open eyes. The next moment, the two bodies collided with an audible sound.

"Gods…" Clenching his fists into his shirt so hard that his fingernails dug into his own skin, Éomer flinched. The true fight was on now, all ridicule and foreplay forgotten as the two warriors shoved and pushed each other around, their hand grappling for hold in the other's clothes and hair, grunting and groaning from the strain of their efforts.

With a sudden jolt, Thorvald's brow crashed against the bridge of Bard's nose, breaking it. A pained grunt escaped the Eastfold warrior as he stumbled backwards, still unable to open his eyes. A dark torrent shot out of his nose. And still his opponent clung to him, now starting to bludgeon the younger man's side with his freed fist.

"Théodred!" Éomer gasped.

"Not yet," the King's son muttered under his breath, but it was easy to hear that he, too, was dismayed about the turn of events.

Although not being able to see and catapulted into a sudden world of hurt, Bard' survival instincts kicked in as he first dragged his rival down with both hands and then rammed his knee into the other's abdomen, satisfied to hear a muffled grunt. He followed it with a quick blow of his elbow between Thorvald's shoulder blades, again sending the older man to his knees. Three fast steps back brought him out of his opponent's reach, finally succeeding at wiping the sand out of his watering eyes.

"You fucking bastard," he hissed with a quick glance at his bloodstained hand while before him, the Westfold warrior scrambled to his feet again. "I knew you'd fight dirty! You could never win an honest fight!"

"What would you know about an honest fight?" Thorvald spat. "This is nothing! This is but the start of it! Prepare to get hurt!" And again he lunged, yet this time too uncontrolled to evade Bard's glancing blow to his cheek bone. More blood flowed.

Théodred felt the questioning glances of his two captains as well as his cousin upon himself and wordlessly shook his head. No, the time to intercept had not yet come.

Before them, the two combatants rearranged themselves for another round. Wary now after each had drawn first blood, they circled each other, arms expanded to both sides, knees bent and muscles ready to catapult them to either side in order to evade their opponent's charge at the slightest twitch. For a moment, their sculpted silhouettes stood in stark contrast against the sky when another lightning illuminated the night, then everything plunged into darkness again. No thunder followed. The night seemed to hold its breath.

Then the next flicker revealed intertwined bodies, wrestling, grappling each other in their efforts to gain the upper hand, then darkness again, followed by groaning, grunting, hard bursts of breathing and the dull sound of heavy punches against flesh.

When Éomer's eyes readjusted to the blackness, the two opponents had separated again and stood a few paces apart in similar defensive stances. Both fighters breathed heavily, and their shirts hung in rags from their bodies, dirty and stained.

"You're bleeding," Thorvald stated with obvious delight and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. "Though not merely enough for my taste. You stole my wife from me, you dirty rat! What kind of man would do that to his brother-in-arms? To think that I saved your life once! I should have let the orc-scum have their fun with you!"

"What kind of man would hit his wife until she bled?" Bard rebuked, quickly evading another punch that was aimed at his chin. His own fist connected with a sickening thud with Thorvald's lower ribs. "And in front of your children, too! I did not steal your wife, Thorvald; she left you! You scared her away! She was afraid you were going to kill her! Get it in your thick head!"

"You're lying! I saw how Daléna always looked at you! You could barely contain yourself until I was gone to slip into our house!" Thorvald bellowed. "What a rotten thing to do to your fellow rider! And yet I am the one who gets all the blame!" He spat, a mixture of saliva and blood. "The time when my injury forced me to stay home must have been excruciating for the two of you… or did you bang my wife whenever she told me she would go to buy provisions? Did you shag her somewhere in a barn while I was lying broken in my bed, fighting for my life?"

"We grew up together, Thorvald! Your wife is like a sister to me! We have known each other from the earliest days of our childhood! That's why she was friendly with me, and we never made a secret out of it!" Bard shouted. "Yet we were never in love! She loved you! And it was you who destroyed that love with your suspicion and your foul moods! You made her life an unending nightmare! You have no one to blame for this but yourself!"

"How dare you!" With another enraged roar, the Westfold warrior catapulted himself forward, and this time, Bard's fist connected with his jaw with full force, knocked his teeth together and split his lip. For a moment, Thorvald stood swaying as his blood pattered onto the ground, and it seemed as if he would remain on his feet. Extending a hand for his rival, the fighter stumbled forward. One step, two steps – until all balance left him, and he crashed to the ground with a pained grunt.

With a sharp breath, Éomer averted his eyes. Aye, Théodred had warned him… and yet this was beyond what he had expected. Far beyond. It was unclear to him why his cousin had not already stopped the two rivals, as it seemed to him that both men would rather die than give in… even if Bard made no move to take advantage of his opponent now that he had landed the first really severe blow. Instead he watched impassively as Thorvald scrambled around in the dirt before him in a desperate attempt to regain his feet, and suddenly knelt down before his opponent.

"You know what Daléna told me just the other day, Thorvald?" He inhaled. "She told me that your son did not speak for a full month after what you made him witness! He was like a puppet, she said, some lifeless thing, not a child. He would not respond when he was being talked to; he would not even blink! She barely managed to feed him! And after all this time, the poor lad is still having nightmares about it almost every night! Every night he sees you charge into the room to beat his mother bloody, and he wakes up screaming and will not stop crying! How can you live with that?"

Thorvald froze, and in the pale light of yet another lightning, Bard could see that his last accusation had penetrated the older man's defenses.

"What?"

"You heard me," he said, calmer, but with the same intensity. "You became a monster to your child's eyes. An orc."

The accusation stunned the older warrior, and all of a sudden, his efforts at regaining his feet stopped, and a strange expression crept onto his face, one that Bard had never expected to see in these broad, angular features. Was it really shame? Had Théodred been right after all?

Thorvald's mouth worked, but it took him a while to actually form the words, and even when he uttered them in a voice husky with emotion, they were barely audible.

"You are only saying this to hurt me."

Bard lowered his voice.

"It is the truth, Thorvald, and you know it. Little Wulfric saw everything, and of course, it had an effect on him… as it had on his mother. Daléna is no longer the same, Thorvald. The incidence lies eighteen months in the past, but I have yet to see her smile again. Do you remember her smile? I do." He inhaled, the pain in his broken nose fresh and sharp. "It was such an innocent, pure smile. We all loved her for it, but it was not that kind of love. She was yours, and we all understood and accepted that. It is possible to love someone without wanting to be together with them. You used to understand that, too, but after your injury; you were never the same again. What happened, Brother? Tell us. We are here to help you."

The Westfold warrior uttered a bitter laugh.

"You want to help me, you say? This is what you do to help me?" He ran a hand over his bloodied beard, and his accusatory gaze found the other men when he held out his bloodied fingers, the blood black in the cold starlight. He stared at his marshal with such hatred that it sent a chill down Éomer's spine. "You gathered your men around you, Théodred Théodensson, and then waited until I was so drunk that your henchman could beat me up without risk. And now that I'm on the ground, you see to it that every abhorrent thing I have ever done is thrown into my face. Tell me, what is it that you want me to do, kill myself? Do you think that I haven't tried?"

"Thorvald, you misunderstand." The King's son stepped forward, his voice low and compassionate as he approached the fallen rider. "Brother…"

"Don't call me 'brother'!"

"You left me with no choice when you attacked our recruits earlier tonight. I would have liked to wait until you had sobered, but you forced my hand. And yet you misunderstand me when you think that we are here to punish you for the things you've done."

"What else should this be, a reward? You even brought your recruit so that he could witness my destruction!" Thorvald's hateful glance made Éomer shiver, and he barely felt Elfhelm's soothing hand on his shoulder. Before them, his cousin lowered himself to his knees, the expression on his face serious and sincere.

"This is not an attempt to destroy you, Brother. It is rather a last, desperate attempt to find the man you once were inside this maelstrom of blackness that devoured you in the wake of your injury. You used to be a man we all respected, and your riders were eager to follow you. You might even have been promoted to marshal by now had this accursed ambush not happened. We all know that the path to recovery was long and hard for you, and it seems that somehow, you lost your way on it." He interrupted himself, and if possible, his gaze became even more intense. "And yet you are not the first man who had this happen to him, Thorvald, nor will you be the last. If one thing is certain, it is that each of us can fall, every day. The important part is to get up again. And if it is too hard to do it by yourself, you must allow your brothers to help. Let us help you, Thorvald, for the path you are headed is leading to nothing good."

Thorvald snorted, and there was a self-derogatory, horrible undertone in his voice when he answered.

"And how exactly do you plan to help me, 'Brother'?" he mocked Théodred. "Tell me, what had you hoped to achieve by cutting my roots and sending me to the Westfold? Did you not think that the riders would inquire why an Eastfolder was transferred to their éored? Did you not think they'd find out?" Now his burning eyes met Grimbold's in raw accusation. "And did you think that I would not understand why you ordered me into the vanguard for every assault we performed, Captain? Did you think that I would not understand that you hoped for our enemies to rid you of me? That I would not see the disappointment on your face whenever I returned from an attack with your riders?"

Grimbold swallowed.

"It was only after your second clash with Raedwulf that I decided so, Thorvald," he confessed in a low voice. "You almost killed him, barely a few days after our last conversation. What was I to do? Not only did you defy your orders time and again; you actively went and sought trouble. I thought that, by placing you in the vanguard, it would help you focus your destructive temper exclusively against our foes. That you would spare your fellow riders if you were allowed to unleash your frustration against orcs and Dunlendings instead."

"Mayhap you truly believed that." Thorvald shook his head in resignation, and suddenly it seemed as if all energy, which had flooded him during his fight with Bard, had left him. "And yet I dare you to deny that you were also hoping for our enemies to kill me." He stared at his captain and at last, the other man had to avert his eyes. With a deep breath, the warrior continued.

"I knew it. And I will confess that I was hoping for it, too, each time that we rode into battle." He saw the shock in the others' eyes. "What was there left for me? My wife and children were gone and the men of my éored despised me for what I had done to them. I was forced to leave my home, and the riders of Westfold never accepted me. And at last, my own captain ordered me into the most dangerous position on every charge that we rode. Had I killed myself in my despair, Sleipnir would have refused to carry my soul up to the halls of my ancestors, and even if he had, they would never have permitted a coward who took his own life to enter. So I hoped for our enemies to release me from the burden of existence… to find an honourable death on the battlefield in defense of the Mark. But my survival instincts are too strong, I suppose, so I am cursed to live on." With a shaking breath, Thorvald hid his face behind his hands.

"There might still be a way to turn your life around," Théodred offered quietly. "To come back from the abyss, back into brotherhood. You may even find personal happiness again, Thorvald. It is not impossible."

"How?" The warrior shook his head despondently. "There is not a single rider in the Mark who has not heard of my monstrous deeds. No matter where you transfer me to, Marshal, they will all know who I am. "

"True, they will recognize you," the King's son agreed. " And yet you could change the way they regard you by taking responsibility for the things you did… and by apologizing to the people you hurt… starting with Gaerwolf tomorrow… and the riders of your éored. Let them know that you regret the things you've done, and that you are willing to do what is necessary to change."

Thorvald's hands dropped to his lap, but the glance he gave Théodred in answer was deeply skeptical.

"And Daléna? How should she ever forgive me, if things are the way Bard just said? And what could she even want from me, now that I am no longer a real man?" Even in the dark, he noticed the sudden look of understanding in Théodred's eyes, and nodded grimly. "Aye, Marshal. Even if I ever found another woman who could love me in spite of my history - I would be incapable of giving her children. Worse yet, I could not even please her. My wound made sure of that. I may still be able to fight for our land, but otherwise, I am completely and utterly useless."

"How can you say this, Thorvald?" Grimbold at last joined in, with another long glance at his kneeling marshal before he addressed his rider. "There are so many women, not only in the Westfold, left widowed by the war, and who are barely able to provide a home and sufficient food to their children, now that they are alone. Do you know what they would give for a man who provided protection and a pair of strong hands to help them master the challenges that each and every day presents them?"

Thorvald shrugged.

"Aye, perhaps one of them might take me in, out of pure necessity. But how could I ever be more than a farm hand to them if they knew about my limitation?"

"There are other ways to please a woman." Théodred remarked evenly, meaningfully lifting his eyebrows. Then his gaze became piercing. "You are more than your cock, Thorvald. I understand that for a while, this might have seemed like the end of the world to you, but it is time now for you to realise this. Look at yourself: you are a powerful man, one of the most powerful warriors of the Mark. You have two strong hands. You can wield a sword with them, or build something. You can fondle a woman with them. You can carry children in your arms, or rock them to sleep. You have two strong legs. You can walk with them, run with them, ride with them. You have a head with a capable brain on your neck; you were a captain! You know how to inspire people and make them follow you! You only need to remember it!" He shook his head with vigor. "Béma, it would be an utter waste to have a capable man like you pursue death, when the Mark is in such desperate need of defenders! Your land needs you, Thorvald… and I won't even start about the vow you took when you joined the Armed Forces, but it is high time that you see what you still have to offer!"

Dark eyes regarded him doubtfully, and for the longest time, silence spread between the warriors.

Hugging himself in the increasingly chilly night breeze, Éomer barely dared to breathe, and his head reeled from all the things that had been disclosed. It had been so easy to hate Thorvald after everything he had done, and yet now that he knew the whole story, Éomund's son could not help feeling for the warrior who was still on his knees in the middle of the hollow. He had only been with the riders for one year yet, and yet even those twelve months had confirmed to Éomer that his brothers-in-arms hardly ever let an opportunity pass to brag about their virility around the camp fire, proudly stating the many villages where they had unmarried wenches desperately waiting for their éored to pay them another visit, as if it were some kind of contest to them. How was a man supposed to feel who had lost his abilities? And wouldn't he naturally begin to see his fellow riders as a threat to his own marriage? What a mess!

"I would like to believe in what you're saying, Marshal," Thorvald said at length, his voice low and beat. "I would like to believe that there is indeed a way back for me—"

"But there is!"

"—but I think too much has happened. Too much that can't be forgiven." He shook his head. "The riders have formed their opinion of me, and I do not see how it should be possible to change it."

"If you think that you will not be given a chance in the Westfold," Théodred said with another long, telling glance at Grimbold, "I will offer you this, Thorvald: come to Edoras with me after the festival, and I will give you a place in my own éored. I will personally see to it that you get a fresh start. The rest is up to you. It might very well be the last chance you ever get." In the flickering light of another faraway lightning, the King's son found himself staring into widening eyes.

"But why would you do this for me, Sir? The Prince's personal éored… I do not deserve such a chance!"

A thin, determined smile formed on Théodred's lips, and behind him, the others slowly began to relax. Silently, Bard stepped over to where Elfhelm and their recruit were silently observing, and meaningfully cocked an eyebrow.

"Why?" The King's son repeated. "I tell you why: I want to see that man again who came to our aid when we found ourselves surrounded by orc hordes in the Eastemnet, outnumbered four to one. That man rode through the night in the middle of a snowstorm when he had learned about a trap the enemy had laid for us, and his charge saved the lives of two hundred and forty men; Elfhelm's, Bard's and my own included. We owe you, Thorvald, and that is why we are here. Accept our help and take the first step towards a new life tonight, Brother. I implore you."

And with those words, the King's son proffered his hand to the kneeling man… and his smile broadened when it was, at last, accepted.

"Welcome back, Brother. You have been missed."

Adventures of an Éored: Midsummer

Author's Note:

Alright, here it is, the reason why I ever began writing this. I would like to dedicate it to Thanwen, for the inspiration her stories are for me. If you haven't discovered her wonderful Rohan-stories yet, you should definitely do so!

Still hoping to hear from you, even if it is only a single line of feedback, I'm leaving you to the highlight of the Midsummer Festival now. Cheers!

Chapter 8: The Great Race – Part 1

The line of riders snaked through the deserted camp; proud captains and the representatives of their éoreds who would fight for their honour in the Great Race in just a moment. The noise of the crowd increased steadily as they drew nearer to the stands, and while the son of Éomund had succeeded in keeping anxiety at bay for as long as he had been busy with his preparations, it now claimed him whole. Éomer's hands, clenched around the reins to the point where his knuckles turned white, felt clammy, and a similar cold feeling settled in the pit of his stomach as his gaze glided past the riders before him to where the noise was originating. He drew a sharp breath, causing his captain to turn his head.

A compassionate smile curled Elfhelm's lips as he regarded his nervous recruit.

"There is no reason to fear this experience, Éomer," he said with conviction. "Enjoy it. This is your day. You are ready for it. You are an extraordinary rider, and you come prepared. I have every confidence in you."

Éomer swallowed. His mouth felt so dry all of a sudden…

"It is only…" He shook his head, unable to express his feelings, but Elfhelm understood him without words.

"I know. And I agree, it is a big occasion… but you are up to it. You already proved it." Elfhelm reached out and grasped the young rider's hand, giving it a brief squeeze. "Trust in yourself, Éomer. Take heart. You have been waiting for this day for so long, and at last, it has arrived. Now make it yours."

Éomer nodded wordlessly and inhaled when the salute of the horns announced the participants of the race to the crowd. From the corner of his eyes, he saw a rider on a black horse race in the direction of the Royal Stands, a shorter figure in the saddle before him. He smiled and briefly touched the banner around his arm. Tolgor was bringing Éowyn back just in time to witness the whole event in all its splendor. Oh well… he better saw to it that he gave her something to remember, then.

Righting himself in the saddle, Éomer brought his prancing mare to a stop.

"Shhh, Precious," he made, clapping her muscular neck as she fought against the bit. "Be patient. We will only have to wait a little longer. Conserve your strength."

He looked around and saw that his rivals were mainly fighting a similar fight to his; most of their horses were already dark with sweat, some even lathered in foam and unable to stand still. To his left, a mighty dark-grey stallion trotted around in tight circles, his rider swearing as he fought with his mount. It was Thunderclap, Éomer noticed. During their walkthrough, Godric had introduced him to the other participants, every now and then adding some valuable information about the pair. He considered Thunderclap and his rider his strongest rivals, he had said, not only for the fact that the colt of the great Thunderbolt had been the runner-up for the past two years.

Éomer could see why, and yet he could also follow Godric's evaluation of the couple: the stallion was strong and lightning-quick, but he had always lost the race on the last quarter-league against the lighter-built Flame and his lighter rider. Bréolaf was tall and muscular, no doubt an intimidating opponent for every foe he faced, but in a race over two leagues, his weight was a hindrance… which was about to become his own fate in the near future, if Théodred was to be believed. Éomer snorted. He would prove to his cousin that one could be tall and strong and win this race!

Tearing his eyes away from the two, he sought Godric and Flame in the bustle, and found them calmly moving about among their rivals, waiting to be announced. As if the scout was feeling his undivided attention, he looked up and met Éomer's gaze. A faint smile played around the corners of his mouth while his eyes sent out a silent question. Éomer understood. He nodded. Aye, with Béma's help, he would try to stay close enough to avoid the pitfalls of the racetrack. The problem was only that he would probably not be the only one trying this tactic.

From the arena, the announcer's voice now pierced the expectant silence.

"And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, Lords and fellow riders… the time has come for the last competition and the highlight of our beloved Midsummer Festival! Let us greet them together, the best twenty riders of Riddermark and their noble steeds, out for glory on this beautiful summer day! Let's give them a hand!"

Thunderous applause rose from the stands, and for a moment, Éomer saw his sister in front of his inner eye, jumping to her feet and clapping her hands as she cheered him, and despite his anxiety, the thought brought a smile to his serious face.

"You all know the first contender, for it is the fourth time in a row that he qualified for the Great Race: it is, of course, Adelher, son of Áldwyn, and his stallion Fealca, representing Captain Fingal's éored of Firien Forest."

More applause, as Adelher directed his mount into the arena.

"Next comes a first-time participant from Snowbourn…"

"Èomer?" Elfhelm claimed his attention. "You will be called in next. I wish you the best of luck, and I know you have the skill to make your dream reality. Know that there is not one among your fellow riders who hasn't asked Béma to be on your side today." He clapped his recruit's shoulder, pride in his eyes. "Show them what you're made of, son of Éomund!"

"I will do my best."

And with a deep breath, Éomer directed his mare through the throng of his rivals and into the arena.

"Another first-time participant and at the same time, the youngest contestant in the field comes to us from Captain Elfhelm's éored of Aldburg: he is Éomer, Éomund's son, and he is riding Stormwing, the only mare in the field. Let us bid them a hearty welcome!"

The applause was deafening as they paraded in front of the stands, and Éomer felt distinctly how his mare was soaking up the energy, her ears flickering back and forth as she proudly lifted her head high and regarded the cheering crowd.

"Aye, Precious, that is for us," he murmured with another little clap on her neck. "And with a little luck, it might be for us, too, when we return, and it will be even louder." He followed her gaze over to the Royal Stands and saw Théodred and Éowyn standing side by side, enthusiastically clapping their hands. Théoden-King sat behind them, likewise applauding… unlike the darkly clad counsellor next to him. A grim smile spread over Éomer's lips. If he could ruin Gríma's day by winning, he'd give it an extra effort. On impulse, he touched Éowyn's banner, knowing that she would see the little gesture and be glad.

When the announcer concerned himself with the next rider, he pulled gently on the reins, easing Stormwing from a swift trot to a walk as he slowly directed her towards the start line. The ground looked dry enough here even after the morning's downpour, but Éomer remembered Godric's advice, which he had shared during the walkthrough: most accidents happened during the river crossings or in the forest, especially after rain. The hilly passage likewise was not to be trusted as the rock became slippery and kept pools of water long after the rain had ended, and yet the scout had only marked a steep slope which only the most daring riders ever used as dangerous terrain. Éomer planned to steer well clear of it.

Briefly meeting Adelher's gaze as he rode toward him, Éomer granted his opponent a short nod and directed Stormwing away to resume their calm circling while the space before the Royal Stands slowly filled up with the rest of the contenders. Paralleling the start line, he stared down the race track they would soon thunder along, squinting into the sun. In order to grant the audience as much overview as possible, the first quarter league would also be the last, a level expanse of short grass that was kept in good order and free from rabbit holes and other deadly traps all year round by dedicated volunteers. There was nothing to be gained by good riding and whatever tricks on this part of the course; all that counted here was speed. He would have to see to it, though, that they were not boxed in and remained able to gallop freely the closer they came to the river. Falls happened almost every year at the Snowbourn's shores, and to be in the throng of riders when the horse before you went down could easily prove disastrous.

Forcefully suppressing the picture of a writhing heap of mud-covered, screaming bodies in his mind, Éomer chose to look up just in time to see Thunderclap enter the arena in a smooth, energetic trot, still fighting his rider's iron control. Their éored burst into cheers, but quickly, the din was replaced by an expectant silence. The last to be announced as befitting their status as five-times champions, only Godric and Flame were left, and the audience was getting ready to celebrate the pair as befitted them.

"And now…" the announcer began, clearly enjoying his task mightily although he already sounded as if he would soon lose his voice, "…the moment you all have been waiting for has at last arrived, Ladies and Gentlemen. Here they are, the pair who won this hardest of races an unprecedented five times in a row. I give you… the reigning champions of the Midsummer Race: Godric, Wulfhart's son, and his stallion Flame, representing Marshal Théodred's éored of Edoras!"

The cheer that greeted them was deafening, and Éomer grinned when his mare flattened her ears against her head with a vehement snort.

"You do not like it when they cheer for someone else, Precious, do you?" he laughed, and observed as the pair approached the waiting riders in an effortless canter. Once again, he could not help feeling awed by Godric's beautiful chestnut. Béma, what a horse that was! Could they truly hope to best those two?

With a deep sigh, Éomer sat back in the saddle and allowed himself a last moment to relax before the mighty effort, which lay ahead of him as he slowly directed Stormwing over to the start line. He opened and closed his hands, which had clenched around the reins ever since Elfhelm had collected them from the corral, surprised to find that his former anxiety had subsided and, now that the start of the race was imminent, had been replaced with an expectant tenseness. No great deeds were ever achieved without a certain level of anxiety, he knew, further calmed by the thought. The warriors called it 'battle-readiness', and he could feel it now in his blood, flooding his muscles and clearing his head for what lay ahead.

"Gentlemen?" a voice called out behind him, and as he turned his head, he saw to his surprise Éothain's father Céorl ride up with the Mark's ancient banner in his hand, clad in armour from head to toe. Every year, the task of starting the Great Race was awarded to a man of renown, a man whose outstanding deeds over the past year had had an impact on the fate of the Mark and its people. He remembered now how his friend had told him of the many battles his father had waged and won on the central plains and in Westfold, while their own éored has guarded the eastern territory. Whenever a letter had arrived for him, Éothain had been afraid to open it for fear that it contained the news no one ever wanted to receive about their kin, but instead, it had always contained tidings of his father's victories.

"Gentlemen, please take your positions now. The race will be started as soon as you're ready." Céorl overtook them and directed his powerful white mount to a marked point in the middle of the track, twenty paces behind the start line.

Thinking about what Godric had told him, Éomer directed Stormwing over to the left side, yet found that he was apparently not the only one who wanted to avoid the dangers of a position in the midst of the field. It took some serious pushing, shouting and shoving until Éomund's son at last found himself in an acceptable position only one horse away from the left fringe of the field, and to his right, only one horse separated him from Godric and Flame. Excitement rose as the last riders struggled to find their place, while in front of them, Céorl lifted the banner. The crowd became quiet.

Éomer took a deep breath, his eyes focused on the Edoras Captain. He saw everything, felt everything. Time seemed to slow down. There was the quivering of Stormwing's muscles between his legs, ready to unleash their energy. The scattered, muttered swearing of riders complaining to each other or scolding their fidgeting mounts. The heat of the afternoon sun on his face. A breathless moment passed… and the banner fell.

"Hiya!"

Stormwing's jump almost unseated Éomer as the mare catapulted them forth. Almost in phalanx, the twenty riders and their mounts darted away from the starting line, and for a moment, Céorl's unmoving form was like a rock in the rapids as they flooded past him to the left and right, accelerating in their first furious bid for the lead.

The crowd's outcry was lost to Éomer as he quickly rearranged himself in the saddle and crouched behind his horse's neck. There was only the roar of the wind in his ears and the thunder of hoof beats all around him. Half a length ahead of them, the horse to their left was already being steered into their path in an attempt to steal their position, and Éomer yelled at its rider even as he kicked his heels into Stormwing's side, encouraging her to run even faster. She complied willingly, closing the gap with just a few mighty leaps and made it impossible for their rival to set himself before them.

With an appreciative clap on her neck, Éomer thanked her, and looked to the right where Flame's red-brown neck and shoulder were already emerging from their formation as the stallion accelerated seemingly effortlessly. His long mane whipped his rider's face, but Godric smiled, and Éomer could not help share it. This was what it meant to be alive, to feel the pulse of the earth! This was the essence of the Mark: horse and rider becoming one in whatever challenge was thrown in their way.

He clicked his tongue, ordering Stormwing to follow the chestnut, and now crossed himself into the path of the horse between them. The bay's rider shouted angrily at him as their hoofs came dangerously close to touching, but it was to no avail. Éomer's maneuver had been quick and aggressive, leaving his rival in the dust. A grim, satisfied grin spread on the younger rider's lips. First mission accomplished.

"Well done, lass," he muttered under his breath, and noticed just the slightest movement over to his right. Godric had turned his head, and when he beheld Stormwing's grey head on a level with his own steed's hindquarters, he granted them an acknowledging nod… or at least Éomer thought he did. Side by side, they raced down the track, eating up the distance to the riverbank, and where at first, the riders had fought for their positions with an explosion of speed, the field now stretched from a parallel formation to a line, led by… Thunderclap, Éomer was surprised to see.

The grey stallion had been on the far right side at the start, and barely seemed to touch the ground with his hooves. His rider sat deeply hunched in the saddle, and his shoulders moved with the rhythm of his mount's leaps as they accelerated further. Éomer furrowed his brow. Bréolaf's tactic to seek refuge in flight came as a surprise to him, and he hoped that Godric had the appropriate reply, as the scout had rather expected his main rival to make for a slower race in hopes to conserve Thunderclap's energy for a strong finish this time. So far, Théodred's kinsman did not seem concerned over their growing advantage, and Éomer decided to trust in his judgement for the time being. The race had barely begun yet, so much could still happen. The only thing of importance to him right now was to get into a good position for the river crossing.

ooooo

Behind them on the stands, Éowyn found herself far too excited to sit as the field made for the Snowbourn at breakneck speed. She had jumped up at the start signal, shouting for her brother without a care what the other nobles around them would think of her and secretly wished to be with them on this wild chase across the plains. A wistful sigh escaped her as she imagined herself on Windfola's back, the wind roaring in her ears and all worries far behind them as she rode to glory. The world was so unfair…

"What is it, Éowyn?" a deep voice asked her lowly, and suddenly, a strong arm was laid around her shoulders and pulled her close. She did not resist. "You would like to ride with them, is that it?"

She nodded, her eyes not leaving the horses once.

"Aye, Cousin. Why are there no races for women? I cannot be the only one wanting to participate."

"But there are!" Théodred objected, and gently squeezed her in comfort. "Just not at this festival, as it is only for the Armed Forces. There are no women in our éoreds…" He lifted an eyebrow and smiled, but Éowyn's frown only became more pronounced.

"Aye. And you know how I feel about that."

Théodred sighed.

"All know it, Cousin, and yet you also know that there is nothing I can do to change that… nor would I want to, for all the reasons we have discussed many times." He was not surprised when Éowyn freed herself forcefully from his embrace, and made no effort to follow her when she climbed up the stands to the highest point to distance herself from him. She would not want him to follow, nor was there anything he could say that would make her feel better.

Although… perhaps there was something he could do for her, if only temporarily. With a short glance at her proud, but forlorn shape against the sky, Théodred began to plot…

ooooo

Another noise reached Éomer's ears through the wind's roar and the thundering hooves, and tension flooded his veins anew. It was the river's voice, and even if he had not heard it, the increased activity in the field told him that they were getting close. Another furlong mayhap to the water's edge and one of the most precarious parts of the track. The rules allowed the riders to cross it anywhere they liked, and yet the only reasonable place for that was a rather narrow corridor of not even eight yards where the Snowbourn bent around a small rock outcropping and became shallow enough to be forded with the bidden care. Several other approaches had been tried over the years and ended with disaster, so every rider in the field was prepared to secure the best possible position for the crossing by any means necessary.

"Look out!"

The horse to their left suddenly bumped into them, his rider fighting to make it into the narrow corridor in time. It was Adelher, Éomer noticed angrily.

"Hey, watch it!"

"Out of my way!"

Relentlessly the pair pressed against them, forcing their way in and pushing them against Flame. Stormwing flattened her ears and bared her teeth at Fealca, but suddenly, the path before them cleared when Flame accelerated. A brief glance back at the clamour had revealed Éomer's dangerous position to Godric, and with a quick command, he created the room for Éomund's son to evade, yet soon saw himself confronted with similar problems when the horses to his right battled for position.

Two lengths ahead of the field, Thunderclap alone galloped undisturbed towards the glittering water, and Bréolaf's quick look back revealed to Éomer how relieved he was not to be trapped in the dangerous knot of bodies. His tactic made sense to him now and he wished Godric had followed closer in his rival's tracks. Now they were caught up amidst their pushing and shoving opponents where one false move could easily lead to disaster, with the Snowbourn looming before them… and its shores were still wet and deep and swampy from the morning's rain!

A horrible premonition seized Éomer. They had to get out here! Right now! Not wasting any time on thought when every moment counted, he tossed his weight to the left, pulling hard on the rains and all but threw Stormwing through an almost non-existent gap into open space. Another quick glance to the right to check on the situation revealed a dark thing flying toward him, and suddenly he could no longer see. The next moment, hell broke loose.

Godric had seen it coming at the same time as Éomer, but he was too close to the source to evade it when the battling opponents to their right hit the deep mud and slipped, straight into his path. A horrible squeal pierced the air as horses and riders hit the ground in a whirl of hooves immediately before him. There was only time to react, not to think: Flame's hooves left the ground, and with a mighty jump, they sailed over their fallen rivals and landed with a splash in the water behind them, miraculously unscathed even as the following horses rode straight into the twisting bodies on the ground.

For a few seemingly endless heartbeats, Éomer fought against the mud in his eyes, desperately holding on to Stormwings' neck with one hand and yet unable to control her as she charged ahead, the sloshing sounds telling him that they were in the river. Furiously he wiped over his face and blinked, and at last, his watering eyes cleared enough to let him see the opposite riverbank immediately before them. Three leaps brought them out of the immediate danger zone, where he pulled sharply on the reins and brought his mare to a stop against her will.

His glance back showed him a terrible scene: at least five horses were involved in the accident, but he could not tell who under all the mud. Even as he frantically sought for Théodred's scout, the rest of the field who had somehow managed to bypass the fallen horses and riders, climbed up the riverbank before him and resumed the race under Thunderclap's leadership, knowing that the guards and healers stationed at this point of the track would take it from there. From the corner of his eyes, Éomer already saw them heading their way, and at last, he also found Godric and Flame, thankfully unscathed… but with an additional rider in the saddle as they headed towards the shore.

He blinked. The man Godric cradled in his arms had a bleeding head wound and seemed unconscious, and surely he would have drowned had his fellow rider not wrestled him free from his fallen horse and onto Flame's back. Their eyes met.

"Go!" Godric mouthed, knowing full well that this year's race marked the end of his remarkable series. "Get going, or your dream ends here!"

Adventures of an Éored: Midsummer

Chapter 9: The Great Race – Part 2

"Aside!"

The first of the guards assigned watch at the Snowbourn's shores reached them and quickly relieved Godric of the injured rider when he came to a stand beside Éomer, dripping wet.

"We will take it from here, Godric," the man said, dismay and pride mingled in his eyes over seeing their champion sacrificing his chance to win in order to help one of his rivals. "I do not believe his injury is serious, but he will have to thank you. Now make haste, or-"

"You think there is still a way for me to win?" Godric snorted, but he threw Flame around nonetheless and began to accelerate again, while Éomer imitated his actions to his right. The field had already far progressed and seemed to have a lead of almost a furlong on them; the riders were already well on their way to the hilly part of the track. Éomer's heart sunk as he regarded the distant figures over Stormwing's pointed ears, and yet he was convinced that he had done the right thing in stopping.

"You threw away your best chance to win this race, Lord Éomer," Godric scolded him from the side. His expression was guarded, non-telling. Whatever his thoughts were about the unfortunate happenings at the crossing, he kept it well hidden from his younger rival. "You were one of the first on the other side. It was foolish to wait for me."

"I don't care." Éomer's gaze remained on the ground before Stormwing's hooves, alert and watching for dangerous spots. He had learned his lesson at the Snowbourn's shores. "This is not how I want to win."

"The others certainly did not share your considerations. Which is all right, as it is the guards' duty to deal with accidents… and yet I do not think they would have arrived at the scene quick enough to keep Waryk from drowning."

"It was a noble thing you did." For a brief moment, Éomer turned his head, and the two riders shared a look of mutual respect while their horses raced over the plain side by side. "However, I believe we can still beat them. The race has only just begun."

Godric gave a mirthless laugh.

"Aye, and there is already a great gap between us and the rest of the field… only not on the side we would have wished for."

"There are many other difficulties on the track. We do not know what the situation is on the hill path, or in the forest. After the Snowbourn, I assume it will not get any easier… for any rider in the field. We still got more than one and a half leagues to close the gap." Éomer inhaled and asked himself whether he truly believed in what he was saying. To his surprise, he found that he did.

By now, the rocky elevation grew threateningly out of the ground before them. Soon, they would be upon it. The path across it was so narrow that they would have to ride single-file. It was not altogether unlikely that the necessary process of merging had considerably held up the other riders before them. A faint smile formed on his lips. What was a challenge for, if not to be braved?

And when Godric answered, it sounded to Éomer's ears as if his cousin's scout had picked up on his mood… and been infected.

"We will have to ride as if the Dark Lord and all the orcs in his service are on our heels though," he said grimly.

"Aye." Éomer cracked a grin. "But aren't we here because we have already proven that we can?"

oooo

High up on the stands, Éowyn had followed the proceedings anxiously, and when the accident at the river's edge happened, her breath had left her lungs in a horrified gasp. All around her, the spectators had jumped from their seats, even her uncle further down, and they all waited anxiously to hear who the unlucky pairs were who had not made it past the Snowbourn. Prayers were sent to Béma to keep horses and riders safe and unhurt.

Her eyes narrowed to slits, Éowyn tried to discern the wet horses as they climbed the opposite riverbank, but they were too far away to say with any certainty that Éomer had made it safely out of the water. All she could tell was that the main part of the field had already crossed and was just now resuming their way towards the rocky hill that awaited them next. Two riders were lagging behind, one of them even still in the river, while the guards hastened towards the scene of the accident. She balled her fists as she watched on. The last rider seemed to have another man in the saddle, which he now passed over to the guards. 'No no no no… it cannot be! Please, let this not be him!"

Out of the corners of her eye, she beheld a line of waving banners nearing the stands. The guards along the racetrack each had a set of the participants' banners, and whenever a rider dropped out from the competition, the signal was given to the next man in line, in order to keep the audience informed. She had just recognized the first flag when the announcer stepped up to the stands.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, as you have seen yourself, there has unfortunately been another accident at the crossing this year. I have been informed that that neither riders nor horses have been seriously hurt, but the following pairs do no longer compete: Brytta of Westemnet with Earhfaru, Waryk from the Folde with Cempa, Cenhelm of Snowbourn with Gaersume, Cyneweard of Fenmarch with Wintersong and…" Éowyn balled her fists even tighter, a cold feeling in her stomach, "… and Hereweald of Dunharrow with Scínna."

There were moans and mutters all over the stands in a mix of relief and dismay, and Éowyn closed her eyes and exhaled. The relief was almost painful.

"However, it would seem that two further pairs were severely disadvantaged by the accident, among them Godric and Flame!"

A cry of dismay rose from the crowd.

"The other one was Éomer of Aldburg with Stormwing. Both pairs have resumed racing, but their disadvantage is substantial. They are currently at the end of the field, about half a furlong behind the others."

'No!' Éowyn stared down at the announcer, inwardly begging him to correct himself and say it that it was not her brother whom she could see as a tiny dot on the way to the hill, which all other competitors were already climbing, but she felt that it was the truth. Despondently, she let her gaze travel over the rows of nobles… and met Théodred's regretful look.

'Come down here, Cousin,' he mouthed, and with a deep breath, Éowyn composed herself and descended the stairs to accept Théodred's comforting embrace again.

"This is so unfair!" she spoke into the leather of his jerkin, fighting back tears. "Éomer dreamed of this for so long…"

"The race is far from over yet," her cousin replied and caressed her hair with his free hand. "Don't count your brother out yet. And you certainly should not count out Godric. I am convinced they've still got some tricks up their sleeves."

oooo

Halfway up the hill, Éomer and Godric soon detected the rest of the field before them, snaking along the narrow path in a long line. And really, Éomer found to his joy that the gap did not seem as great as he had feared at first. Whether the accident at the river had made the riders extra careful or arranging themselves along the track had taken even longer than he had thought, he could not say; fact was that their advantage was perhaps even less than half of what he had assumed.

"There they are! Look!" he shouted and pointed ahead and soon heard Godric's answer.

"You were right, son of Éomund! All might not be lost yet… though we cannot overtake them on this path. Unless…"

"Unless we try the scarp." Éomer felt his hackles rise at the thought. Although…

"Forget it!" Godric corrected himself quickly. "I never said anything."

They both jumped over a small gap in the path where the morning's torrent had washed away the soil, and rounded the next corner, reaching the top of the hill. The track lay openly before them now, and a stiff breeze pressed against them from the south. The view from up here was incredible, and yet Éomer's entire attention was focused on his mount, who had stopped so suddenly that her rider almost bumped his nose against her neck.

With a low whicker, Stormwing communicated her discontent over their exposed position, her ears flickering back and forth as she sidled about beneath Éomer, unwilling to proceed. Not far above them, a hawk cried, and her gaze went up in alarm. Éomund's son could tell that his mount was quickly becoming agitated, a dangerous situation in their lofty location.

"Shhhh…" he made, distinctly aware of his horse's trembling. He laid a steadying hand upon her neck. "It's only a bird, Precious, nothing to fear for someone as tall as you. Now come on…" Éomer encouraged her silently. "I'm aware that you are not a mountain goat. But you should know by now that you can trust in me to keep you safe. Come on, I know you can do it. You are a courageous girl." He clicked his tongue and gently applied further pressure with his thighs, and at last, convinced Stormwing to take her first hesitant steps upon the hillcrest, which quickly became a cautious trot. With a smile, he stroked her behind the pointed ears. "That's my lass!"

"Is all right?" Godric asked from behind. His own mount battled impatiently against the reins.

"Aye," Éomer confirmed. "It is only that Stormwing is not accustomed to such exposed paths. We Eastfold riders roam the plains, not the mountains."

"Then let me ride ahead. Flame knows this track well, and he is eager to proceed. Stormwing might take courage when she sees that there is nothing to fear. This might, in fact, be the only part of the path where we can safely switch places."

"All right," Éomer agreed, his eyes again straying to their distant rivals. They could not afford to lose more time, if they ever wanted to catch up. "Ride ahead, then. It might be a good idea." He held Stormwing back and turned her aside, while Flame and Godric overtook them, and just when they were at the same level, he felt a deeply resentful grunt rise from the mare's chest, and she accelerated against his control.

"Your mount doesn't seem to think much of it though," Godric laughed. He did not have to do much to let the chestnut fall into a fast, sure-footed trot, and quickly found the younger rider and his steed closely on their heels.

Éomer laughed.

"No. You were right: she'll rather run along this hated hillcrest at breakneck speed than have someone overtake her! Now ride as fast as you dare to; I have an inkling she will follow you regardless."

As it turned out, Éomer was correct in that assumption, and with Flame in the lead, they made good progress upon the long stretch of bare rock, even risking a canter along its broader passages although the ground proved tricky. Stormwing's initial unease stood back behind her desire to keep up with the red stallion, and Éomer was relieved and delighted to find that, once she had gotten the hang of it, his mare was eager to put her newfound skill to good use.

Repeatedly his gaze went ahead to the rest of the field, and it seemed to him that they had further closed the gap, but he also saw that the riders were already descending. Their advantage would grow again once they reached the ground. From there, the track would take them up and down the gentle grassy hills in a long berth towards the forest, where further difficulties would await them. The hills held no tricky obstacles in store, but the constant up and down drained each contender's stamina, something they could ill afford when they already had to ride harder than anybody else in order to catch up. However Éomer weighed the pros and cons in his mind, it seemed to him that there was really only one option left to them if they still wanted to hold on to their chances of winning, and they had almost reached the spot where that decision needed to be made.

Craning his neck, he stared at the path beyond Stormwing's ears, and a cold chill travelled down his spine when he beheld the steep slope to their left. It was a legitimate alternate route, Godric had told him during the walkthrough, thought to reward the daring rider with a much more direct route towards the forest, but it was also immensely dangerous, much more so than even the river crossing. Only few contenders had tried it over the past years, and horrible accidents had happened as horses panicked on the descent and went down head over heels, burying their riders and breaking their bones.

'You promised your uncle to be careful!' a loud voice made itself be heard in his mind. 'You promised it to Éowyn and Théodred, too! What will you say to them if you fall – provided you are still alive when you reach the ground? And what if anything happens to Stormwing? How could you ever justify that?' Éomer inhaled sharply. 'But I know we are up to this! Up to today, Stormwing had no experience on exposed mountain paths, and yet she is following Flame with the nimbleness of a goat. This is our chance, and if we don't take it, we might as well stop racing right now!"

Conviction hit him with sudden clarity. And not a moment too soon.

"Godric!" Éomer cried, and pulled on the reins against his mount's protest. "The slope!"

The scout turned his head and likewise urged his stallion to an abrupt stop.

"No, Éomer! Forget it!"

"It may be our only chance!"

"It may be our only chance to kill ourselves!"

"But we can do it! I know it!"

Godric shook his head.

"No way, Éomer! I promised the Marshal to keep you out of trouble! Come, we need to make haste!"

"Exactly…" Once more, the son of Éomund peered down the steep hillside, his heart in his mouth. Was this madness? Or a chance? Weren't those two sides of the same coin, really? "We can do this, Precious," he mumbled, one hand on Stormwing's neck. Her ears were pointing in his direction. She was listening to him. Waiting for his command. He gave it.

"Éomer, no!" For a brief moment, Stormwing tensed beneath him… and then set her hooves upon the scree.

Immediately they began to slide down the slope with increasing speed. Doing what he could to help his mare balance, Éomer shifted his weight back onto her haunches until his horse was almost sitting.

"You can do this, Precious!" he calmed her, feeling rather than hearing the dismayed grunts rising from her chest as the ground raced toward them. And yet Stormwing's ears indicated that she was still paying attention to her rider. The nervous patter of her hooves ceased. Béma, that mare trusted him with her whole being! She risked everything – for him! Éomer's heart overflowed with love. Enviously, he had been staring at Flame the whole time, marveling at the stallion's beauty and his perfect build, when right beneath him, there was a horse willing to overcome its fears and lay its fate into the hands of its rider. It was a feeling of utmost elation.

oooo

"Fuck!"

It was rare that Godric felt inclined to swearing, and yet he was hard-pressed to think of when he had ever found himself in a worse situation. In blunt disobedience, Éomer had forced his mount onto the scarp, and one did not need an overly vivid imagination to foresee what the Second Marshal of Riddermark would do to the poor sod who had failed at controlling his cousin if anything were to happen to the lad. There was really only one option open to him in order to safe his hide. He pushed his stallion towards the descent.

oooo

"There are riders on the slope!" the announcer cried, and everywhere around Éowyn, the crowd gasped sharply. "I repeat: there are riders on the slope! They are using the alternate route!"

"Gods…" She stared into Théodred's eyes and found, for a moment, the same shock written in them that she felt herself, because it was clear that one of those riders had to be Éomer. How desperate her brother had to be to win this race, that he was even willing to risk his health and his horse's life! Her cousin squeezed her comfortingly.

"Éomer knows what he is doing, Éowyn," Théored whispered into her hair, although he felt the same anxiety. "He is an incredible rider, even at his youth. We'll have to give him the benefit of the doubt." Over Éowyn's head, his gaze sought his fathers… and found the same worry written in the pale blue eyes, before Théoden King turned his attention towards his counsellor, who was just now leaning forward to whisper something into his liege's ear.

Théodred could well imagine Gríma's words. Éomer had promised them to be careful. A reckless charge down that steep and notorious hillside stood in sharp contrast to that… all the more as the king's son could easily guess who the other rider was. With his bold maneuver, his cousin had forced Godric to risk his life as well. Théodred knew that he ought to be angry over the young man's act of disobedience, but his fury was drowned out by worry. Sending a quick but heartfelt prayer to Béma, he watched on…

oooo

Halfway down. The scree beneath Stormwing's hooves was about to give way to firm soil and grass, which would need a different approach. Right now, they were going far too fast! Their timing would have to be perfect, or they would pay a high price for their daring move.

"Ho! Ho!" Éomer made, and shifted his weight even further back. He already had a plan that would get them out of the precarious situation, but it all depended on his horse. He could distinctly feel Stormwing's growing anxiety and knew they were in trouble. If the mare lost her nerves, they would tumble down the rest of the decline and probably break every single bone in their bodies.

With infinite care, Éomer began to turn her sideways to lessen the gradient of their descent and also take the strain on Stormwing's front legs, then gently but firmly guided her towards the fringe of the scree slope where the layer of gravel was thinner and would give them more purchase. Not far below them to their right, there was a relatively level protrusion that would be ideal to halt their forward movement, but it was narrow and did not allow for any mistakes in his calculation.

"It's the moment of truth, Precious," he whispered, renewing his grip of the reins. Almost upon it now. "Be ready!" The body beneath him tensed, and from the direction of Stormwing's gaze, Éomer concluded that his mount understood what he expected of her. "Now!"

She jumped, propelled forward by the velocity of the slide, too great for a solid landing, so her hooves left the ground right again, moving in a diagonal line towards the ledge with a series of perfectly timed jumps… until they reached their destination. Stormwing rammed her hooves into the ground, and Éomer was catapulted forcefully against her neck, for a moment seeing only stars. For a few nerve-racking heartbeats, he feared that the energy of their descent would carry them over the edge regardless… but finally they stood.

With a sharp breath, Éomer righted himself in the saddle, a hand on his hurting nose. Before them, the slope continued at a slightly lesser gradient, and it was turf, not rock. It still posed a challenge, but on the whole, it looked far less frightening than the steep, loose scree.

"Well done, lass! Well done!" He clapped Stormwing's shoulder and wiped over his watering eyes. "Thank you for your trust, Little One. I knew you could do it." A grinding noise behind and above them prompted him to turn his head, and a broad, relieved grin spread on his face as he beheld his cousin's scout on the same way down. There was only one problem: the ledge was not big enough for them. When Flame reached them and they were still here, he would send them all over the edge.

"All right…" Éomer quickly turned back and his eyes darted over the terrain to their right and found the solution. "The worst is behind us, Precious. We're almost there. Now trust me just a little further!" He urged his mare onto a narrow, declining continuation of the ledge, barely more than a goat track. Eagerly, Stormwing followed his silently given commands, her ears flickering back and forth as she divided her attention between her rider and the demands of the terrain, highly concentrated.

They descended even faster than Éomer had dared to anticipate and reached the broad, slowly levelling lower shoulder of the hill. Here Éomund's son first dared to cast a glance over to the rest of the field on the main track, and found them still in the process of rounding the wide and hilly bend. Excitement flooded him anew as he directed his mount in a zigzag towards the level ground. The longer, more strenuous path would cost their rivals dearly. The risk had paid off!

Not far ahead, Éomer could already make out the guards who had been stationed there for the case that anyone was desperate enough to use the shortcut and came to grief. One of them was already waving his banner, and he understood. Soon, the spectators would know that, after many years, the dangerous hillside had at last been beaten again. With the last leap, they landed on the plain.

"We've done it, Precious! We've done it!" Éomer whooped, and his mare reacted with a boisterous bucking as they passed the two surprised guards and already accelerated again.

"Great riding, lad!" one of them managed to shout, but Éomer barely heard him through the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears. He looked back and saw that Godric and Flame were not far behind them, likewise beyond the hill's dangers. 'Yes!' For a moment, he pulled on the reins, allowing his mount a moment of recovering for the rest of the race and waiting for the pair behind them to catch up. No one, not even the great Flame himself could run the whole distance at top speed. The forest and then the finish would demand everything from horse and rider; it was of the essence to pace themselves wisely in order to have some arrows left in their quiver for the final battle.

Another glance back. The red stallion was now directly behind them, but his rider's expression baffled Éomer. It was a strange mixture of a thundercloud and a grin, as if Godric did not know whether to be angry or ecstatic. The next moment, Flame was galloping alongside Stormwing, and the scout shook his head as he sent a furious look over.

"That was madness, Éomer! Your cousin will have my hide when we return!"

"But it worked, didn't it?" Éomer replied. "We're back in the game with every chance to win!"

"Yes, but…" Again, Godric shook his head, momentarily at a loss for words. "All four of us could have died a useless death on that slope!"

"No. I knew you could pull it off, and I was confident that Stormwing and I could master that hill, as well. I was always in control."

The scout inhaled deeply, and his gaze strayed for a moment over to the rest of the field on the main path. Éomer was right; they were certainly back in the game. Perhaps Thunderclap and the three horses behind him would reach the forest before them, but they would follow close behind, a good distance before the others. And done was done; what good was it to scold the youth now for a very successful maneuver? From what he had seen, Éomer was telling the truth: he had been in control on that descent.

Oh well…" Godric sighed, and at last, his angry expression melted away. "As for that: that was some truly masterful riding, Éomer. I certainly can't remember that I have ever seen better horsemanship by a rider of your age... and only very few of the older riders would have managed. The Marshal was right, you are gifted. And you are riding a horse that would even race through fire for you."

"Aye, she would." Éomer smiled and laid a hand on Stormwing's neck. "I know that, and I am grateful for it." Another quick side-glance showed him that they were almost upon the crossing to the main path, and that they would slip nicely into the gap between the first four horses and the rest of the field. Directly in front of them, the forest with all the difficulties it posed loomed before them. Éomer was sure that a preliminary decision would be made there, and he was determined to ensure that it would go their way. "Will you remember your promise, Godric?"

"My promise?" For a moment, the scout stared at him cluelessly, but then it came back to him. "You mean about leaving you in the dust if Flame should indeed turns out to be the faster horse in the end? Aye. I stand by that."

Éomer nodded.

"Alright. Then let's agree: It's every rider for himself from now on to the end!"

Adventures of an Éored: Midsummer

Chapter 10: The Great Race – Part 3

oooo

"The riders have made it safely down the hillside! They are approaching the forest and caught up with the rest of the field!" the announcer cried. "I repeat, the riders are safe!"

'Thank you, Béma! Thank you!' Éowyn shut her eyes for a brief moment, her relief too great to put into words. Théodred squeezed her.

"See, Little One, you underestimated your brother. Even at seventeen, he is already a master on horseback. I wouldn't be surprised at all if he really wins this." The King's son turned his head to share a brief look with his father, but Théoden's attention was still held by his counsellor, who just now whispered into his ears again. Théodred narrowed his eyes, doubting that Gríma was likewise praising Éomer's riding skills. With a deep breath, he turned back.

oooo

Back on the main track at last, and only three lengths behind Thunderclap and his three fiercest pursuers! Éomer grinned, very pleased with himself, and noticed Bréolaf's slighty nervous glance over his shoulder when the man realized that his main rival, whom he had believed already beaten, was breathing down his neck again.

Éomer held himself in Flame's wake, still controlling Stormwing's pace against her growing impatience. It was good to feel that his hands were still full and that the first two thirds of the track had not overly exhausted the mare if she was still eager to run faster. Contrary to the hill path, the forest was terrain they had endlessly trained in, and Éomer knew that his mount's smaller statue would rather be an advantage among the trees. It was here where they would make their bid for victory. They needed to emerge onto the open terrain first and with a considerable lead if they were to stand a chance against Flame's incredible finishing speed on the last quarter league. And there was also the lingering question about Thunderclap's stamina…

With that, they reached the forest. For a moment, Éomer could not see, as they had ridden against the sun the whole time after they had come down from the hill, and his eyes had to adjust to the sudden deep shadows. Still he remembered his plan and steered Stormwing to the left toward the stream that crossed between the densely standing trees. It was here where Éomund's son had spent the most time of the walkthrough, as the path through the forest was – for the most part – not predetermined by the racing rules, except for the exit point. A rider's decisions in this terrain could make or break him.

"Now, Precious! Show them what you're made of!" He directed her towards the water and accelerated while the others thundered along the main path. Soon, they were out of earshot, all noise muffled by the dense vegetation as they splashed along the narrow stream. Éomer had paid its bed close attention the day before and noticed that it was, for the most part, even and shallow and sandy, and it cut a much more direct path through the trees than the longer main track. The problem was that, at one point, it branched off in the wrong direction and they would have to leave it and make their way through the undergrowth. Whether that way was actually faster would remain to be seen, but Éomer knew he had to take that gamble if he ever wanted a shot at winning.

They were approaching the part where the trees grew on the very edge of the water, and although he had already removed several dry branches that had reached over the stream the day before, Éomer suddenly felt unsure whether he had caught them all. Losing an eye in exchange for victory was not what he had in mind, so he ducked behind Stormwing's neck, urging her to run even faster. Every yard they made good here could count in the end. Again, the mare responded.

Left and right, birds burst into flight before them, clamouring over the unexpected disturbance of their peace, but neither horse nor rider wasted even a second of their attention on them. All concentration was focused on the narrow brook before them; Stormwing's ears pointed as she examined their surroundings with large eyes. Aye, they were fast, Éomer thought. Certainly too fast for the terrain. But were they fast enough? What would the others do now? Would they just use the main path, or likewise take risks? What if someone had a better strategy?

He tensed instinctively, and his mount reacted with another burst of speed, to Éomer's growing unease. He had only had two hours the past day to make himself acquainted with the forest's demands, not a whole lot of time to memorize every single bend or trick. A forgotten obstacle could easily prove disastrous at this pace… and they had to be almost upon the fallen tree. An easy jump, Éomer had calculated, nothing out of the ordinary. But when they rounded the bend that lead towards the obstacle, he suddenly saw to his dismay a wooden wall in their way! A second tree had been felled by the morning's thunderstorm and lay now in a diagonal line above the first trunk, too high to jump and leaving only a narrow triangle open to the left. And they were moving too fast to evade!

Even before Éomer could pull the reins and throw his horse around, Stormwing tensed beneath him – and jumped through the tight space between the trees. Instinctively, he ducked – and felt the bark of the upper tree ripping through his shirt. Otherwise unscathed, they landed on the other side. For a moment unable to catch his breath, Éomer risked a quick look back while his mount charged ahead without delay. How close they had been to disaster! If Stormwing had balked at the obstacle, they would have crashed into the trees at full speed.

With great effort, Éomund's son suppressed the image in his mind. He needed all concentration for the path before them, because they were still moving far too fast for the terrain. His horse was ready for the challenge and more than willing to do its share, that was what counted.

"Thank you, Precious," he muttered, and laid a hand on her sweat-darkened neck. "You saved us both. I know that what I'm asking of you is unreasonable…" Hesitantly, he tightened the reins, which resulted in a defiant head-shaking. Losing her balance, Stormwing careened to the left and into the undergrowth on that side. White-hot pain assaulted Éomer as his face and naked arms were whipped by branches, and his horse neighed in dismay, equally tortured.

'Béma, everything's falling apart!'

Instinctively, Éomer urged the mare back towards the middle of the stream, and with a grunt deep in her chest, Stormwing picked up speed again. And yet this time, her rider did not allow her to gallop as fast as before. The place where the brook bent away from their path had to be close by and they could easily miss the markings he had made, rendering his oh-so-cleverly devised strategy a complete and utter failure.

'It already *is* a failure!' Èomer fretted, his eyes scanning the trees to their right for the signs. His face burned. 'We should have stayed on the main path. There is no way for us to be faster in this covert! What an idiot I was!'

There was the bright notch he had made in the bark of an old pine! Resolutely steering his mount toward it and out of the water, Éomer decided that there was nothing he could do now but make the best of their situation. It was too late to change his plans. They either brought them out of the forest first, or not. He would find out very soon.

There, the next marking! They stormed toward it, oblivious by now to the torment of the branches. Thankfully, the undergrowth wasn't very thick among the trees; the ground was mainly covered in moss which did not allow for many plants to grow and made for an easily negotiable surface beneath Stormwing's hooves, the main reason Éomer had chosen that path. He dared a quick glance in the direction of the main track, yet could not detect signs of any nearby rivals. Listening for them was vain over the ruckus they made themselves, so Éomund's son turned his attention quickly back to the trees before them.

The next notch… and the next after that. They were proceeding fast now, despite his sudden doubt. Hope stirred again in his chest, although he barely allowed himself to acknowledge the feeling. And right he was, for suddenly, his mare snorted in dismay, and her ears flattened against her head as she rammed her hooves into the ground Unprepared, Éomer almost fell from her back.

"What is it, Precious?" he whispered, righting himself in the saddle while at the same time, he tried to pierce the twilight for signs of what was worrying Stormwing. Something dark loomed before them to their left… something long and large. And something – no, someone - moved before it. A man. A guard! Éomer blinked. Could it really be? Was this already the man-made tunnel, the last test of a steed's trust before the forest ended and gave way to the plains again?

'Béma, it is! We're already there!'

He urged his still reluctant mount on… and now he could also hear the noise of fast approaching hoof beats from the right. Aye, they were first at the tunnel, but their rivals were close!

"Come on, Precious, trust me one last time," Éomer said, now pushing his horse ahead with legs and arms. "It's only the tunnel! It will not harm you. There's only darkness inside, nothing else. You've braved far worse things on this course! Come on!" His forceful insistence paid off. Apparently, Stormwing trusted him still, even if her ears were still flickering nervously back and forth and she drank the air through widened nostrils for signs of danger… but she accelerated again towards the dark shape. Out of the corner of his eye, Éomer caught a streak of red-brown between the trees, and he kicked his heels into the mare's flanks. It had the desired effect: from one leap to the next, Stormwing changed from a fast canter into a full- on hunting gallop as the tunnel swallowed them.

"Run, lad!" the guard shouted behind them. "The others are close!"

Darkness. Loud puffing, Stormwing's breaths. No longer effortless after more than three quarters of the race. The thunder of her hoof beats. Up ahead, the light of the exit. Five furlongs to the finish line from there. No more tricks, only the grass beneath them. From here on, all that counted was endurance, speed and will. Did they have what this last part of the race took?

They burst into the light, temporarily blinded. The plain opened before them.

"Now, Precious! Give it your all!" And with that, Éomer gave the mare her head.

oooo

"It's Éomer!" Éowyn could not yet make out distinctly the solitary shape that had just emerged from the forest, and yet in her heart she knew that it was her brother. "Théodred, look! It's Éomer!" Anxiously, she looked over to the approaching signals, and it was indeed the Aldburg banner which was waved before the stands. "See?"

Before her cousin could react, three other horses appeared on the plain, among them unmistakably the reigning champion… but they were at least four lengths behind Éomer and Stormwing.

"I'll be damned!" Théodred muttered, then turned around to the king. "Father! Éomer's in the lead!" All around him, the people on the stands stood up in expectation of a finish they had not seen in a long time. "Come on, Éomer!" he shouted, his hands balled into fists. "Come on, you can do it!"

oooo

They were still in the lead, and Éomer could already hear the faint yelling of the distant crowd. They were almost back at the Snowbourn again, only this time, they would use the bridge to cross it. No more dangers before them, only the race track!

A quick glance back. Three lengths behind them, full-on battle was raging between Thunderclap and Flame. Both stallions raced side by side, flat and stretched they flew over the turf, their hooves barely touching the ground in their mad two-beat rhythm… and they were gaining.

Éomer turned back. Perhaps three and a half furlongs were left to the line; still a long distance. By now, he could all too well feel Stormwing's growing exhaustion and the toll the race had taken on the mare. He felt it in her deepened breathing and in the way her ribs extended against his legs. He felt it in her gait, which was no longer smooth and energetic. Every time her hooves touched the ground, the impact shook Éomer thoroughly. Her ears were flattened against her head, no longer listening to what was going on around them.

His courageous mare gave everything she had, but there could be no mistaking that she was rapidly nearing the end of her strength.

"Not much longer, Precious," Éomer encouraged her, and steered her onto the bridge. "You can do this! I know you can! And I will help you!" With a subtle shift, he transferred part of his weight onto her shoulders, standing in the stirrups now to take the burden from her back as much as he could. Another look back. Two and a half lengths of their lead were left, and behind the two stallions, he now beheld a third horse.

They thundered over the bridge. From here on, they were back at the start of the track. Three furlongs of straight, smooth turf all the way up to the finish line. The roar of the crowd increased, and Stormwing reacted to it. She took the bit with iron determination, and Éomer could feel her tense beneath him. From somewhere out of the depths of the mare's heart, she squeezed out another burst of speed.

oooo

"Gods, look at that! How that lad can ride!"

"Run, Éomer! Run! You can do it!

"You're almost there!"

The riders from Aldburg did not care what anyone thought of them as they pushed to the front of the stands. Éothain could barely breathe in the tight gap between Elfhelm and Bard, but he couldn't have cared less. His friend was about to make history!

"Éomer!" he yelled, a fist lifted into the air. "Come on!"

"Stormwing is tired," Elfhelm muttered, to no one in particular. "But what heart that mare has!"

"Their lead's shrinking!"

"It will be enough." Éothain took another deep breath, and then screamed at the top of his voice. "Come on, Éomer! Run!"

Before them, on the opposite site of the track, the nobles jumped from their seats on the Royal Stands, and many of them were yelling and cheering, as well, just like the simple riders. A finish like this had not been seen for many years.

oooo

The roar of the wind and the crowd in his ears, deafening. Stormwing's deep, raspy breaths. The thunder of hoof beats. His eyes watering, so everything he saw was blurred. His thighs burning with exhaustion, and still he stood in the stirrups. Two more furlongs to go. Another look back. The two stallions, right behind them, head-to-head. Still gaining.

"Come on, Precious! I know you're tired. I'm tired, too. Soon we can rest. Soon… but not yet. Show them what you're made of! Fight!" Éomer all but threw the mare forward, his shoulders, his whole body moving with her rhythm. Movement to his left. Flame's red head reached Stormwing's hindquarters, Thunderclap half a head behind him. ' No no no no…'

Once more, a deep, irritated grunt came from his mount. An ear flickered towards the sound of their rivals. Stormwing knew the stallions were close, she felt them. And although she was on her last legs, she was determined not to let them pass. She kept her pace, faster than she had ever run in her life.

oooo

"Run, Éomer! Run!" Théodred shouted at the top of his lungs, his eyes glued to the most incredible finish he had ever witnessed. He did not care what people thought of him, cheering for the wrong rider, but then it seemed that no one was paying him much attention anyway. They were all yelling and cheering themselves, for Flame, for Thunderclap and for Éomer. Béma, his cousin was about to make history, and deservedly so! What the youth had shown in determination and skill was nothing short of incredible. If only his steed sustained her killing pace for a short while longer…

oooo

"Listen, Precious! Do you hear them? That' for us! They're cheering for us! Hold on but a little longer!"

Another look. Éomer didn't even have to turn his head this time to find Flame and Thunderclap to their right, their noses on a level with his stirrups.

'We won't make it…'

Another subtle shift of weight in a vain attempt to lighten the burden for his mount, the last measure he could think of, although his tired leg muscles were screaming at him. And once again, Stormwing reacted! One last time, the mare braced, and all her muscles tightened and hardened as she catapulted them towards the finish line, her long leaps eating up the distance. Even flatter she became, and longer, stretched to her utmost extend as her hooves hammered the ground.

For a moment, the stallions disappeared. Then a lout shout erupted from the stands, the reason impossible for Éomer to discern. A quick look back. There was only the red head left now. Thunderclap had given up. 'Yes! Yes!'

Up ahead, the white posts, perhaps two hundred yards away! But now Flame made a last, desperate attempt, and again his head reached Éomer's stirrups. They approached the stands, and the crowd's roar greeted them. Yet Éomund's son barely heard it, as his horse and their rival occupied his full attention. Godric spared them no look as he sat in the saddle, perfectly balanced and riding his red stallion with everything he had. And their attack was fierce, each of Flame's leaps longer than the one before as he gained inch for inch under the deafening din of the spectators. His mane danced on the wind, a steppe fire in the shape of a horse. Coming abreast now.

Stormwing snorted, and for a moment, it seemed to Éomer that his mare tried to tear herself in two in order to defy her rival's onslaught. For another moment, she held her ground as before them, the finishing posts appeared… the next, an incredible leap sent Flame ahead by a short head, and another catapulted the red stallion over the line first.

Adventures of an Éored: Midsummer

Author's Note:

Over and done! I'm very happy to present you with the last chapter of a story I started eight (!) years ago. I'm quite surprised my muse decided to re-emerge after such a long time to make me a millionaire on ff net dot com – for now, indeed, with this last chapter, I have crossed that magical limit of over one million archived words. Many thanks go to Thanwen and Carawyn for faithfully reviewing each and every chapter; I hope others enjoyed my little tale of the Rohirrim, as well.

Chapter 11: Endings and Purpose

oooo

"No! No…" Éowyn's hands were on her mouth, dismay written in her blue eyes. "Oh no…"

Théodred swallowed. He had been present when his cousin had demanded of Godric that he should do everything in his power to win. Éomer had been adamant about winning the race fair and square, against the best his rival had to give. But this… this was cruel. To almost have the trophy in his hands, only to have it ripped from his grasp at the very last moment!

"Oh Éomer…" he sighed, and watched on.

At the riders' stands, the members of the Aldburg éored stood silent for a moment, their arms that had already been lifted in triumph now loosely hanging by their sides.

"Well… shit!" Bard shook his head. Next to him, Éothain still stood stunned and speechless. He had been so eager to cheer his friend's certain victory, and now… what was he to do now?

"It was still an unbelievable ride," Elfhelm let himself be heard from behind. "There has never been a champion like Flame before; I hope Éomer will see what an achievement it was to come so close to victory against such an opponent."

"That will not comfort him," Éothain replied sadly, his eyes still on his friend as he slowed down behind the finishing line. He did not have to see Éomer's face to know how the son of Éomund felt at this moment; his bearing gave it away all too clearly. "It was always his dream to win this race. A second place is nothing he would ever be proud of..."

oooo

Éomer knew at once they had lost. Not even for a moment did he dare to believe that Flame's final burst of speed had left them behind only after the finishing line. And he did not have to pull on the reins to stop his mount. Stormwing was as aware of what had happened as her rider and slowed to a walk of her own accord, fully spent, and from the way she hung her head, it was clear to him that she understood that the cheering was not meant for them. They had given their all, in speed, in endurance and in cunning, and still they had been bested.

A huge wave of disappointment washed over Éomer, and suddenly, his view of Godric, who was parading the stands with his fist triumphantly raised against the sky, blurred. Embarrassed, he turned Stormwing away, not wanting anyone to witness his fight against the tears. For a moment, his words with which he had extracted the promise from Théodred's scout echoed in his mind, and he cursed them even against his better knowledge that he would act exactly the same if the situation were ever repeated.

Aye, it was very likely that he would indeed have won the race had he not waited for Godric at the riverbank. But how would that have felt? To hold the trophy in his hands only because a better contender sacrificed his chances by saving a fellow rider… that kind of victory would have been hollow, and the spectators would have rightfully cheered Godric and not him. No, waiting had been the right decision… and still, this defeat stung like a pike through the stomach.

"Great ride, lad!" Thunderclap's rider shouted in his direction as the big grey passed them. In Bréolaf's face, the same disappointment was written that Éomer felt himself, but in true Rohrric fashion, the older man was also quick to acknowledge that he had been beaten fair and square.

"You, too, Bréolaf!" the son of Éomund replied. "Your endeavor was much better than the years before."

Bréolaf shrugged and lifted an eyebrow.

"Apparently, still not good enough. But if I lose even more weight for next year's attempt, I doubt that I will continue to be an efficient warrior." He shrugged. "I suppose I will have to make my peace with the fact that we're fast, but not the fastest. You, on the other hand… you've got places to go, young man, if both of you stay healthy. Although, now that I look at you… what happened to your face?"

"The thing that is to be expected when you ride through a forest and do not use the proper path." Éomer grimaced and gingerly fingered the welts. "Sacrifices need to be made in exchange for a shot at winning against a living legend."

Bréolaf grinned.

"Like they say: pain is temporary, but glory is forever! Well done, Éomer! I'll see you at the ceremony." He clicked his tongue and directed his stallion over to congratulate the winner of the race.

"Thank you, Bréolaf." For a moment, Éomer followed his path with his gaze. He took a deep breath.

"Oh Precious," he sighed and leaned forth in the saddle to clap Stormwing's shoulder exhaustively. The mare flickered an ear in his direction while her labored breathing slowly returned to normal. "We did what we could, didn't we? There was nothing we could have done differently – with any honour – to emerge victorious. I know you gave it your all, and I thank you for it. I love you, Stormwing."

When he looked up again, he found to his surprise Godric on the way over to them, the expression on the scout's face a mixture of triumph and honest apology.

"Éomer!" the older rider shouted over the din of the audience. "Cheer up, son of Éomund! The applause is as much yours as it is mine! Come, let us parade before the stands together with Bréolaf! This was a race to remember, and all three of us made it happen." He furrowed his brow as he came closer. "Who whipped you?"

"I did that myself," Éomer answered. "In exchange for a chance against you."

"I see – your mysterious path through the forest!" Godric grinned. "Oh well, to each their own, I say." He seized the younger rider's hand and lifted it over their heads to the obvious delight of the spectators. "You see and hear, my lord, that our brothers-in-arms appreciate your daring approach to this year's race just as much as they do my last-moment victory. So my advice would be to drop that frown and start enjoying yourself."

When Éomer still regarded him with obvious doubt, the scout shook his head.

"Never before have I seen a rider of your age doing the things you've done! I would even say that your horsemanship bests most of the older riders! And the trust and will of your mare were incredible to behold. Instead of making a face as if your best breeding stallion was eaten by wargs, you should be very, very proud of yourself… It would be foolish not to revel in this well-deserved applause, for that is something you will not hear often in your life."

He lifted a brow.

"So, what say you, son of Éomund? Will you do me the honour to ride the parade together with Bréolaf and me? Come on, let's give our brothers something to talk about! It is what they expect."

At last, the faintest hint of a grin began to tug at the corners of Éomer's mouth.

"Well," he said. "If that is what our brothers expect from us, we cannot very well deny it. Can we?"

oooo

Together, the three best riders and their mounts passed the stands on their way to the awarding ceremony: Godric and Flame in the middle as befitting the unprecedented six-time champions, flanked by Éomer and Stormwing to the right and Bréolaf on Thunderclap to the left. Slowly but surely, the crowd's ongoing cheering comforted Éomer to the point where he felt no longer at odds over the outcome of this year's race, but already made his plans for the next.

He beckoned to his éored as he beheld their well-known faces at the railing, and their enthusiastic response brought another boost of his spirits as they turned to the right and made for the Royal Stands, where Éowyn, Théodred and his uncle were already awaiting them.

As he rode beside them, Godric every now and then chanced a short side-glance and seemed satisfied with his rival's improving mood. At last, he brought Flame alongside Éomer's mare and looked the younger man in the eyes.

"I am glad to see you're heeding my advice, son of Éomund. It would have been a shame had you not been able to enjoy this. Believe me, this is a strange situation for me, as well. Of course, I am dizzy with triumph, but at the same time, I realize that it must be hard for you to lose something that you already felt sure of at the last possible moment. Yet you made me promise to give it my best. You even made me repeat it before the race." He lifted a meaningful eyebrow.

"I know," Éomer said with a sigh, and found that he was slowly starting to make his peace with the thought. "That I did. And I meant it. You are not to blame, Godric. The outcome of this race would never even have been in question had you not sought to further your glory by rescuing one of your rivals in the river. We were simply not fast enough to beat you in the end. It was an honour to challenge you. Please accept my sincere congratulations." He noticed how his mare flattened her ears against her head, less than overwhelmed with the red stallion's closeness.

"Peace, Stormwing," he said with a little smile, amused over the grey's antics. She was truly his steed in every way. "No one likes a sore loser. We are second in a race that people are going to talk about for many years. We are almost champions, so behave!"

"She sure is a feisty one," Godric grinned as he followed his own mount's attempts to flirt with the reluctant mare. "Flame seems quite intrigued with her."

"Well, he got the title. He cannot have Stormwing, too… especially after just having defeated her! What is he thinking?" Éomer quipped, and then swore when the mare bared her teeth at the chestnut. "Ho, Precious! Don't be such a shrew!" He pulled at the reins and forced his mount into a tight circle when she threatened to kick the red stallion.

And so they reached the Royal Stands, where the ceremony was about to be held. Horns sounded to announce their arrival. Before the barrier now, Éomer detected his uncle, his cousin and his sister as well as the announcer, and he was glad to find that the members of his family regarded him with unmistakable pride. They came to a halt and dismounted, and at last, upon the announcer's sign, the deafening din of the spectators died down.

"Lords and Ladies," the man began. "Gentlemen and fellow Riders… I am sure we all agree that this year's Midsummer Race was an event that will live on in the minds of all those who were lucky enough to witness it for many years to come! Do you not agree?" Ear-bursting applause told him that the crowd did. He smiled, and turned toward the three riders who were about to be awarded.

"I know you're all hungry and looking forward to the festivities, so we will proceed with the ceremony without delay. This year's ribbons go to… a rider and his horse who were leading for most of the race, and were abreast of the later winner for much of the final approach, as well… A first-time participant and the youngest rider among this year's contenders, and the only mare in the field, who stole our breath with their daring ride… And to an unprecedented six-times champion, who, despite securing victory again in a last-moment effort, proved to us that winning is not, in fact, everything, when he seemingly discarded his chances to rescue a rival in need!"

The cheer rose in volume until it almost split Éomer's ears and Stormwing snorted, displeased with all the noise. The announcer raised his arm, and once again, the crowd fell silent as they beheld their king on the way towards the winners. Éowyn followed him, glowing with pride, since – upon Théodred's instigation, she had been determined to hold the velvet cushion on which the three trophies lay. Proud and regal in her bearing, she strode toward the three waiting riders, and when her gaze met her brother's, Éomer beheld a vivid sparkle in the blue eyes he had not seen there for quite a while. Oh yes, his little sister was certainly enjoying herself!

His uncle was better at keeping his composure, but when their eyes met, Éomer was glad to find approval there, as well. Noticing that the presentation of their trophies was imminent, the son of Éomund straightened to his full height.

"Now, Ladies and Gentlemen… you all know the winner of the yellow ribbon for third place! He is already in possession of two red ribbons, which he won in the past years, so I am certain that he will appreciate the change in colour, even if it is perhaps not the shade he was dreaming of. Yet his effort was valiant, and I am sure not many could have predicted the outcome of the race until the last few yards. This year's third place goes to… Bréolaf, son of Burkhardt, and his stallion Thunderclap, representing Captain Delwyn's éored of Eastemnet!"

Under the cheering of the crowd, Théoden-King and his niece stepped forward, and with a smile, the ruler of Riddermark picked the exquisitely embroidered yellow ribbon from the cushion and pinned it to the rider's jerkin, shook his hand and offered his sincere congratulations.

"The second place… goes to a young man and his mare not many of us would have named among the favourites," the announcer continued. "As a first-time contender and under the daunting prospects that in all the long years in the history of this race, no mare could ever win the two leagues against the stallions, this young rider demonstrated remarkable resolve, courage and cunning in the use of the course's alternate tracks. I am very certain that we will hear more from him in the future. The red ribbon is hereby awarded to… Éomer, son of Éomund, and his mare Stormwing, representing Captain Elfhelm's éored of Aldburg!"

Even louder than for Bréolaf the applause seemed to Éomer, and he felt heat flush his face as he gazed into his uncle's glowing face. Aye, it could not be missed that the king was proud of his nephew when he took the trophy from the velvet cushion, but before he could pin it to Éomer's jerkin, a great grey head suddenly filled out his vision, and the ribbon was forcefully ripped from his hands.

"Stormwing!" Éomer exclaimed, deeply embarrassed, while everyone around them burst into laughter. "This is not for you to eat!" He reached for it, but his mare simply lifted her head high into the air and shook the piece of fabric like a dog that caught its prey.

"She earned it as much as you did, Sister-son," Théoden-King remarked with a smirk.

"And I will pin it to her halter, as soon as she lets me have it!" Éomer grumbled, and pulled down the reins. At last, Stormwing seemed willing to give up her prize when she found that its taste was not what she had expected, and she allowed her rider to pull the thoroughly soaked ribbon out of her mouth.

"Yech!" Éomer frowned and lifted the drenched trophy up. "Now see what you have done, Precious! This is disgusting. You can have it now; I no longer want it." He pinned it to her halter and wiped his hands upon his trousers, grimacing. "I apologize for my steed's conduct, Sire. While I am not yet sure of how to make her even faster next year, I already know that I will have to work on her behavior in the presence of royalty."

"Even if I hadn't know this particular steed of yours, Éomer son of Éomund, I would not have dared to criticize her. The way I see it, after such an impressive try, a horse has earned the right to be a little… uhm… rambunctious." Théoden winked.

"I thank you, Sire."

Astonished by his uncle's good spirits, Éomer smiled. The lined face before him was kind and amused, and he could not remember when he had last seen the king like that. It was almost as in old times. And there was something else in Théoden's eyes, too, something Éomer could not readily name. With a quick glance and a wink at Éowyn, he inclined his head.

"Your bid for the title was most impressive, Sister-son," Théoden continued as he shook his nephew's hand. "I am still not sure that I agree with everything that you did in this race, but I also have to acknowledge that you seemed to be in control the whole time."

"That I was, my lord," Éomer confirmed, which earned him a warm smile and a clap on the shoulder. "I would not have dared these paths otherwise. You know what this mare means to me."

"I certainly do." Théoden-King nodded. "I only wish your parents could have seen you today. They would have been proud to see what has become of their son."

"I am convinced that they are seeing me, sire." Éomer inhaled deeply. "It is one of the reasons I give it my all whenever I decide to partake in any enterprise, be it match, race or battle."

"A good ideal to live by." The old man nodded, and then gave his approval to the waiting announcer to continue.

"Now, Ladies and Gentlemen… I am certain that there were not many among us who did not believe that Godric, son of Wulfhart, and his stallion Flame would defend their title in this year's challenge. And yet several incidents will ensure that more than any of his other triumphs, this one will remain in our heads whenever the Great Race will be mentioned in the future! It was the closest finish in many years; victory was theirs against the strongest contenders who used the track with all the possibilities it provides…and their unprecedented sixth consecutive title was won this time coming from behind, from an almost hopeless position after the accident at the Snowbourn's banks. This rider who stands before you, he was willing to sacrifice his title for a fallen rival. It was a noble move and makes this year's triumph even more valuable than the five before combined. So please, celebrate with me… the greatest winner the Great Race has ever seen… Godric, son of Wulfhart, and Flame, of Marshal Théodred's éored of Edoras!"

The applause and cheering that followed were deafening, and as Éomer turned clapping toward his victorious rival, the last traces of his disappointment over the narrow loss evaporated completely and he felt glad for the honourable and likable scout. There were only smiling faces around him as Théoden-King pinned the blue ribbon to the rider's jerkin and congratulated him on his historic win.

One last time, the announcer raised his by now hoarse voice over the general din.

"And now, Lords and Ladies, my fellow Éorlingas… now that the last competition of this year's Midsummer Festival has finished, there is only one thing left to say for me: be well, Riders of the Mark, and ride to good fortune in the coming months so that we will all meet again in merriment and good health next year! I have been told that the food and drinks at the eating tents are ready, and so are the musicians. Enjoy yourselves and let's all make this a night to remember!"

oooo

It was two hours later when Éomer returned to the Aldburg camp, refreshed and energized after a lengthy bath in the Snowbourn's waters together with his horse and the other riders. In true Rohirric fashion, he had first seen to it that his courageous mare had been rewarded for her performance with something more valuable to a horse than a piece of velvet, however exquisite.

Coming straight from the ceremony, he had only briefly stopped by their camp to fetch his spare clothes, before he had ridden Stormwing directly into the shallow pools by the river as it bent around a little rock outcropping. There he had taken all tack from her and turned her loose, and watched with amusement as his mare frolicked around through the water with the other horses while their riders washed off the dust and sweat of the day from their bodies in the orange light of the setting sun.

His first Midsummer Festival as a member of the Riders was almost at an end, and while his dream had not yet become reality, it had brought him many things both expected and unexpected, invaluable impressions and emotions that would stay with him for the rest of his life. The reassurance of the love for and of his family, the friendship and camaraderie between the riders… but most of all, the three days on the plains before Edoras had left him with a deep, fulfilling sense of belonging.

He had claimed his rightful place now, was part of the five hundred years of history of Riddermark since his ancestor Éorl the Young had led their people south; a part of something far greater than he had the power to put into words. Awareness and emotion had filled him whole as he sat in the river, his eyes lovingly wandering over the rolling grasslands of his home.

Clean and refreshed, he had then brought Stormwing back to the mares' corral in the growing twilight and spoiled her rotten with a lengthy rubdown and some assorted delicacies, until at last, the insistent grumbling of his own stomach could no longer be ignored. Before him at the common area, the festivities had already begun and Éomer could already see the glow of the campfires and hear the sound of the fiddles and his comrades singing. Quickening his pace in anticipation, he made his way through their part of the camp to return the racing saddle to Elfhelm's tent and hung his washed clothes on the supplied line near his bedroll to dry.

Finally done with his chores, the son of Éomund then turned around to make for the food tents, and an expectant grin spread over his face. Allowed to eat and drink to his heart's content, to sing and dance with his kin and friends and staying up till dawn with no care for the requirements of the next day, there was no reason why this should not become the best night of the year.

And tomorrow, they would make for Aldburg again, but not with his éored. Coming up to congratulate him immediately after the ceremony, Théodred had informed him that he had thought of a surprise for his cousins, for which he had already made the necessary arrangements: he would personally escort Éomer to Aldburg along with only a few chosen men of his and Elfhelm's éoreds. They would take their time to enjoy each other's company and the open plains as the sunny weather was supposed to stay for a while longer… and Éowyn would accompany them.

Life could still be good. It was something to take with him once duty called him again, something to remember whenever the days turned dark again and hope seemed but a distant memory. This was what they were fighting to protect: their loved ones, their friends, their freedom, their way of life. The Éorlingas would endure, as they always had. And he would do whatever he could to ensure it.