Chapter 2: Friction

The Camp

Darkness had fallen over the plains of Rohan, but where nightfall usually indicated the end of all activity after a long day, it was on this night the signal for the Rohírrim to lift their jugs in a repeated toast to their returning brother-in-arms and indulge in the festivities. Many raucous drinking songs were belted out into the night, the ale which they had acquired a day earlier at the nearest settlement flowed plentifully, and the buck Tolgor and Éomer had caught was quickly reduced to bones. Their scouts had found no traces of orc-activity in the area, the weather was warm and dry, and for a few hours, all worries were wiped from the warriors’ minds. Tonight was a good night.

Together with Éothain and Tondhere, a young rider who had joined the éored two years earlier and understood only too well how left out the two friends felt on this first celebration of their comrades, Éomer sat in a niche outside the circle of singing and laughing warriors, not knowing how to feel or what to think. For days he had been looking forward to this night, but now that the fire flickered brightly and the songs and laughter of his brethren chased back the darkness, he did not feel like celebrating at all. Éothain, who gave him an inquisitive glance from time to time but found his silent questions ignored, suddenly rose to his feet.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m going to get me another jug of ale before it is all spent.”

“It would be your fourth,” Tondhere grinned. “And while I will admit that it could also be my eyesight, I feel more inclined to believe that it is in fact you who is already swaying.”

“Are you indicating that I know not how to drink?” Éothain narrowed his eyes, but his comrade was hardly impressed by his poor challenge.

“It would be frightening if you did at the age of sixteen!” he replied dryly, but then dismissed the son of Céorl with a throwaway gesture. “Ah, but what am I saying? Those are the experiences only life will teach you, not words. Go and drink until you pass out, if that is what you want, Éothain, but don’t be offended if the entire éored laughs at your misery tomorrow! To the gods of Ale!” He lifted his own jug and downed the remaining contents with two long gulps, followed by a massive belch.

For a moment, Éothain stared at the compact rider with revulsion, but then he shrugged and left his comrades sitting in search of the glorious golden liquid. Still smirking, Tondhere turned to Éomer.

“So, your friend is already an experienced appreciator of the Eastfold’s brews, is that right? I wouldn’t have thought.”

Éomer’s mouth twitched as he followed his friend’s path until Éothain’s shape melted into the many silhouettes before the fire.

“Éothain? He gets drunk even from water. He will die tomorrow.”

Tondhere chuckled.

“Well then, as his friend, shouldn’t you do something about it?”

Éomer shook his head.

“He wouldn’t listen to me, either. Like you said, this is one experience he needs to make for himself.” He looked down at his own jug, which was still half full.

“You already made it, I gather?” Tondhere, who had followed his gaze, asked curiously. “Or why would you hold back tonight? You’re still on your first ale, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Théodred got me drunk on the ‘Day of Recognition’,” Éomer admitted slowly, and, after a brief pause, added: “I did not like it.”

His comrade grinned wolfishly.

“Well, but you need to keep practising! A Rohír who passes out after a single pint will a disgrace for any self-respecting éored. The Captain would be very disappointed to have you do this to him. And as I know that you would not want that--”

Decidedly less amused than Tondhere and also rapidly growing tired of their conversation, Éomer nodded at the jug in his comrade’s hands.

“Since he has you to be proud of, I’m not concerned.” He picked up his empty plate and rose to his feet. “I will have a look if there’s something more to be had of the apple pie. It was good.”

“Apple pie?” Tondhere’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh well, I forgot… You’re only sixteen. It will take a while yet before you will come to appreciate the wonder of a well-brewed ale.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” Without another word, Éomer stepped out of the niche. Before him, some of the men were just stroking up a bawdy song to the laughter of the rest, and for a moment, he stood in the shadows and watched them, suddenly feeling very much alone. These men were brothers, kin forged by the sweat and tears and blood they had shed for each other in their many battles. They had risked their lives for their fellow riders, had gone through hell and beyond, and they would continue to do so until the end of days, their friendship an intimidatingly high wall for any outsider seeking entry.

“Éomer! He, lad!” a deep voice to his right suddenly belted out, and as Éomer sought for its owner, he found Bard the Bear gesturing for him. “I owe you a drink! Come over and let me pay my debt!”

“Yes, come over!” Tolgor agreed, and shakily stood up. “We’ll make room for you! Come on, brothers, make some room for the man who made it possible that you had some meat on your plates tonight!” He lifted his tankard. “To Éomer!”

“To Éomer!” the others tuned in happily – and rather drunkenly, Éomer observed as he waded through them, his face burning with embarrassment. Thankful that the darkness hid his crimson complexion, Éomer arrived at the little space by the fire the men had cleared, and at once found himself in Bard’s bone-crushing embrace as the man slobbered an ale-flavoured kiss upon his cheek.

“I love this lad!” Bard declared enthusiastically, and almost cracked Éomer’s ribs with his appreciative squeeze. A tankard was pressed into Éomer’s hand, and for a moment, he stared at it as if he did not now what it was used for, until Bard’s attention returned to him. “Come on, lad, we’re brothers now! Drink with me! Like this!” He grabbed Éomer’s arm with the jug and bent it around his own to the whooping shouts of the others. “Brothers to the end!” He set the rim against his lips, waiting for the son of Eomund to repeat his vow.

Éomer did not disappoint him. His heart beating rapidly with the unexpected joy of unexpectedly been granted entry into the communion of warriors, he locked eyes with the big man.

“Brothers to the end!” he said with all seriousness, meaning it with every fibre of his being, and drank to the cheers and applause of the éored. Then another heavy slap landed on his back, and he almost spewed out his ale.

“You’re all right, lad!” Bard laughed. “You got a problem with anything, just come to me, and Bard the Bear will fix it for you!” He turned around. “Who else wants to drink to brotherhood with the son of Eomund? Now is the time to do it!”

As it turned out, there were many others.

--

THE NEXT MORNING

“Wake up, Éomer! Up, up! It’s time to get moving!”

A foot was prodded against his side, not hard, but insistently. Unwilling to open his eyes, Éomer grunted something unintelligible and drew his blanket over his head in a useless effort to disappear from his unseen torturer. Yet only a moment later, the blanket was snatched away from him.

“Come on, son of Eomund, rise and shine! The morning meal is waiting for you, and then we must be off. If I have to come back one more time to get you, it will be with a bucket of water!”

At this threat, Éomer finally decided to risk an eye – and winced in pain when the sunlight assaulted him with thousands of tiny daggers it stabbed into the soft matter inside his scull. Quickly covering his eyes, he rolled on his back and groaned, but discovered to his dismay that this position did nothing to improve his condition. Somewhere further behind, he heard the same voice that had woken him admonish another late sleeper.

“Oh…” he groaned again, rolling back on his side. “…gods…” Cautiously massaging his temples with the hand that shielded his eyes, Éomer took stock of his condition and quickly arrived at the result that he was a mess: his head felt as if an orc had used it all night as a training object for his club; his hair seemed to have been transformed into a thousand needles someone had separately stuck into his skull, and the taste in his mouth could not have been much worset if a warg had used it to mark its territory. He had barely finished the thought when his stomach decided that enough was enough. He leaned over and retched.

“Well, well... look who had too much ale last night although he said that he was not in the mood for a celebration!” The voice sounded hatefully alert and, at the same time, so full of glee that Éomer decided to risk another glance. Of course, it was Tondhere. “Anything I can do for you on this fine morning, Éomer?”

“Yes,” Éomer growled. “Go and find a pile of dung and stick your head into it, but leave me alone.”

“Tss tss…” Tondhere shook his head in feigned shock. “I’m sorry, but I cannot do that. Tolgor sent me to get you moving. If you’re not up until he comes back, you will get wet, believe me. I’m talking from experience.” He waited for a reaction, and when none come, extended his hand. “Come on, Brother, I’ll help you up. See that you get to hop into the stream before we leave; it helps.” He pulled the young man to his feet with one quick move and winced sympathetically when he saw Éomer’s grimace of pain.

“Why do you always have to talk so much?” the son of Eomund muttered, only waiting for the moment when the top of his head would fall off. That it would fall off seemed to be solid fact the way the little blacksmiths inside his skull kept pounding against it from the inside. Tondhere grinned.

“Oh well, you should know me by now, Éomer: that’s the way I am. My mother always said that if they ever killed me, my mouth would have to be killed separately. But perhaps it will help you to remember that pain is temporary, but Brotherhood is forever! Last night was worth the headache, believe me. Welcome to the Brotherhood of Warriors!” He clapped Éomer’s shoulder and then looked at something behind him, his grin even broadening. “Béma, your friend Éothain looks even worse than you this morning. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’d have to tie him to the saddle today for him to stay in it.”

Curious, Éomer started to turn around – and almost lost his footing again as his sense of balance made another quick disappearance. Tondhere shook his head.

“You’re a disgrace, son of Eomund! Come, I’ll show you the way!”

--

A little later, all members of the éored were up and moving, and between some good-natured bantering, camp was broken in a swift and efficient manner. Standing by his already saddled mare, Éomer dug around in his saddle bags and produced an old, wrinkled apple out of them, which still looked considerably more appealing to him than the bowl of porridge he had been handed for breakfast earlier. Unable to tolerate its mushy consistence when he seemed barely able to keep the contents of his stomach inside, he had handed it to Éothain, who had likewise looked appalled at the grey stuff, and decided to opt for a sparser meal this morning.

Ignoring the many amused glances of his fellow riders, who all looked enviably sober to him although he had seen each of them down more ale than he and Éothain combined, the son of Eomund chewed on his apple while he unconsciously warded off Stormwing’s tentative efforts to snatch it from his hand.

“You’ve had breakfast,” he muttered with his mouth full. “Now leave me mine.”

A piercing shriek to his right immediately followed by laughter suddenly claimed his attention, and he detected Éothain among the horses, one arm still extended but quickly jumping back when the black stallion before him thrust his head in fury. With surprise Éomer saw that it was Ravenwing, and certainly, as he observed the scene further, he discovered Arnhelm close by, laughing as he motioned Éothain closer. With no small amount of jealousy, Éomer watched as the scout calmed his bold steed and then grasped Éothain’s hand to lay it on the stallion’s brow. Although Éomer could only see the back of his friend’s head, he could well imagine Éothain’s enraptured expression as his fingers circled the small white spot between Ravenwing’s eyes. He hardly felt his mare’s begging nudge.

“Here,” Éomer said absent-mindedly and held out the rest of the apple, unable to take his eyes off the scene before him. Yet even as he stood and watched, Arnhelm suddenly turned his head, and the amused smile upon his face froze. It did not drop from his lips but hardened, as if the scout were a sculpture hewn from stone, and its friendly warmth no longer reached his eyes. For the longest moment, they stared at each other, Éomer uncertain and hoping for a sign from the warrior that he, too, would be allowed to admire the black stallion from up close, but the scout’s expression remained blank. There was no wink, not the slightest sign of acknowledgement. And then Arnhelm turned around again, and all Éomer could do was stare at his back and wonder what it was about him that seemed to pose such great offence to the man.

“Mount!”

With a deep inward sigh, Éomer shifted his attention back to his mare as he desperately tried to contain his disappointment.

“At least you will always be my friend, Stormwing, will you not?” He planted a quick kiss on the mare’s nose which she didn’t seem to mind and then slipped into the saddle to steer her away from the scout. For a moment, he thought he felt a warrior’s stare upon himself, but found none of the men paying him attention as they set their horses in motion all around him.

“How’s your head today, lad?” Bard’s rumbling bass reached him from behind, and he turned around. “Think you’ll be able to hold yourself in the saddle all day?”

“For as long as I need to,” Éomer replied, and in fact it turned out that his bleak thoughts were a far greater nuisance during the day than his throbbing head…

--

EASTEMNET

They reached the confluence oft Mering and Entwash shortly before sunset; a very long day on horse back coming to an end especially after the celebration of the previous night. The Riders were glad to dismount and raise camp even if the ground was marshy and they were pestered by myriads of midges whenever they stood still for even the shortest time. Also, the grass had grown very high and reached up almost to their hips, leaving the warriors uncomfortable, as it would provide excellent cover for any beast or orc trying to sneak up on them. As an additonal safety measure, Elfhelm had ordered two more guards and told the men to spread their horses in a circle around the camp, as their experienced allies in this eternal war would sense danger much quicker than their masters.

As he absent-mindedly squashed another company of the tiny bloodsuckers on his neck, Éomer allowed himself a brief moment to let his gaze wander over their surroundings. Due south, the mighty peaks of the Ered Nimrais ruled the horizon, the highest of them – snow-covered even in summer and a beacon that was visible even from Edoras – was majestic Halifirien, the mountain where their people’s first king – his ancestor - had sworn his oath to the man who had made them the great gift of the Mark.

Despite his fatigue, Éomer felt a shudder of awe race down his spine as he stared at the holy mountain which he had never seen from up close. It was also not a place for every commoner to walk. In ancient times, only the Kings of Gondor and their successors had been allowed to its top, and the Stewards after them. The mountain had belonged to Gondor then, but everything had changed with Cirion’s great gift. Nowadays, Halifirien and the forest it oversaw were considered part of the Mark, although the beacon wards on its top came from both realms, and except for kings and stewards, only the armed forces were allowed on its paths. So far, Éomer had never seen the beacons lit, and another chill spread through his veins when he imagined how it would feel to see the fire burst to life from the terrace of the Golden Hall in Edoras. With all the sincerity of his sixteen years, Éomer found himself praying that that day would never come.

Another midget sting – this one on his right eye lid – brought him back to reality, and he blushed when he found that while he had been daydreaming, Éothain beside him had almost unsaddled his horse by now and was looking questioningly at him.

“Is everything all right, Éomer?” the son of Céorl asked, pausing. Shaking his head as if to clear it of the cobwebs of his daydream, Éomer resumed his battle with his mare’s tack.

“I’ve never been so far east,” he said. “So close to Halifirien.”

Éothain nodded, and his gaze went over Éomer’s shoulder.

“Me neither. It is a majestic mountain, isn’t it?” He released his gelding with a clap on its muscular hind quarters and looked around. “I hope the Captain will have mercy on us today. I do not feel as if I could chop even a twig. I’m not even certain that I have enough energy left for the evening meal, although I am really hungry.” He noticed that Éomer was not paying attention to him anymore and followed his gaze to where Arnhelm released Ravenwing. Not knowing how to feel as the warrior’s head turned toward them, the son of Céorl held his breath. The scout had been friendly to him, and yet he knew how much pain his rejection had caused Éomer on the past evening. And while at first, Éothain had believed that the reason for this had been his friend’s filthy state, he had also seen the cold looks Arnhelm had given Éomer over the camp fire during the celebration, and the way he had ignored him only the past morning. The unvoiced question of whether he wanted to come closer to touch the stallion again was clearly edged into the warrior’s lined face, but this time, Éothain pretended not to have seen it as he turned away. Éomer had been his friend for five years; and friendship demanded loyalty.

He was just about to ask Éomer whether he should help him with the mare, when he suddenly noticed his friend’s tense stance und understood what the son of Eomund was about to do. For a moment, Éothain considered calling him anyway, to keep him from making a mistake he would regret.

‘But perhaps, it will solve the problem. Perhaps, their quarrel will be over if Éomer apologises, for whatever it was that caused offence.’

Bracing himself for he did not know what, Éothain looked as Éomer made the first, hesitant step.

---

Éomer’s heart beat in a frenzied rhythm as he walked toward the scout. He had not the slightest inkling whether it was a good idea to confront Arnhelm, did not even know what he wanted to say to the man. He was acting on impulse, something he had always done in his childhood days and seldom regretted. But he had never encountered such hostility toward himself before. And yet perhaps, he hoped yet without conviction, he was misinterpreting the warrior’s behaviour, perhaps the solution was easier than he thought. If he swallowed his pride and apologised although he was not even aware of any fault… perhaps that would change how his hero felt toward him.

Arnhelm was still unaware of his approach, his back turned toward Éomer as his gaze glided over the vast marsh lands of the confluence, and for a moment, Éomer did not know how to proceed. A brief flutter of uncertainty raced through his head – “I should not do this. I did nothing wrong.’ – but before he could back away, the scout turned around and saw him standing behind him - and flinched again!

‘Perhaps it is just because I caught him unawares…’ Éomer did not believe himself, but he lowered his gaze nonetheless and bowed in submission.

“My Lord Arnhelm, please, will you accept my apologies for my behaviour last night? I had been looking forward to meeting you for a long time, and I fear that excitement--”

“It is not your fault, Éomer of Aldburg,” the older man said, each word seeming to cost him unbelievable effort. “However, there is also nothing to be done about it, and it would be best if you stayed out of my way, as I do not want to cause you grief.”

His head still lowered, Éomer looked up from under his eyebrows in confusion.

“But… my Lord,--”

“Did you not hear me, recruit?” Arnhelm straightened, and his tone grew harsh. “I do not wish to speak with you. Go and help raise the camp, every hand is needed because it will be dark soon.” He marched off. Lifting his head as he turned around, Éomer stared at the disappearing scout in utter consternation.

“My Lord, I … I don’t understand.”

“And it is nothing you would understand,” Arnhelm growled back over his shoulder without stopping. “So, forget it and heed my words: stay out of my way!” Aware but uncaring that all of the surrounding riders had witnessed his dispute with the youth and looked at him in wonder, the scout walked away.

Swallowing, Éomer stared at the scout’s back as he felt a hot wave of rising anger consume him. Unaware that his hands had balled into fists by his side, he stood and battled to keep his wildly bucking temper restrained. He was a recruit, and it would not do for a recruit to follow an esteemed member of the éored to shout at him. As the lowest of their ranks, he had no rights. And if Arnhelm thought that, as son of a Marshal and nephew of their King, he was looking to get respect and rank presented to him on a plate, he would have to clench his teeth and bear the man’s contempt until he had proven him wrong.

The wave of red-hot rage abated slowly and Éomer turned back to his waiting mare, when this time, he felt the distinct focus of a measuring pair of eyes and shifted his head – to find Elfhelm staring at him.

‘That’s it,’ Éomer thought with sudden despair. ‘As soon as we return to Aldburg, he will send me back to Edoras and tell Uncle that his nephew did not treat his men with the bidden respect. I shamed the King!’ The thought punched the breath from his lungs, and a black hole seemed to open right before him. ‘What will I do if I’m not allowed to become a rider?’ With burning eyes, he stood and stared at the man who had assigned him to his éored, but until he turned away again, the Captain’s gaze denied interpretation…