A/N: This was written for an RPG with too few members to play, well, anyone. So I temped these. I've tried to keep the 'horsey' technicalities to a minimum, for those who have tacked a horse. Any thoughts and [constructive] criticisms are welcome - this has never been beta'd. Thanks to a lovely review from Chigger, I've changed 'fetters' to 'fetlocks' and 'Rohhirim' to 'Rohirric'. And thanks to Raindare and Donna Lynn for proving that Théodred is older than Éomer!
DISCLAIMER: The rights to Lord of the Rings are the property of the Tolkien family, New Line Cinema, and lots of other companies that I don't know about. I intend no copyright infringement, I make no profit from this venture, and I mean no offence or insult to anyone.

Brush in hand, Éomer murmured to his horse, Firefoot, before beginning the daily ritual of grooming. It was soothing to man and beast, a rare moment of peace for a pair permanently embroiled in bloodshed and war. Éomer made smooth sweeping strokes with his arm, content to be surrounded by the sounds and smells of a busy stable.

He had once seen an abandoned stable as a boy; the village had been gutted by orcs. Death had shadowed the troughs, and blood stained the straw-covered floor. The barren stalls had screamed against his very nature. To a Rohirrim warrior, nothing is more haunting than a deserted stable.

Pushing the memory from his mind, Éomer began to sing in a low voice. Firefoot pricked his ears and his tail swished. Éomer's baritone sang of the early days of Rohan, when they had rode to the aid of Gondor and won a great victory under the banner of King Eorl.

A second voice joined his, their unique language weaving together between the two distinct voices, both equally soothing and nostalgic. The voice came from the adjacent stall, and peering over the low divide Éomer spied his cousin Théodred. The prince smiled at him as he sang, continuing to braid Brego's mane. Éomer combed Firefoot's fetters, checking the legs and hooves for damage out of habit. A rider of Rohan was nothing without his horse, and before he even learnt to wield a sword or spear he learnt to care for his animal. It built trust between the two, a necessity in such a co-dependent partnership.

The last note of their campfire song was particularly low. Éomer reached it well, only to have Théodred go lower. Meeting the challenge enthusiastically, Éomer went lower still. Théodred followed. They were soon chortling together, slipping on the bridles with friendly smiles to each other and a soft touch for their steeds.

"Your voice has deepened to that of a man's, cousin," Théodred said nonchalantly. Éomer's eyes narrowed, waiting for the mocking remark to come. "A pity your tack does not match!" Éomer rolled his eyes. Older than he by about thirteen years, Théodred took it upon himself to remind Éomer of the fact often. The joke itself was purely for Rohirric tastes - older, more experienced men wore their tack down with daily use, and adorned it with small medals won in the service of the King. Éomer's tack was still somewhat intact, and occasionally squeaked as newer saddles are wont to do. It was a source of small embarrassment to him. Riders of the Mark knew, however, that the King's nephew was a fine warrior, an excellent leader, and a worthy comrade to follow in defence of the country they had so much pride in.

Tightening the girths and adjusting the stirrups, the two kinsmen led their mounts into the sunlight streaming onto Edoras. Meduseld gleamed above them, and it sparked a warm feeling in Éomer's heart.

"Come, cousin," he gestured to Théodred, "Let us ride." The last was said with no small amount of relish. Théodred's eyes glittered like the Golden Hall under a full moon.

"Ride like the wind!" With that he leapt onto Brego and tore down the steep hillside. Éomer was swift to follow, Firefoot finding the familiar route behind Brego. Théodred shouted for joy as he galloped across the grassy lands beneath the White Mountains in another rare moment of leisure, to do as they would without thought to enemies harrowing Rohan's borders, or the darkness in Meduseld. Éomer grinned and pushed Firefoot to greater speeds, letting the wind blow from his minds all domestic and political concerns. It was good to be Rohirric.