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

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

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

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

Boromir gave a shout of laughter and turned to Éomer. 

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

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

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

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

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

Behind them, Théodred groaned.

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

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

Théodred merely grinned.

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

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

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

“Deore…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Half Mearas,” Éomer said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Surely you do not ride her to war?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am disappointed in you, Éomer.”

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

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

Boromir greeted them both with a half-smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What would you know?” he shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faramir flinched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Author’s Notes:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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