Leaving the stables Éomer trailed a step or two behind his older cousin, reluctant to face again this noisy echoing stone city.  Their trip from the gates halfway around the First Circle to these stables had been enough for him.  The towering white walls shut out the world he had known until now, a world of hills and dales, of grass, tree and open sky – and not even market day at Edoras could boast such a crowd.

As Éomer hurried a little to keep Théodred’s green jerkin in sight, waves of discordant voices struck his ears painfully and the miserable bareness of the stone houses and streets made him feel trapped.  The lack of horses – he even saw people pulling small wains! – completed his sense of alienness.  He had left Edoras only a few days earlier, almost swollen with pride at his new status as a man and filled with joy at both the thought of a trip in his big cousin’s company and at seeing the sights of Minas Tirith.  Now, overwhelmed by the noise and strangeness, he shivered a little and thought miserably of home as, hunching his shoulders under his new riding cloak, he ploughed on, grimly focussing on Théodred’s familiar form in front of him.  He didn’t hear the loud greeting or see the dark-haired man that bounded down from a road rising up from their circle.  He became aware of him only when he brought Théodred to a sudden halt by embracing him – sending Éomer crashing into his back.  Even as he struggled to steady himself, a black and silver-clad arm reached to clasp his shoulder and he was greeted by a smile that warmed like a flaring fire on a bitter winter’s night.

“So this is Éomer?  Welcome to the White City, lad!”

Théodred, with a friendly cuff on the shoulder for his clumsiness, stepped away from between them.  Through a flush of embarrassment  Éomer  took in a man dressed richly in Gondor’s silver and black, tall – even yet an inch or two above him and a full hand’s height above Théodred  – and fair of face.  A long silver sword hung at his side, in a scabbard delicately etched with a silver tree and seven shining stars and a silver collar around his neck bore a large white gem.  Almost Éomer could have dismissed him as a court dandy - the sort that some of the Riders spoke contemptuously of as ‘Gondorian Gentlemen’ - if it wasn’t for the solidly muscled frame that spoke of strength, just as the fire-bright eyes spoke of spirit.  The hands that held his shoulder and arm were as calloused and strong as any to be found among the Riders of Rohan and the hilt of the elegantly-housed sword was rubbed with use.

Watching with amusement his pink-cheeked cousin’s obvious admiration Théodred announced with elaborate courtesy,

“Éomer, allow me to present Boromir, son of Denethor,  High Warden of the White Tower, 27^th Steward of Gondor to be, Captain-General of the mighty Gondor Army –”

Théodred broke off to duck a punch from Boromir.  He grinned as he stepped back.

“Well, we don’t have such pretty princes in Rohan!  And I did bring my cousin here to see all of the sights.”

Boromir shook his head and sighed in mock exasperation before addressing Éomer. 

“And you’ve had to put up with his company alone for a week?  I pity you, Éomer, I really do – the more often I have had to put up with this rustic’s company the more I understand why the women of Rohan prefer horses.”

Éomer guffawed, as Théodred opined that he would have worn his best cloak if he had realised that Boromir was going to be considering him as a possible bedmate and Boromir shot back a reply crude enough to make a Rider blush.  This was not one of the grave, scholarly Gondorians he had feared to meet!  True enough Boromir’s rich clothing, dark colouring and sharp-edged Westron marked him as strange but in every other way he seemed as bold and gay as a true son of Eorl.  Perhaps even the endless noise of this barren stone city was going to be bearable.

Théodred clasped Boromir’s arm again and grinned at his friend.

“What of your baby brother?  Are we to see him?”

Boromir’s laughter rang out.  “Faramir?  He’d better not hear you call him that!  He’s three and twenty now – and a Captain these last six months in Ithilien.”

Théodred grimaced unrepentantly.  “Well, he cannot have been more than ten or eleven when I saw him last – when I came for that council meeting.  He was away with your uncle when Father and I came in 2999, I think.  At any rate, it seems I won’t see him this time either.”

“No, he is at home – he has been ill.  Caught some sort of aguish fever and was brought home six weeks ago…”

Boromir fell silent and glancing from one to the other Éomer saw that Théodred looked concerned; indeed, even he could tell that the quiet unhappiness and worry on Boromir’s face was foreign to him.  

“If he is unwell you must be wishing us to the abyss… there’s no need for us to bother you any further – there are inns a plenty we could stay in,” Théodred said quietly.

“Oh no, you don’t get out of it that easily!”  Boromir said with a sudden return of good humour.  “You dine with the Steward at eight.  Faramir’s well enough now – just easily tired.  I would that he had come down to meet you, but I couldn’t stir him from his book… he’s still as book crazy as ever; you two should get along well.”

“Well, if we dine at eight then we’d better make some haste – or for once My Lord Denethor will be right and we will smell of horse.”

A glance at the sky confirmed the truth in that and, catching up one of their bags, Boromir began to lead them up through the circles of the city.  Éomer walked silently on the far side of his cousin, content to listen as Boromir pointed out inns they must visit and exchanged scraps of gossip with Théodred about matters of court. 

As they waited for a heavily laden wain to squeeze past them, Théodred returned to the subject of Faramir.

“It should work rather well,” he mused, “if Faramir loves books and reading I’ll finally get the guide to your libraries I’ve always wanted – and you can entertain this heathen warrior who thinks books are only good for archery practise.”

“I was eight!”  Éomer said indignantly as Boromir laughed.

“I would advise you to not try that on any of Faramir’s books – for he will surely use you for target practise if you do.”  He sobered.  ‘Yes, Théodred, I daresay he will be pleased to show you his precious libraries – though I would fain see him do something other than read.  He seems little interested in anything else these days…  I wonder sometimes if he does not wish to return to Ithilien.”

“Is he not a soldier?” ventured Éomer.

“Yes, though perhaps a reluctant one.”

Éomer scowled a little in thought, resenting this Faramir who brought such worried gravity to Boromir’s face.

“Then it should be his duty to try to return to service as soon as possible.”

“Éomer!” Théodred rounded on him.  “Time enough to speak of a soldier’s duty when you have stood against something more fearful than half a handful of wargs!  If you have nothing better to say than that you can hold your tongue.”

Éomer shrank in the face of his cousin’s fury, suddenly  looking – and feeling – the fifteen year old boy he was, no matter how well grown or armed.  Since he’d come to live at the Golden Hall his thirteen year older cousin had been mentor, playmate and hero – but it was the look on Boromir’s face which made him apologise in a voice that teetered on the edge of breaking.

It was several moments before Boromir replied, but when he did the dangerous look had faded from his face.

“Faramir needs no-one to teach him about duty – and your cousin is right, you would do well to not speak of what you have not experienced.”

“Indeed,” said Théodred grimly.

Boromir shook his head.  “Leave it, Théodred.  He is just a child who does not understand what he is suggesting.  I should not have spoken my thoughts so.”

As they continued up the hill, Éomer let himself slip back until he trailed the older two by a dozen ells.  Not even the gradual appearance of the occasional garden or the opening up of views over the lush river plain could cheer him.  Boromir would never forgive him – indeed even Théodred would probably never forgive him, he thought as he walked along in miserable silence. 

They waited for him, though, at the entrance to the Citadel tunnel; the tall figure elegant in his black and silver and the smaller as warm and comforting as a hearth fire in his worn riding clothes.

“Come on,” said Théodred, “and try not to behave like a son of a Wose in future.”

Éomer nodded, ashamed.

“Boromir says we have time to go and seek Faramir in the Steward’s gardens before we must bathe and dress for dinner,” Théodred added.

Éomer took his place once more at his cousin’s side and, abandoning his unhappy contemplation of the ground, began to take an interest again in his surroundings.  Up here, the high walls and crowded buildings that had made him so uncomfortable in the lower circles were lacking.  It was possible to see out over the walls to distant hills and river and small gardens lined the roads.  Watching the open sky Éomer began to feel better. 

He followed the others through a set of carved wooden gates to find a garden of smooth lawns and trimmed and formal flowerbeds.  To be surrounded by plants instead of stone comforted him – though it was still as strange to Éomer as anything else he’d seen this day.  The gardens he knew back in Rohan were tightly packed, with narrow pathways only left bare.  Vegetables, herbs and fruiting plants surrounded the houses, with perhaps a sprinkling of brightly coloured flowers.  Grass was for horses to eat and around a house was simply a waste of good growing space. 

Swiftly, Boromir left them through the garden - between flower beds, through hedged gates and around neatly-shaped trees.  They found Faramir lying down on the grass by a pond, engrossed in a book.  At Boromir’s call he stood up, somewhat stiffly and seemingly reluctantly, to come to meet them.  He was as tall as Boromir, Éomer noted, and dressed alike in a formal court outfit of black and silver.  His belt wore no scabbard though.  Like his brother, he had the inky-black hair that seemed so common here, but so strange to Éomer - who was accustomed to considering his cousin’s brown hair to be very dark.  Again like his brother, Faramir wore it short, cropped around his shoulders, and free.  Their faces, too, bore resemblance close enough to call them brothers.  In little else, though - as Éomer saw it - did they resemble each other.  Where Boromir was broadly built and brown of skin and had eyes that could burn with fury or gleam with laughter in a flash, Faramir was thin to the point of being bony, pale of skin - and his eyes watched you coolly and remotely as though from behind a sheet of ice.  He bowed politely at Boromir’s introduction but stayed a step or two back.  This, thought Éomer, somewhat resentfully, this reserve and hauteur, was what he had expected from Gondorians. 

While Éomer returned the greeting with as little enthusiasm as Faramir gave it, his cousin smiled with his usual warmth and asked if he could see the book Faramir still held.  Faramir gave him a slightly startled look but passed it to him.  The look of surprise on his face as Théodred held the book with respect and turned the pages with loving care was enough to make Éomer scowl

Softly, in Sindarin marked by the rolling accent of the Rohirrim, Théodred read,

“A Elbereth Gilthoniel,

silivren penna míriel

o menel aglar elenath!

Na-chaered palan-díriel

o galadhremmin ennorath,

Fanuilos, le linnathon

nef aear, si nef aearon!…”

Faramir shook his head a little in apparent disbelief.  Clearly, he had never expected to see a Rider of Rohan touch a page with the same delight he did – or softly read a poem in Sindarin.  Éomer scowled more deeply and kicked the ground.  .  Does he think we are animals or wild men?  Thought he Théodred would eat it?

Théodred looked up, eyes shining.

“I can see why you did not wish to leave this to meet us.  I would that we had such books in Rohan.”

“Do you not?”

“No - my people are not scholars.  We are singers of songs, not writers of books.  There are men in my father’s hall who can recite more than a hundred years of kings and their deeds, and sing of the bitter cold and aching bellies of the Long Winter as though they had been there – but books are rare and I am one of the few who will read them.”

The distance had faded from Faramir’s voice.  “There are many – thousands!  - in the library that you may borrow while you are here.  There are scrolls and books that go back to-“

“You can extol the virtues of every dusty, mouldy volume in all of Minas Tirith later – if you must!”  Boromir broke in. "But for now, the guard at the Citadel has just changed; before the hour is out Father is going to expect us at his table.”

Faramir grimaced but Théodred handed the book back with a smile.  “Well, I refuse to live up to his expectations and come late and dirty, so lead us to our room – and a plentiful supply of hot water.”

Following once more Éomer wondered with trepidation just what sort of monster Denethor was that everyone seemed almost afraid of him.  Well, no, he corrected himself – Boromir and Théodred wouldn’t be afraid – reluctant to displease him, perhaps.  Théoden King spoke of him respectfully, though not warmly, as a good leader, excellent strategist and reliable neighbour while Grandmother had spoken of the beautiful young wife who had withered and died in the sea-less stone city and of how Denethor had become a grey and grave man.  On their ride to Minas Tirith, Théodred had warned Éomer that he’d find the court here very different from Edoras – more formal and mannered, less friendly and less forgiving of exuberance or lapses of manners – but he’d spoken little of Denethor, saying that he had met him rarely.

Their room was up two flights of stairs; Éomer would fain have stood out on their small balcony for a while, enjoying the fresh breezes and novel perspective, but the moment the maids left after delivering the ewers of water Théodred began hounding him.

“Hurry up!  Get yourself washed and dressed and I will do your hair.”

Éomer cast a hasty glance at his mass of braids, even as he began to strip off his travel-worn garments.

“Oh, Théodred, they will do!”

“For dinner with the Steward of Gondor?  I think not – I’ve seen muckheaps look neater.  Now hurry up, and be thorough – unless you want me to come and scrub your face for you!”

Éomer made a face at his older cousin, which Théodred, busy shaking out creases and road dust from their court clothing, missed, before sluicing himself thoroughly with water and making use of the soft brown soap that stood beside the wooden tub.  It was, he admitted to himself, rather nice to be clean - even though this fuss about Denethor, Steward of Gondor, was beginning to annoy him.  His mother’s brother was, after all, King of Rohan and Théodred himself would one day stand in his place.  He thought the fuss even more unnecessary when Théodred, who was washed and dressed before Éomer had even finished lacing his tunic, began combing his hair ruthlessly. 

“By all that’s good, Éomer, I begin to think I should have asked Éowyn to loan us Freawaru to dress you and do your hair,” Théodred said, grinning, as he swiftly wove Éomer’s hair into its long braids.  “She is probably accustomed to dealing with nurselings that squeal and wiggle!”

“Yes,” said Éomer, rubbing his smarting scalp as Théodred began work on his own brown hair, ‘she raised you, didn’t she?”

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

AN: 

* Happy birthday, Nessime!  This was as close to an Éomer story as I could get.

*Very grateful thanks to Antigone Q for helping me to sort out my POV confusion – remaining confusion is all mine and all light shed would be welcome  ;-)

*The poem is by JRR Tolkien, as you probably knew

*The nurse’s name is from a list I found of OE names.  I know nothing of Rohirric so pleas let me know if there is a problem with it.

*As always, any feedback would be very gratefully received.  I’m happy to have grammatical, canonical or factual errors pointed out.  My particular concerns are:

- characterisation – are they all (a) in character in your opinion (b) sufficiently different from each other

- POV – have I stayed in the correct POV (I’m having terrible troubles following all the 3^rd person rules currently)

- dialogue, my eternal weakness – does it sound real to you?