Author's Notes:

Well, first of all it is very late - and I do apologise for that. It's mostly been work (memo to self - don't start story just before school starts for the year) with a wee dash of stage fright thrown in. I don't normally post by chapters - and everyone saying 'Can't wait to see the next bit/Denethor/whatever and saying 'Wonder where you're going with this' did panic me more than a smidgin ;-) I think the answers maybe (1) there's nothing terribly special about this Denethor and (2) I'm not terribly sure now that it is going anywhere much - it's just having a nice chat along the way ;-)

I'm terribly nervous about it because it is sooo not my usual style and this chapter is quite beta (so poke as many holes as you like) but I felt I better get it out there before I totally freeze on it. It's not sounding very Tolkien at all and not much happens and … oh I can pick holes in it all night!

The Rohirric is Old English, I hope. I used an on-line translator and know absolutely nowt about it so it isn't very grammatical or good and any suggestions would be very welcome.

Sceotan - warior, archer

Earn - eagle

Seofon Gafeluc - seven spear

Heolfor-Eorcanstan - blood-jewel

Faramir's terms for the stars come from Tolkien's writings and are partly there as a tribute to my Star-gazing friends.

Lastly, big apologies to those still waiting for me to reply to your kind feedback - work really has been horrific, but I'm almost over the worst so I should get to it soon. (It'll have to be soon 'cause after that I'll be swallowed up by Australian Swimming Championships and the Sydney Easter Show and will be lucky to even see an Easter Show.)

Oh - and in case you don't recognise it - my last line is virtually directly stolen fromTolkien.

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Faramir was waiting for them in the corridor outside their room.  The enthusiasm that had animated him when he spoke of books had vanished and he seemed once more remote and uninterested. 

“Boromir thought you might need a guide.”

“Yes, and we thank you,” Théodred replied with his quick smile.  “It has been many years since I visited here.”

Éomer stayed as close to his cousin as he could on their journey through the cool stone halls.  He felt almost as he had the day he had ridden for the first time with Théodred’s éored.  Blood beat swiftly in his wrists and throat.  How would he manage in the midst of these elegant strangers?  Miserably he tried to remember all Théodred had told him about Gondorian manners and customs - but all he could hear was Freawaru telling him that he’d be more at home eating in the stables.  His new clothes felt as strange and uncomforting as this foreign city did and with clammy hands he tugged at his cuffs, trying to cover the inch of wrist that seemed to have grown since the outfit had been sewn.  Beside him Théodred and Faramir were making polite conversation about their journey but Éomer let the words sift past him unnoticed – until Faramir indicated a door at the top of a last half-flight of stairs. 

“We dine here when it is just family.  Tomorrow night you will be in the Great Hall with the lords of Gondor but Father felt you would be too fatigued after your journey and would prefer a simple meal tonight.”

With a grin Théodred said, “Tonight and every night.”

To his surprise, Éomer saw an answering smile in Faramir’s grey eyes as he bowed them through the door.

They passed into a room panelled in dark wood with the tree and stars of Gondor inlaid in one wall in shining silver.  A large fire filled an arching stone fireplace against the chill of the spring night and a dozen or more sconces of candles lit the room.  The flames reflected in golden gleams from the bronze and silver dishes on the table.  It was an elegant room, with all that was in it clean-lined and well-made, but it was its emptiness that struck Éomer.  In his uncle’s Golden Hall and back in his father’s house in the east marches, a family dinner could include two or three dozen people - kin both near and distant, family retainers and such members of the éored as wished would all be crowded around the long board.  The room would be filled with noise as snatches of songs and bawdy jokes competed with discussion of horses, crops and battles while the babes of the family would likely be playing on a rug by the fire with the hounds curled up nearby in a contented pile.  Yet in all this room, as well as the three that had entered, stood only two figures.  Boromir was by the fire, one hand resting on the carved stone that ran above the fireplace while his other raised a silver goblet to his lips, and beside him stood a tall and kingly figure – Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor.

Silver streaked Denethor’s dark hair and fine traceries of lines marked the passage of years on his face but his bearing was still that of a warrior, well seasoned in battle and hardy as a spear of ash.  He was dressed in the same silver and black as his sons but of a plainer make; the very plainness seeming a mark of power.  Age apart, his face was but a darker reflection of those of his sons.

As he studied the Steward, Éomer felt his cousin gently bump his elbow.  With a start, he awoke to his duty and bowed deeply to Lord Denethor.  Théodred followed with a slight inclination of his head – deference to age and an older kingdom from one who is the son of a king. 

Boromir formally introduced them and Denethor replied with a cool speech of welcome.  He spoke first to Théodred, speaking of previous meetings and of their lands’ long history of friendship.  Éomer listened, noting how the warmth was only in the words and not in his voice.  He felt his own blood chill as Denethor turned to him.

“And welcome, Éomer son of Éomund, to Gondor and to our court.  It is a pleasure to meet the son of such a redoubtable warrior.  His deeds were noted even in these lands.”

The words were courteous and fair but Éomer stumbled in reply, feeling an ignorant fool, and was grateful when the dark gaze moved back to his cousin.  While Théodred made a graceful speech of thanks for Gondor’s hospitality and passed his father’s greetings to Denethor Éomer stepped back a little and, as his cheeks cooled, realised he had surmounted the first of the evening’s feared hurdles.  While the courtesies were being exchanged he had time to look around and feel again the strangeness of this empty room.  So quiet it was…. Was this what Grandmother had meant when she had spoken of Denethor becoming a grey and graver man - or were these just Gondor ways?  They did say back in Rohan that the Gondorians were a solemn and sober people – a stone city filled with stone people, they said of Minas Tirith.  Éomer glanced back to where his cousin still spoke to Denethor and past them saw Boromir smiling warmly at him.  Heartened, he smiled back; certainly not all in Minas Tirith were made of stone.

“Come,” said Denethor, raising his voice slightly, “We will sit down to our meat now – Faramir, strike the gong.”

For a moment, Éomer thought that the gong might be to call more to dine but as he followed Denethor to the table he realised that it was only set for five.  He was seated at his host’s left hand, with Faramir beside him and his cousin and Boromir across the table.  Éomer would fain have sat much further away from the Steward or at least beside Théodred but as he took his place he was comforted by an encouraging smile from his cousin.  They stood by the table as the servants carried in the roast meats and Éomer looked hungrily at the table as they waited.  Light yeast-risen bread, golden slabs of butter, platters of spring greens, dried fruits, honey, some slightly wrinkled late autumn apples, a red cheese, nuts and fresh sliced carrots and turnips were spread out on the white cloth covered table and it seemed an uncommonly long time since the midday meal that Théodred and he had eaten by the wayside.  The rich savoury smell of the roast meats was welcome too after their meals of dried meat and small game during their week of travel. 

As the servants left the room, Denethor turned to face the West.  Théodred had drilled him well in this and Éomer didn’t require Faramir’s jab to know to follow suit.  It was only his determination to show that a Rohirrim could match any of Gondor for courtesy and learning that prevented him turning to glare at Faramir.

Théodred had spoken of it as the standing silence so Éomer was surprised to hear Boromir softly speak.

 “Númenor that was…  Elvenhome that is… and that which is beyond Elvenhome and will ever be.”

As they turned and sat down Éomer caught the quizzical look Denethor gave his son – and realised that Boromir had changed the ritual so his guests would understand.  Éomer watched admiringly as Boromir, seemingly unconcerned by what his formidable father might be thinking, offered Théodred the platter of greens and helped himself to a generous serve.  Undoubtedly, Boromir would make a fine Rider; like he was indeed to the boldest sons of Eorl.  

“Éomer…  Éomer,” said Faramir in somewhat exasperated tones.

With the faintest of blushes, Éomer drew his attention back to his other companions to see Faramir offering him a dish of meat.  Théodred was frowning at him across the table and he blushed again as he served himself and muttered a thank you.  For a while then he paid attention to little beyond his dinner – and making sure that he ate it with such manners as would have delighted old Freawaru.  Faramir was as silent beside him and Denethor addressed himself to the elder two.  Éomer listened with no more than half an ear as he ate and drank, but gradually as his hunger was appeased, he realised that he seemed to be listening to two different conversations.  Taking another draft of the heavy red wine that filled his goblet and sandwiching a slice of cheese and apple together he began to try to make sense of them.

Denethor was asking Théodred about how many horses they had been able to run on the Eastfold during this past dry season and whether he thought that the foaling would be down if this spring remained as dry.  A sensible topic, thought Éomer approvingly as he reached for the jug of wine to refill his goblet.  Théodred, though, replied only briefly before moving on to other matters.

“Yes, we have had to reduce numbers a little – made a very good sale to the Beornings and moved others to the Wold - but grass cover has remained quite good, in truth.”  He paused briefly.  “I was wondering, though, what you think of the situation with Umbar at the moment?”

Denethor raised his hand as though averting the topic, “Nothing you need worry about, I feel sure.”

Watching slightly muzzily Éomer saw Théodred tighten his lips and Boromir grin as Denethor returned with polished urbanity to his chosen topic.

“I imagine you’ll want to see our mounted troops while you are here – though they are a small part of our army, of course, nothing like your chargers.”

“Indeed,” said Théodred politely.  “I hope also to see these new murals that Turambar has done; I have heard much of them.”

Boromir, still smiling for no reason Éomer could discover, said, “I’m sure that Faramir would be delighted to show you them – and converse with you in great detail about the history of mural painting since Númenor.  A tour of our cavalry stables is far more in my humble line, I’m afraid.”

Théodred gave his friend a narrow-eyed look and Boromir winced slightly.  Éomer watched them in puzzlement as he drank more of his wine, enjoying both the heady fumes and the rich smoothness of it over his tongue.  A meal without ale was considered a poor thing among the Rohirrim and Éomer had been drinking it since before he had come to live with his mother’s brother, but wine was rarer and kept for those who were older.  Truth to tell, when after their sortie against the wargs Théodred had given him a half mug of wine before he bound his arm Éomer had found it rather bitter - but the more he drank of this wine the more mellow it seemed.

Glancing sideways as he savoured his mouthful of wine Éomer noticed that though Faramir used his fork and knife with seeming interest little changed on his plate.  More fool he, thought Éomer reaching for another handful of nuts before turning back to see if Denethor and Théodred were still fencing in their strange pattern of parry and thrust.

“I believe you get some good hunting over in Rohan – coursing of hares, isn’t it?”

“Yes, many of the men do enjoy that.  I know little of it myself, I am more often needed in court and prefer to read when I am free.”

Éomer shook his head a little.  It made no sense to him.  He glanced around the table once more, feeling again the empty silence of this room.  Strange still it felt, strange and uncomforting.  He longed for the friendly warmth and noise of the Golden Hall… was this meal ever going to end?  He reached out with his knife to spear a piece of bread, only to be stopped by Théodred’s snapped, “Éomer!”

Cheeks burning, he put his knife down with an unwanted clatter and fixed his eyes on his hands.  Why, he wondered miserably, had Théodred ever thought to bring him?  Freawaru was right, as well take the pig herder as expecthim to manage in this land of polished manners and subtle undercurrents.  Through the blood that raced in his ears, he heard Boromir say chidingly,

“You are supposed to wait on your guest, Faramir.”

“Indeed,” added Denethor in a colder voice, “and little else are you doing, it would seem.  At the least do not play with your food, if you do not see your duty clearly enough to eat it.”

Faramir put his knife and fork down quietly and in a colourless voice asked,

“Would you like some bread, Éomer?”

Éomer managed a choked no, without looking up.  He clenched his hands fiercely.  It was years – years!  – since he’d cried and he wouldn’t do so now.  Gratefully, he heard Théodred say,

“Denethor, may my cousin be excused the table?  We have travelled far today and the hour is late for him.”

With cool graciousness, Denethor agreed.  “You may be excused as well, Faramir – you would do better to go to bed.”

Éomer scrambled to his feet, taking what comfort he could from Théodred’s friendly good night and Boromir’s reminder of their arrangement to ride together on the morrow.  Faramir followed him silently out of the room and stopped him with a touch as he turned away to try and find his room.

“Do you wish for bed?  It is yet early.”

Éomer hesitated.  Did he want to go alone to an empty room?  No.  He ached miserably for home and the friendly noise of the king’s household, and he felt slightly sick and uncertain on his feet.  Did he want, though, to spend time with this aloof, unfriendly Gondorian - if that was indeed what he was suggesting?  He half shrugged, and turned a little more towards Faramir, although he remained scowling at the floor.  Faramir seemed to take that as some sort of acceptance.

“I’m going out to the gardens to watch the stars.  Come.”

He turned and led the way down the hallway.  Éomer took advantage of Faramir’s back being to him to press his eyes against his jacket sleeve and then hurried to catch up.  By the third corridor, his voice was steady enough to ask something he was longing to know.

“Is it always this empty here?”

Faramir looked slightly startled and looked around the quiet corridor.

“Well, it is late evening – and this is not a route the servants use.”  He looked again at Éomer, for the first time with interest.  “But that is not what you mean, is it?”

Éomer, who was finding his legs felt as though he had just dismounted from a day of a dozen leagues or more, braced one hand against the wall while he waved around with the other.

“No, not just here – this house, where we ate …”

Faramir nodded a dawning comprehension as he answered slowly, “Yes, I suppose it is usually empty… now.  Uncle Imrahil says that when Grandfather was alive there were visitors much of the time - and even parties.  Grandfather’s favourite captains and lords would be in and out of the Steward’s house as though they were family and would dine here as often as not.  This is a quiet household now, though I had not thought of it as empty before.”

Éomer nodded at this answer he had more or less expected but didn’t speak.  Faramir too seemed to have nothing more to say.

When they were out in the gardens though, and he had piloted them to a long stone seat built into the wall overlooking the city, Faramir came back to the topic.

“Is it so different in Rohan?”

“Yes!”  Éomer took a breath.  “The room is full – all down the hall the big tables and the children playing… people call out for more ale and roar with laughter at a funny tale… the men come and go as they finish their duties and the food gets spilled on the tables and it doesn’t matter… and there’s singing and sometimes quarrels… once Beonoc cut off one of Leodwald’s braids!  There are so many people – you are never all alone and it is never, never silent like in there.”

Faramir, tucked compactly at his end of the bench, feet almost under him, arms around his knees, nodded thoughtfully.  “You must find it strange here.”

It was scarcely a question but Éomer answered it, with an almost whispered “Yes.”  He leant back against his end of the stone seat and looked up at the stars.  Foolishly, tears stung at his eyes.  Everything seemed too hard and Rohan too far away.  He didn’t belong here and already he had made a fool of himself…  Théodred must be regretting offering to bring him and Boromir, well, if he had thought Boromir kindly towards him earlier in the day that was before his boorish exhibition at dinner.  Éomer blinked fiercely, knowing in some part of him that he was making far too much of all this but the stars shifted dizzily above him and a black misery, foreign to his usually bold temperament, pressed down on him.

“Look at the stars,” advised a voice from the dark, a voice that was soft and somehow soothing, even though it had lost nothing of its sharp Gondorian accent.  “They do not change.  Here, Belfalas, out in the wilds of Ithilien, they are the same.  The Netted Stars…  Morwinyon…  The Archer…  The Swordsman…  Soronúme… they watch us wherever we are and we can watch them.  They are the same stars you see as you hobble your horses on the plains of Rohan, though you may name them differently.”

Éomer blinked, watching the brilliant stars waver, and then swallowed.

“Earn…  Sceotan…  Seofon Gafeluc….”

“Seven spears?  Is that the one you can see just above the top of the tower?  The seven stars close together?”

Éomer looked over at the patch of darkness that was Faramir and nodded then, realising that was of little use, added,

“Yes.  They are the seven spears of Fram, who slew the great worm, Scatha.  They are followed by Heolfor-Eorcanstan that came from Scatha himself.  As Fram slew him he reared up on his mighty legs and scattered his blood across the sky-” Éomer paused suddenly, realising that Faramir was probably laughing at him for being such an unlettered rustic.  Gondorians undoubtedly knew the only ‘true’ story.  “You don’t want to hear this,” he said, sullenly, picking at his sleeve.  ‘They are just nursery tales.”

There was no reserve in Faramir’s voice now. 

“I do, Éomer – I don’t know your legends because they are not in any of our books.  We call your Heolfor-Eorcanstan Borgil but I want to know your story.  Go on!”

As Éomer hesitated – was that an insult aimed at Rohan’s lack of books? – a voice broke in.

“And I thought only my little brother was foolish enough to sit in a cold garden in the dark discussing stars!” 

Boromir laughed as he stood there looking at them in the faint light of the stars and the sharp-edged moon.  He grinned down at Éomer.

“And I think your cousin thought that you had run away after one dinner with the steward’s family when you were not in your room.”

With a clap on the shoulder, Boromir moved away down to the end of the seat where his brother sat.  Éomer leant a little against Théodred, who had come to stand beside him, and almost tried not to listen to what seemed to be a private conversation.  Boromir’s voice was quiet and soft now, stripped of its usual bold and merry tones.

“And as for you … What would Father or the healers say if they could see you sitting out in the cold air like this?”

Faramir replied with few muttered words that were too soft to hear.  Boromir pulled off his jacket and began to put it around Faramir’s shoulders.  Suddenly, though, Faramir got to his feet and shrugged Boromir away.

“Leave me alone, for the Valar’s sake!  I am neither child nor imbecile and you are not my nursemaid.”

He pushed past Boromir and vanished in the darkness of the path back to the house.  With an exasperated sounding sigh Boromir came to join them, flopping on the bench at Éomer’s feet. 

“What did I tell you?  As prickly as a thornbush!” he said, looking up to where Théodred still leaned against the balustrade.

Théodred made excuse.  “He has been ill – and he is too old to want you fussing after him as though he was still your small brother.”

Boromir settled himself more comfortably and snorted in a friendly, though disbelieving, fashion.  “And you do not worry about this one anymore?”

“This one,” said Théodred, pulling one of Éomer’s braids gently, “is scarcely more than a yearling still – with as little sense!  Are you sober yet?”

Éomer felt himself colour with embarrassment.

“I am sorry,” he muttered.

Théodred’s hand clasped his shoulder.  “No need – it is I who should be sorry.  I should have been looking out for you and instead…”

“Instead,” said Boromir cheerfully, “you were busy trying to prove to my father that you would not recognise a horse if it climbed into bed with you.”

Éomer felt Théodred take a deep breath.

“I am sorry, Boromir - but I do not like being treated as though I was some groom down from the country with scarce enough lettering to write my own name.”

“He’s just being a good host,” protested Boromir mildly, “and talking about what interests you.”

Théodred shook his head.  “No – what he thinks should interest me.”

Boromir shrugged.  ‘You’re as stubborn as each other.”  He grinned at Éomer again.  “He is stubborn, your cousin, you know – stubborn and fierce.  He kicked me in the middle of dinner!”

There was a quiet chuckle from Théodred.  “You deserved it – talking as though you were some rough soldier who has never seen a book.  You – the steward’s heir and High Warden of the White Tower!  You are probably more educated than anyone in all of Rohan.”

“I must introduce you to my old tutor,” said Boromir, dryly.  “He will tell you with what difficulty he dragged me to my books – and with what relief he waved me off to war.  Thankfully the poor man had Faramir as pupil too or I might well have broken his heart.”

“Hmmm,” said Théodred.  He slipped down from the balustrade and pushed Éomer over so he could share the bench.  “Shall I tell Boromir how Grandmother once tied you to your chair when she got tired of you wandering away from your books like a newly weaned pup?” 

Éomer grinned but didn’t bother to reply.  The wine and the long day were combining to make him sleepy and leaning back against his cousin’s shoulder he let the banter drift past him.  He was no longer unhappy.  What if this city of stone did smell, look and feel strange?  Théodred was with him, as solid and dependable as he had been in those dark months when his father was already gone and his mother was fading.  What if Faramir – or some other as yet unmet Gondorians – did look down on him as unlettered and rough?  Boromir was as bold and gay as any Rider and he was speaking now of a plan to take Éomer with him in a few days time when he rode out to a nearby training camp.  He, Éomer, was a Rider of Rohan, there was nothing he need fear in this overbuilt town.  As he drowsed, Éomer felt one of his braids being gently pulled.

“Do not go to sleep – I certainly cannot carry such a longshanks to bed these days.”

“Not,” said Éomer, obediently opening his eyes and trying to watch the stars.  There was Heolfor-Eorcanstan, still shining as brightly as the day it flew from Scatha’s throat… what outlandish name had Faramir called it?  Still, he was right – the stars were the same and it did comfort you to know that…

“Come on, lad – you can’t sleep in the steward’s garden,” said Boromir, pushing his feet gently to the ground.

Yawning and stretching Éomer stumbled to his feet and followed the older two through the night-darkened garden.  The snatches of their talk that penetrated his sleep-fogged brain were about Faramir and whether he would be in bed or off doing something equally foolish as sitting in a cold damp garden - and whether this would bring back his fever.  Éomer snorted softly to himself.  Some captain this Faramir must be, who couldn’t even be trusted to look after himself.  When he was 23, no-one would need to nursemaid him.

When they stopped outside their room, Boromir caught Théodred up in a hug. 

“It is so good to see you again - I’ll even happily come and see those murals of yours.”

Straight-faced, Théodred replied, “And I’ll force myself to pretend to admire Gondorian horses.”

“So you should – after all we buy our stock from Rohan.”

“Such a useful way to thin out the weaklings from the herds…”

Boromir gave Théodred a friendly push and turned to Éomer.  Solemnly he put his hands on his shoulders and kissed him lightly on the forehead.

“Welcome to Gondor and our beloved White City.”

Éomer muttered an inaudible response and looked down, scraping his feet on the floor.  He knew then that, sore as his heart longed for the green open plains of Rohan, some part of his allegiance would always lie with this city of stone that Boromir loved so dearly… and with this dark-haired man who seemed so like to the swift sons of Eorl.