[Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or anything Tolkien created within it.]

Greener Pastures

A brisk and chilly wind swept across the plains of Rohan and teased the new spring grasses, already long and green, having survived the frosts of early that season. The sun shone pale down upon the country, for though spring had come, the nip of winter still clung to the air on these early mornings.

Inside the hillfort of Edoras, a horse lord of Rohan mourned his dying companion.

Éomer sat cross-legged in the straw, where he had passed the night. In his lap, he cradled Firefoot's head, graceful and noble even when old age had dulled his dappled grey coat and turned it fully white around his ears and nostrils, the hair growing woolly and a little unkempt. The king of Rohan had scarcely moved from his vigil but to muck out the stall himself and place down fresh, clean straw for Firefoot's bed. Such a task had been a difficult feat in Firefoot's condition, for the horse could barely stand to give Éomer room to clean the stall; still, ever faithful, the horse had done the best he could that his master might fulfill this task.

Now, however, Éomer knew that Firefoot would likely never rise again. The horse was very old, even for a horse of Firefoot's lineage – a descendant of the Maeras, but not full-blooded and so whose lifespan was longer than most horses but could not quite equal the lifespan of a man. It was time for Firefoot to go on to greener pastures. The man knew he should not mourn the passing of life of a horse, for however much these creatures provided the foundation for the very life and culture of the Rohirrim, they would come and go as all life would. Still, he felt as if he was losing a part of his own flesh and blood

"My love?" said a voice from the stall door, breaking Éomer's passage of thought.

"Lothíriel," he answered, knowing who spoke before he even looked up to see her.

"Would you mind some company?" she asked, concern painted on her face. "I also brought you something to break your fast, for you must be hungry and weary, husband."

He nodded in consent, allowing her entrance into the stall. The eighteen years of their marriage had only enhanced Lothíriel's looks; the few lines of care that time and rule had etched into her face were only complements to her particular kind of beauty. Her raven hair was not yet touched with grey, however, a stark contrast to his own. His beard was flecked with grey, his hair streaked with silver. Yet time had aged them both in different ways, though they still had many years left of good rule before their son Elfwine would take the throne. Lothíriel, several years younger than Éomer and descendant of a line blessed with long life, would likely outlive him, Éomer knew, if no sickness or injury claimed her early.

All this passed through Éomer's mind as Lothíriel knelt herself down in the straw beside him and Firefoot and handed him bread smeared with honey. He found that his body was hungry, though his heart was not, and he ate.

Lothíriel knelt by Firefoot and stroked his neck. The horse responded weakly to her touch, flicking his tail and giving a soft snort that sounded pained and weary.

"Meneg suilaid, Firefoot," she whispered in his ear. She could have spoken Rohirric, for which she had over time gained capacity as a native speaker, but the King Elessar had once told her that horses responded above all to the elvish tongues and she had since tended to heed this advice.

Lothíriel looked up at Éomer sadly. "Has he been in much pain?"

Éomer shrugged. "He has been quiet all the night," he replied, his voice low. "As if the fight has gone out of him. It must not be long now."

"What a life he has lived, Éomer," Lothíriel said. "It is time he laid down the fight and joined his forefathers in the everlasting fields."

Éomer closed his eyes. "I know," he said, scratching the base of Firefoot's ears. "Still I am reluctant to let him go."

Lothíriel placed her hand on his cheek. "I too have long loved this horse, if a creature might earn my love in a way a person might." She smiled at him reminiscently. "When I first came to marry you, a stranger whom I feared, I sought the confidance of your horse that I might find a way to you."

Éomer caught her hand and pressed the palm it to his lips. "I remember," he said simply.

Lothíriel sighed and lay her head on his shoulder, falling into silence. Their love had grown since those days, sometimes fluxuating, sometimes interrupted by obstacles, but it had never faded beyond their grasp. Between running a country and parenting their five children, for life had gifted them four daughters after their eldest son, and they had fostered several others, life was seldom without conflict and change. Still their love remained there for them as the one constant life granted them. Lately, however, the words they exchanged had grown fewer and their time alone together was often spent in comfortable silence. Neither of them seemed to mind it.

"I am sorry he must go this way," Éomer said after a time, his thoughts returning to his horse's plight. "I would have had him go in battle, for there never was a fiercer warhorse and a more valiant fighting companion."

"Would you?" were Lothíriel's words of reply. "To die in quick but bloody death, or slow and agonizing pain in the midst of chaos and terror? No, fréond min, Firefoot has earned a death of peace."

"Then I would have him receive that death out in the pastures, with the warmth of the sun on his back and the wind stirring his mane, and the smell of the earth in his nose," Éomer said, knowing her words were wise. "But he is too weak to move, and so must die in the straw in the dim light of the stables."

"There are worse places, Éomer," she told him. "Here he is safe in a place he knows with his master by his side."

At this, Éomer felt the tears prick forth at his eyes and he wept, his shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs. Lothíriel cradled her husband of eighteen years against her breast and stroked his hair as he in turn petted his horse's neck and scratched him at the base of his ears, finding though his eyes were unseeing the places Firefoot liked best. He could sense that Lothíriel was weeping too, though her tears were quieter and far more pensive than his raw weeping.

"Hush, déorling," she said softly. "You must not grieve so pitifully, for he is ready to go and needs your blessing, which only you can give."

Éomer nodded, knowing her words were right, and steeled himself enough that he could give this blessing. He bent over his horse's head to whisper words of assurance in his ear. Firefoot whickered softly, his breath slowing and the life for which he had long clung to beginning to flow gently from his tired body beneath his master's strong and gentle hands.

Goodbye, my faithful one.

They buried Firefoot with the quiet ceremonial honor befitting the stallion, in the place where many other great mounts of kings and lords were buried near the great tombs of the kings of Rohan. Éomer's eyes had long been dry, yet still he mourned the loss of his friend.

It was only a month later, as he watched the yearling Léofa, of whom Firefoot was the grandsire, frolick in the pastures with the band of other yearlings with which he ran, that Éomer found a true smile breaking across his face. The young horse was the mirror image of his ancestor as a yearling, and displayed all the feistiness and unquenchable spirit that the King of Rohan knew far too well.

"Elfwine," he called, beckoning to his son, who watched the horses a little ways down the fence with several other youths.

"Yes, father?" the sixteen-year-old replid in his clear, melodius baritone, for his voice had already settled into that of a man's. He hopped off the fence and came to his father at a jog.

Éomer put an arm around him and pointed to the yearling his eyes had picked out. "Do you see the proud grey one?"

"Yes, father. Is it not the grandfoal of Firefoot?" Elfwine answered, shielding his eyes to see more clearly in the bright sunlight. "I recognize the shape of his head."

"Yes, and it is time you had a yearling of your own to train," Éomer said with a smile. "He is yours, if you want him. That is, provided you can separate him out from the band and make him come to you."

The look on his already-handsome son's face, who despite his blond coloring appeared the very image of his mother, was proud and excited, and also a little nervous. Éomer smiled at that and clapped his son on the back reassuringly. It was enough.

fin.

[A/N:

Meneg suilaid – Sindarin, "many greetings"

Léofa - "Beloved"

fréond min (my love) and déorling (my darling) are Old English, which I substituted for Rohirric as Tolkien revealed very little of the language to us. I'm no expert, so forgive and let me know of any mistakes. ~Girlbird]