Sorry for making you wait much longer than usual for an update, but RL can really be nasty and computers do not always do what their owners expect them to do.:-(

I'd like to thank all of you who are still following the story, especially those who were so kind as to drop me a line (and sometimes much more than just a line;-)) to give me some feedback. You really make me happy.

9th Feb. With all computer muddles solved, I was finally able to erase all those language mistakes sep12 pointed out to me. Thanks a lot, you are such a great help!

Chapter 6

With a quick movement Winfrid evaded his opponent's blow, turning the stroke harmless by letting it glide off his shield. Though much shorter than the other boy, his swiftness made up for the lacking reach. His riposte came quick as lightning, causing his combatant to give ground with a surprised grunt.

Sitting on one of the fences that sectioned the training grounds, Éomer watched his squire spar with one of the boys of his age that had started training in summer as a preparation for becoming Riders, once they reached the age of sixteen. He himself had sparred with Erchirion before, who now sat beside him, watching the unlike opponents with unfeigned interest. Giving a low whistle, the Gondorean grimaced approvingly. "Blimey, that runt is fast."

Sweat trickled down Winfrid's nose, but otherwise the boy showed no sign of exhaustion. Graceful as a dancer he avoided the next stroke, using his combatant's momentum to bring him off balance and land his own blow. The taller and heavier boy's fury was obvious, causing him to charge imprudently, while Winfrid stayed concentrated and focussed. But Éomer's critical eye did not miss the slight wobble of his sword-tip. The boy was no doubt tiring. He had to make the final strike soon or the other boy would get the upper hand.

Ducking a charge, Winfrid stepped aside, whirled round, and with a sudden movement of his wrist, broke through his opponent's guard, jamming the blunted tip under his chin. "You're dead!" His voice cracked, making his exclamation sound like some strangled cock's crow. Laughing, Wulfstan, the master-at-arms, strode up to the boys. "You had both better stop it for now. It's no use overdoing things. Hand the swords in and get you gone."

While the two boys ambled over to the collecting point, Éomer and Erchirion made for their horses.

"That boy is splendid. Fast as a striking snake." Erchirion chuckled. "It's just good that Amrothos has not seen that or you would not have your squire for very long. He would simply abduct him."

Feeling utterly uncomfortable, Éomer shrugged. "He lacks the reach and the strength for sword fighting. He will not always be able to launch the crucial stroke that fast." Raising his hand, he stopped his friend's objection. "Don't get me wrong. I see myself that he is fast and deft, and his fighting skills are fine for a boy his age. And I know he can be as dogged as any terrier. It's his height I'm worried about. We have to accept that he'll never be as tall and strong as the average Rohir."

Erchirion waved his hand dismissively. "So what? Train him at daggers. I bet he's up to that."

Éomer grimaced. "The problem is that he won't be fit to be my squire once we ride against the South..."

"Pha, you would have to take an older man anyway. War is nothing for lads his age, if it can be avoided. And anyway, why do you persist on the boy being your squire?" Not impressed at all, Erchirion swung into the saddle.

"He is Lord Erwig's son. That was Erkenbrand of Westfold's youngest brother, who was killed in an ambush five years ago," Éomer added, seeing his friend's incomprehension. "He's a lord's youngest son. Traditionally there is no other career for him in the Mark than becoming a Rider. At least no other without losing face."

"Bollocks." Erchirion seemed totally unperturbed. "Use your connections with Gondor."

Having mounted, Éomer nodded. "I had thought to ask Aragorn or Imrahil, I'm just not sure what the boy is up to, and how he would take it to have to go to Gondor."

Erchirion shook his head. "You had better go for the second line to keep him out of too much attention and probable jealousy. Get him an appointment with Amrothos. Or Faramir if you don't trust that maniac brother of mine."

"Faramir?" Éomer snorted. "Are you mad? How will that stub of a boy ever be able to draw one of those longbows?"

"Blimey, you are as wrong-headed as a drunken mule. Who's talking about bows? Daggers, Brother, daggers. I'll bet you, he'll be a humdinger at daggers in no time." Shooting his friend a critical look, Erchirion added: "And don't you tell me a dagger is no lordly weapon. Within Gondor's Navy it's as esteemed as any sword."

Éomer nodded thoughtfully. "You certainly are right. The ideal weapon always depends on the grounds you fight on. I'll think it over. Perhaps writing to Faramir is not a bad idea at all." He grinned wryly. "I have to admit I would feel more at ease if I knew the boy was on solid ground and not on some ship with that copy of an Umbarian pirate."

"So Loth has told you?"

"Told me what?" Éomer raised his eyebrows. "About the Tol Falas side of the family?" He shook his head, when Erchirion's face split into a big grin. "No, she mentioned it in connection with Amrothos, but she did not explain her remark. I thought that there was quite an interesting story behind it, but have not asked her so far."

Erchirion chuckled. "Well, the thing goes back as far as the kin-strife, when Castamir's cronies made some last stand on Tol Falas in 1448 and..."

They were interrupted by Winfrid, who came cantering up to them. "Sire, they are coming." His face in a wide, excited grin, the boy pointed out over the plain. There, far away, near the horizon a grey whirl of dust could be seen.

"Who's coming?" Erchirion gave his friend an enquiring look.

Éomer grinned. "You'll see soon enough, Princeling. We'd better hurry to be in the yard before them." Without further explanation he nudged Firefoot forward and the others could do nothing but follow suit.

They were coming! Éomer felt the thrill of anticipation. That would be a spectacle confirming the Riddermark's reputation, and he was sure Erchirion would enjoy it exceedingly. The selection of young Riders for the King's Guard was closed, and now one of the most important rites to affirm their new position would follow. He breathed deep, his eyes shining with prideful joy: Hengest Giefu.

Twelve young Riders would be gifted with a stallion from the royal herds as a token and reward for the absolute loyalty they had sworn as members of the King's Guard. As a matter of course, every one of them had provided his own horse, the one he had ridden in his previous years of service in the Éoreds, the reliable interaction of mount and Rider being one of the criteria that had been strictly checked as a precondition. But now they would each receive their future mount: a young stallion that had not been backed yet. Besides their duty in the guard it would be their responsibility to train the horse, to break it in and form the mutual bond between warhorse and Rider the Eorlingas took their pride in.

And there in the distance they were coming: twenty-four young stallions brought up from the meadows in the East Emnet, all in their fourth year, as the horses of the Mark were a slow-maturing race, and though already ground worked thoroughly and trained to pull, to strengthen their muscles, none had ever borne a rider yet. It was today at noon, when the sun was highest, that horses and Riders would meet, choosing each other.

Breathing deep, Éomer rose in the saddle to look back before the road dipped in between the mounds. The cloud of dust was fast approaching, but still he could not spot induvidual horses.

Soon they reached the large yard in front of the stables and Erchirion's eyes widened in surprise at the display of birchen garlands bedecking the door frames of the stables. In anticipation of the event, small groups of people stood in the sideways and on the porches opposite the stables, well out of the way. Only Lynet and Hrothgar were standing near the trough, the stable lad obviously eager to convince her about his qualities, deaf and blind to anything going on around him. Éomer chuckled. They had better get out of the yard. Soon the horses would come charging into it, setting the whole place ablaze with their excited whinnying and thundering hoof beats, milling around the large trough in front of the stables before the whole tumult calmed down and the horses would be watered and groomed and made ready for the ceremony.

Knowing how much his friend admired anything Rohirric, he wanted Erchirion to have a good view of the impressive spectacle and therefore left it to the stable hands to care for their horses when they had dismounted. Pulling his friend over to the staircase of a larger building that would give them a good view over the entire yard, as well as down the lane the horses would come charging up, he looked back to the stable and could not help a grin. A stable lad had led Erchirion's gelding into the stables, while Winfrid had cared for his own horse, but Firefoot stubbornly refused to be handled by the second lad, who tried to get hold of his reins.

But at that moment Winfrid reappeared at the door, and having exchanged a few remarks with the stable hand, he went up to the destrier, while the other lad disappeared. Unhurriedly, the boy approached the stallion and stroked his muzzle before picking up the reins to lead him into the stable. The affectionate nudge of the large head nearly knocked him over, but Winfrid just laughed and patted the big grey's massive chest.

From afar the first noise of the horses could be heard, and then they came into sight, rounding a corner in the lane and finally heading for the yard in full gallop. Four horses abreast, they thundered up the main lane that lead to the royal stables and further on to the barracks.

Éomer felt joy and pride well up inside, beholding the splendid display of beauty and untamed power. Twenty-four massive equine bodies, necks craned, manes flying, ninety-six hooves, pounding the earth. The very image of the Mark's essence. Out of the corners of his eyes he peeked at Erchirion beside him, his heart leaping high at the Gondorean's evident amazement and delight. And then his heartbeat stopped.

Form behind the big trough in the middle of the yard an infant crawled into sight, pausing now and then, swaying on hands and knees, blissfully unaware of the approaching danger. Choking back a cry of despair, Éomer jumped down the stairs, spurting frantically towards the child in the yard. He would be too late! He knew he would, as would any other bystander, the distance being too large.

And then Firefoot's whinny stopped him in his tracks. Charging across the yard, the big grey headed towards the rolling in avalanche of galloping horses, egged on by Winfrid's yelling voice. The boy had not bothered to mount the stallion, but clung with his left hand onto the pommel of the saddle, one foot in the right side stirrup. Holding the reins in his right hand, he urged Firefoot between the approaching horses and the child.

For a fleeting moment Éomer saw Firefoot jerk to a halt, while Winfrid picked up the crying baby before they were lost to his sight in a maelstrom of moving horses. Lynet, who had stood paralysed, watching with her mouth hanging open, screamed hysterically, and before the lad at her side could grab her, she plunged into the melee, desperately crying her child's name.

"Morgoth's balls!" Panting, Erchirion turned up at Éomer's side, "What the..."

"Cól, cól, cniht." A man's sonorous voice rose over the din, as he nudged his own horse, a large-framed sorrel gelding, towards Firefoot, who still stood motionless. Guiding the young stallions into the upper part of the yard, the herders soon cleared the space around the trough, leaving behind a totally unperturbed Firefoot, a hysterically sobbing Lynet, who hastily took her wailing child out of Winfrid's arms, and a herdsman, who now had dismounted and was fuming with rage. Éomer recognised Ceadda, a tall man in his early forties, lean, almost wiry, the unchallenged authority for anything concerning horses in the East Emnet.

"You stupid slut! How dare you risk your child's life like that!" Ceadda's face was nearly as red as his flaming hair. Staring at him with frightful eyes, Lynet started to tremble, clutching her child closer to her. Sensing her mother's fright, the little girl's wail grew even louder, causing the man to growl. "And shut that brat up, woman! My ears are falling off."

Nervously, Lynet shove aside her apron, and loosening the lace that held the neckline of her simple gown, offered her breast to the crying child. Soon the frightened screams turned into soft snuffling and suckling noises, only interrupted by a little hiccup now and then in the aftermath of the violent sobs.

Ceadda frowned. "Why did you put the child down in the first place?"

Looking up, her face a mirror of fear and uncertainty, Lynet tried to defend herself. "Hrothgar told me to."

Hrothgar!Éomer felt his hackles rise. That horny git knew that the stallions were coming. He would have a word with the lad after the ceremony, and not only a word.

Ceadda snorted. "That bloke who thought it better to split, once he had got you into trouble? Why did you heed that dolt? You should know how fast that mite can crawl."

Lynet shook her head. "But she's never crawled before. I didn't know she can. She's but seven months old."

Ceadda's eyes softened. "She has a name?"

Lynet nodded. "Leofa. I named her Leofa."

"You?" Ceadda's eyebrow's shot up to his hairline. "Shouldn't the father name the child?"

Lynet averted her eyes, cradling her child's head to her breast. "I don't know who the father is," she mumbled reluctantly.

"Ah, I see." Ceadda pulled a face. "It's a bloody pity that's always the whores who have the healthiest brats."

"She is no whore." With the audacity of an enraged terrier, Winfrid stepped between Lynet and the man.

Ceadda curled his lips derisively. "And who are you? Her brother?"

Intending to intervene, Éomer moved closer, but Osulf, the stable master, who was standing beside the Eastfolder, anticipated him.

"Leave him alone, Ceadda. The boy is right." Nodding encouragingly to Winfrid and Lynet, Osulf put his hand on the herder's shoulder. "She doesn't gain anything out of it, nor does she provoke the lads. She's simply too dumb to say no, when they come and beg for a shag."

Ceadda looked her up and down and shook his head in disbelief. "Man, those plonkers are lucky."

Osulf nodded. "They surely are. Winfrid, take Firefoot into the stable."

Still scowling, Winfrid clicked his tongue, and made for the stable door without so much as looking back, the great stallion following at his heels.

"Béma's mighty horn!" Ceadda's eyes went as wide as saucers. "That bugger of a stallion has given me nightmares! And here he follows heel like a dog, and to a midget! Who's that snotty-nosed ankle-biter anyway?

"Lord Erkenbrand's nephew, Ceadda."

Hearing his king's voice, the herdsman froze and then turned around slowly. "Hail, Éomer King. I see you've got yourself quite an enchanter to groom that rack of a destrier." A wry smile spread over Ceadda's weather-beaten face. "Erkenbrand's nephew you say? Blimey, the first useful thing I see coming out of the Westfold. It's a bloody pity you found him first. That runt would be quite a success in the East Emnet."

Laughing, Éomer rounded the trough, Erchirion in tow. Hearing the laughter, the little girl stopped suckling and looked at the men with big cerulean eyes, her mother's nipple gliding out of between her lips, leaving a small trickle of milk in the corner of the child's rosy mouth.

Éomer blinked, his gaze taking in the tear-smeared faces of both, mother and child, the tiny grubby hands against the paleness of the woman's breast, the sturdy arm that held the child, and he had to swallow at the sudden wave of fierce protectiveness that welled up inside him. Averting his eyes, his gaze fell on Ceadda's face, only to find the same unquestioning commitment displayed in the herder's face.

Before Éomer could say anything, Ceadda cleared his throat, addressing Lynet with a soft voice, belying the rough phrasing: "Wrap your tit up woman, or the milk will curdle."

Lynet frowned, and though she obediently shoved her daughter to the other hip and pulled her gown up, she dared a vexed remark. "You are stupid, you are. Milk can only curdle outside the tit, same with cows and ewes. Don't you know?"

Osulf chuckled: "He's just having you on, Lynet. It's just a joke."

Her frown deepening, she looked straight into the herder's grinning face. "That's a stupid joke."

Still grinning, the Eastfolder nodded. "Yes, it is. You are not that dumb, are you, woman?"

Lynet blushed but stood her ground. "My name is Lynet, not woman. And I'm not dumb."

"Then why do you let those plonkers bonk you?" With a jerk of his head, Ceadda motioned towards the stables. "They have large healthy hands, they should be up to helping themselves."

"They say it's not the same." Lynet shrugged helplessly, obviously at the end of her wits.

"Just leave her alone, Ceadda," Osulf interjected. "Frithuswith has tried a dozen times to make her turn the lads down. It just doesn't work."

Stubbornly, the herder shook his head. "It's the brat that bothers me. You!" His large dirty forefinger

poking her breast, he made sure that he had Lynet's absolute attention. "Lynet, tell me, do you love your baby?"

The woman nodded, without understanding what the tall man wanted with her, and Éomer had to admit he felt nearly as uncomprehending. What was that old fox up to?

"I see. Woman... Lynet, you've got yourself a fine baby. It is strong, it is healthy." Gravely Ceadda eyed the woman before him, making sure she understood. When she smiled blushingly at his words, he nodded and continued. "It is strong and healthy because you care well for it." Her blush deepened. Again his finger poked her breast. "You have plenty of milk, woman. That's good for the child. You feed it well." His large finger stroked the child's chubby dirt- and tear-smeared cheek.

Meeting Erchirion's enquiring gaze, Éomer shrugged. He did not know what the Eastfolder was aiming at, but he was curious enough to let him continue.

"Your child needs your milk, Lynet, and that's why you have to turn those shagging bastards down." Her mouth opened, but before she could utter anything, he put his finger across her lips. "Shut up and listen. When they bonk you, they can make another child grow inside you. You know that, don't you?" Unsure, she looked up into the herder's grave face and then nodded. Putting his large hand on her shoulder, he bent a little down to her, trying to let his words sink in. "Lynet, when there is another child growing inside you, your milk will get less until it will stop." Shaking her lightly, he insisted: "Lynet, if you let them bonk you, your baby will be hungry. You don't want Leofa go hungry, do you?" Her eyes wide in genuine horror, she shook her head. Patting her cheek, Ceadda smiled now. "Well Lynet, you keep your cunny clamped till your child is weaned and can eat proper food. Promise?"

She looked at him reluctantly. "But what shall I say if they beg?"

Ceadda rolled his eyes. His patience was obviously wearing out. "Woman, tell them to go into the barn and fuck some knothole. There are enough, and of any size they might want."

Lynet shook her head. "But that will hurt. They will not like to do that."

Éomer had to struggle, not to join in the general chuckle.

"Woman, what is more important: your baby's tummy or those twats' pricks?" Ceadda growled. "They can go and find another wench to bang, but your child has no one but you."

"He's right, Lynet. Just tell them to sod off." Osulf smiled soothingly at the hesitating woman, and finally she nodded.

A call from the herders drew their attention, and Ceadda raised his hand. "You'd better get out of here. It's nearly noon and they need to water the horses. We want the buggers to show themselves in all their splendour at the Giefu."

Lynet nodded. "Yes, like the new guards."

"Eh?" The Eastfolder stood dumbfounded. Obliviously Lynet nodded. "Yes, Frithuswith said to Imma, she will have a peek at the new guards as they will show themselves in all their splendour."

The bystanders roared with laughter. "Blimey, Frithuswith! If there ever was a lead mare, it's her! What a woman!" Ceadda wiped the tears of laughter out of his eyes. "But now you better be off, Lynet." Not understanding the reason for the men's mirth, Lynet made for one of the porches, and looking after her, Ceadda heaved a sigh. "Béma's stallion, that's some nice piece of arse. What a pity she's that dumb."

It was only when the first horses were led over to the trough that Éomer realised that Erchirion had been standing by all the time, not understanding a single word. Apologising, he turned to his brother in arms. "I'm sorry, Erchirion. I wanted to show you something genuine Rohirric, and when the chaos started, I simply forgot you would not understand anything."

Erchirion shrugged. "I suppose Winfrid's stunt was the most Rohirric I have seen since the war. And I do understand at least some Rohirric." He grinned, seeing Éomer's surprised expression. "Lothíriel forced me to participate in Beorhtraed's lessons, but I'm a failure at languages. Mind you; I can talk to my servant, that is, make clear what I want, but I don't have the foggiest what that herder said."

Éomer chuckled. "No small wonder. First of all he has the thickest Eastfold accent I've ever heard, and second..." He paused, raising an eyebrow. "That bloke did not really use the vocabulary I expect my scribe to teach the future Queen of the Mark."

"What a pity Loth missed it then! She would have been delighted." Laughing, they entered the stables and went up to Firefoot's stall. Winfrid was busy grooming the stallion and noticed their approach only when the big grey lifted his head with a short whicker.

"Leave the curry comb for a moment and come out, boy." Eomer's voice was low, but the grave tone of the address caused several stable hands busy in the alley to look up.

Reluctantly, Winfrid put the grooming utensils down in a corner of the stall and stepped out into the stable aisle, obviously unsure about what to expect. Nevertheless, facing his king, he squared his shoulders and looked Éomer straight into the eye. "Sire?"

What a warrior this boy would become if he stood just a handful of inches higher! No move of his facial muscles gave away Éomer's emotion, as he pulled the sheathed dagger out of his belt. "Winfrid, Erwig's Son of Westfold, you have shown skill and courage, a prowess to do any Rider proud. Receive this dagger as a token of acknowledgement and gratification."

The boy's eyes widened and he gulped, but overcoming the first moment of shock, he dropped down on one knee, and the king put the dagger on his outstretched palms and patted him on the shoulder. "Rise, King's Squire and get me an apple for that glutton of mine."

Jumping up and making for the bucket that held the treats for the horses, Winfrid grinned delightedly. "I've already given him one, Sire, but I have no doubt that he's up for a second one."

Éomer smiled. "No doubt. Just finish grooming him and then get yourself over to the hall to have a bite and clean up a bit. I want you to hand me the halters at the Hengest Giefu."

Winfrid stopped mid-movement and then slowly turned round, his expression an odd mixture of shock, joy and disbelief. "Really?" His voice was a mere croak.

"You doubt your king's orders?" Éomer's brows shot up, but he could not help a grin at the boy's reaction. "Hurry, lad. And wipe the amazement off your face. I don't want any tussled straps."

Nodding eagerly, the boy hurried to take up grooming Firefox again while Éomer fed his charger the apple and then left the stable, a chuckling Erchirion at his side.

"It's daggers then, isn't it?"

Éomer shrugged. "We'll see. At least he'll want to train fighting with a dagger now, if I know anything about how boys' brains work."

They stepped out into the yard again, and Erchirion looked approvingly at the stallions that were now standing at the trough, drinking deeply. "That's quite a display of horseflesh. But I still don't know what is going on. I understood the word hengest and I know what giefu means, but I'll be buggered if I know what will happen."

With a sudden pang Éomer realised that Erchirion, for all his admiration of anything that concerned the Mark, would not be able to understand the deep meaning every single action of the ritual held for the Eorlingas. He would just behold the outer side of it, the spectacle, the strange barbaric event. And though he probably would find it fascinating, he would not feel the ties that connected the Eorlingas to their ancestors back to the times before the Northmen had been forced to leave Rhovanion and became the Éotheod.

Pulling a slow, controlled breath, he tried to get rid of the cold lump that was forming in his stomach. He had to accept that it was like that, it could not be helped. Perhaps given some time, Erchirion would be able to feel what they felt, or at least understand their feelings, but for now there was little more than to explain the proceedings. And to do that in their usual easy way would no doubt make the situation more acceptable and even enjoyable for both of them.

Éomer released his breath. Would a Gondorean, or anybody not born and grown up in their culture, ever be able to feel like the Eorlingas towards their traditions and beliefs? What if he had Lothíriel at his side? Would she be able to share his joy and pride, to feel how the ceremony touched the very core of his people's soul?

And then he remembered, and a feeling like the touch of a warm hand stroking his solar plexus, dissolved the last traces of his tension. He had spoken to her about Gytha and the Éoredhead Segnung. To her and to no one else in Gondor... and she had understood. It's a nice and warm-hearted custom... He felt like he heard the echo of her voice in the beating of his heart. She would understand, and that was all that mattered.

Smiling, he turned to his friend. He would feed Erchirion's curiosity today, and who knew? Perhaps some years on the plains would make Erchirion's heart understand what at the moment only his brain could grasp.

"The stallions will be given to twelve Riders who have been appointed members of the King's Guard. That means that from now on they must put the safety and interest of the king first, even before that of their own families. You see, we Eorlingas believe that being born into a family you share the boons but also the responsibilities. So a man cannot just go ahead and leave the responsibility for his kin behind. Therefore a ritual is held, to symbolize the change from their former life into a new one. They die for their clans and are reborn as members of the royal household."

Erchirion scratched his neck."That doesn't sound very comfortable, Brother."

"No, it doesn't. But you needn't worry." Éomer smirked. "There normally are no gory bits involved."

"Thank you so much for telling me. I would certainly have fainted, were it otherwise." His hand on his chest, Erchirion bowed in mock politeness. "But tell me Éomer, what do you mean by dying and being reborn?"

"Well, since sunset yesterday night the appointed men have fasted and stayed awake, singing the traditional songs. Today in the morning they had a ritualistic bath and when the sun is at her highest point, they will march from the barracks into the yard." He pointed towards the lane, where now birchen garlands were fastened, similar to those at the stable doors. "Women of the royal household who have at least borne one child will welcome them, putting the pusa around their shoulders."

"The what?"

"The pusa: a kind of linen shawl, symbolising the bag of waters. Thus they are reborn into the king's household." He gave his friend wry smile. "Northern barbarians, you remember?"

Erchirion snorted. "Well, Éomer, forgoing food and sleep for just one night and letting some kind woman drape a shawl around your neck to get yourself a job in the King's Guard, and a stallion on top, doesn't sound overly cruel in my ears."

"Gondorean braggart. You know quite well that their fighting skills have been checked first and they are distinguished Riders. And," he shot his friend an ironic side-glance, "their last meal before sunset was a handful of buckthorn berries."

"What?" Totally aghast, the Gondorean stared at Éomer. "An entire handful? You're joking."

With a malicious grin, the Rohir shook his head. "It's no joke."

"Oh, shit." Pulling a disgusted grimace, Erchirion stopped.

"Exactly." More than satisfied with the effect of his announcement, Éomer urged his friend to move on.

"But for all Valar's sake, Éomer: Why? They'll probably spend the whole night on the latrine!"

Éomer shrugged. "No, certainly not more than half of it. And as for why: Do you think you can be reborn, if only in a symbolic way, with the crap of your last life in your bowels?"

"Oh, man." Erchirion drew a breath. "I knew the Rohirrim can stomach things, but that?" He shook his head and then grinned from ear to ear. "Blimey, you truly are barbarians. The Rohirrim really do quite a lot for a good horse."

Éomer laughed."They don't do it to get the horse, you dolt. They will be given a young horse to train as their future charger as a reward for their loyalty."

"And what a charger!" Turning round, Erchirion let his gaze sweep one more time over the assembled stallions and then frowned. "You said: twelve men. But there are more than twenty stallions or I'm cross-eyed."

Éomer nodded. "Twenty-four. Thirty-six would even be better, three being a sacred number, but we do not have as many stallions of exactly the necessary quality, age and training at the moment in the royal herd at Aldburg." He smiled at Erchirion's enquiring look. "There has to be a real chance of choice. Men and horses will meet in the yard and chose each other in mutual trust and understanding. Once Rider and horse have found each other, the man will step up to the king, present the pusa as token of his affiliation, and hand it over to the king, receiving a simple halter in exchange. He then fastens it to the stallion's head."

"And that's it? He can take his new mount to the stable?" His head cocked, Erchirion glanced at his friend suspiciously.

"No, not yet. First horse and Rider have to share."

A fierce blush crawled into Erchirion's face. "Do I want to know about that?"

Éomer guffawed. "No, nothing like that bloody rubbish dished about at Cormallen. It's rather simple: The man leads his horse to the hlaefdige, the highest ranked woman of the king's household, normally the queen, and will be given a small bowl with oats and water. He shares it with his horse, for all to see, and then hands the empty bowl to the king, thus reminding him, that it is his responsibility to keep horse and Rider fed. And then the Rider leads his horse into the stable. The complete left wing has been emptied for them to avoid problems, and the Riders will spend the first night together with their future mounts."

"There will be no feast? No booze, no dancing?"

Éomer shook his head. "No, not today. When they have broken in the horses, in some weeks or even months, they will present them before the king and then there will be a feast."

They had reached the staircase that led up to Meduseld and parted, each one hurrying to wash and prepare for the ritual, and when the sun reached her highest point, Éomer King stood proudly before his people in the yard that was lined with spectators now. Erchirion, in the blue and silver of Dol Amroth, stood at his right, as appropriate for a guest of honour, and Winfrid, a bundle of halters over his shoulder and skipping with excitement, at his left.

Éomer lifted his hand, and a single horn sounded, bellowing the signal of the Eorlingas. And then the big drums started, hollow, slow, setting a grave rhythm. From where they stood, they could not look into the lane that led to the barracks, but when the women who stood at the junction started to sing, Éomer knew that the men were approaching. They saw the women lift the shawls before putting them around the shoulders of the men that knelt before them, and then step aside. With the tabours joining in, adding a skipping sound like a heartbeat, the newly appointed guards strode into the yard. All twelve abreast in one line, newly born brothers in arms. Rohan's best, their shoulders squared and their heads held high, they approached the horses, starting to hum a low-pitched tune as they passed amongst the stallions.

Éomer felt the Gondorean beside him gasp and bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from laughing out loud. Carefully keeping his face expressionless, he turned to Erchirion, beholding his friend's furious blush with hidden glee. "Why, Erchirion is there anything wrong? Things certainly differ in Gondor and the Mark, but don't tell me that Gondoreans are born wearing clothes."

Annotations:

birches were a female symbol in Northern mythology, the token of life-giving and a new beginning.

Hengest: (Rohirric/Old English) stallion

giefu: (Rohirric/Old English) gift, present

cól: (Rohirric/Old English) calm, quiet

cniht: (Rohirric/Old English) boy

Leofa: (Rohirric/Old English) Darling

Éoredheap Segnung: (Rohirric/Old English)Blessing of the Warriors

pusa: (Rohirric/Old English) bag

Dried and ground buckthorn (Rhamnus catharica) berries are still today used in herbal laxatives, though they are lightly poisonous.

hleafdige: (Rohirric/Old English) high lady (literally:"bread giver")