Okay! We are skipping ahead in time a couple years, then perhaps a year lapses during the chapter (remember that these scenes are more so snapshots than strictly novel-esque). Eomer and Eowyn have lived at Meduseld comfortably and settled in to their new lives, along with Theodred and their uncle.

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Chapter V: Adolescence

Twang. Whoosh.

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'Argh,' the young man exclaimed in frustration.

'A little further up. Don't drop your elbow as you release the arrow,' the young man's cousin replied patiently.

'Can't we go back to swordplay, Theodred?' he whined back.

'Archery will serve you well in the days to come, Eomer. Especially if you wish to ascend to your father's position,' the man pointed out.

The teen nodded and wiped his forehead. The sun had been beating down on the would-be soldier for two hours, relentless in its gaze. He knew his skin would be red by the time he returned to the Hall, but he did his best to not complain. He had wanted to be a warrior for as long as he could remember and would do whatever it took to join the Muster.

Luck was with Eomer that day, however, for Theodred saw his cousin's weariness and decided to cut their weapons session short.

'We will continue when the heat no longer attempts to boil us,' he pronounced. 'Go, take a drink from the waterskin, wash your face, and then meet your tutor in the Study.'

Eomer suppressed a groan. The Study may be away from the sunshine, but it was his least favorite room in the Hall. As he drank, he wondered what task would lay before him today.

He could be faced with mathematics, astronomy, Westron lessons, battle strategy (this was his favorite), history and genealogy, poetry (which he despised), sewing (because every soldier should know how to mend his own clothes), or diplomacy. Eomer was annoyed with the last option because he did not see how aristocratic knowledge could ever be useful to a Marshal of the Riddermark, but his uncle forced him to learn nonetheless. And worse, the king also had Eowyn learn many of the same things at the same time. This meant that Eomer was forced to wait while his tutors explained things twice to his much younger sister.

Eomer hated waiting.

When he reached the Study, he saw Eowyn sitting at a wooden table on a cushion placed in the chair for her to see better. She was only eleven, but her ability to sit quietly far outmatched his own. He ran his fingers through his hair and sat next to her.

'Greetings, sweostor.'

'How was your lesson?' she asked.

'I still don't like archery,' he replied, 'but I am getting better.'

'I don't see why you need arrows. Can't you kill faster with a sword?'

He grinned. 'Aye, but Theodred says that if I want to be a Marshal, I have to be versed in all weaponry.'

The blonde girl nodded contemplatively.

'So what are we in for today?' he asked, hoping it wasn't a subject he hated.

'More diplomacy,' she grimaced. She actually didn't mind the lessons, but she knew her brother would be disappointed.

'Of course. Well I hope we have a large dinner tonight. I'm famished,' he said as he leaned his chair back so far that the first two legs left the ground.

Eowyn flashed a mischievous grin and quickly followed suit. She relished in the challenge to do everything her brother did. He raised an eyebrow at her and stuck out his tongue. She returned the gesture, but lost her balance and came crashing back down to all fours. Eomer laughed loudly and returned his front legs to stable ground. Eowyn was disappointed in herself for losing focus and quickly pushed her chair back, balancing it again. She was determined not to fail a second time. Eomer began to push himself up too, but the door to the Study creaked open and both children sat upright in their seats, worried about who would enter. Luckily it was not their uncle, but the mathematics, astrology, and Westron tutor.

'I thought we were studying diplomacy today,' Eomer said before the man could speak.

'You are. I have come to escort you to the King's War room,' Master Kilstred replied stiffly. He clearly did not approve.

'Why?' the boy asked brazenly.

'In Westron, please,' the tutor countered.

Eomer repeated his question in the annoying Common tongue.

'You are to learn by practice today. Theoden King is holding a meeting. Now come, let us not be late,' the man replied, also in the Common language.

Eowyn answered this time, in perfect Westron, 'Am I to come as well, Master Kilstred?'

'Yes,' the tutor replied curtly. Eomer thought that this was perhaps why the man was in a foul mood.

'Come on, Eowyn, let us go before they change their minds!'

Eomer grabbed his sister's hand and raced to the door. Finally he would enjoy a bloody lesson!

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Eomer had been deceived. He had not enjoyed the boring meeting with the council that had gone on for hours. Even Eowyn had gotten fiddly in the end. He knew not how his cousin could stand listening to them drone on and on about land disputes and taxes and crop management. The way the men were talking, one would have thought that the country would tear itself to shreds without the king's opinion. As he lay in bed that night, he silently thanked the heavens that he was not heir to the throne of the Mark.

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By Helm's hammer, he hated poetry lessons. What was the point of it? Why did people feel the need to say these confusing things? They sounded foolish and hopeless and weak. Wishing to clear his mind, Eomer was more than ready to ride his new young mare, Nightstar. Her body was completely covered in silky black except for a white stripe along her tail and a matching mark on her forehead. For this mark she received her name, and she was beautiful. Theodred would be available to teach Eomer how to loose arrows from horseback in an hour, but for now he was free to let the warm breeze ruffle his hair and clear his mind. He allowed his thoughts to stray back to his little sister, who was undoubtedly learning about fabrics and herbs and other womanly concerns.

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Clack. Crack!

'Sigor! That is much better,' Theodred exclaimed after half an hour of practice.

'Thank you,' Eowyn said breathlessly. She was thrilled by their swordplay but exhausted nonetheless.

'I think you have learned much today. What other activities are planned for you this morning?' the proud cousin asked.

'I must continue my dance lessons at eleven o'clock,' the girl replied, rolling her eyes.

'You do not enjoy them? I had thought you would make a fine dancer, since you have such natural grace with your sword,' Theodred responded in Rohirric. He had grown up speaking mostly Westron, but he spoke the language of the Mark to his cousins. He knew that their parents spoke the old language in their home and wanted to carry on the tradition. Plus, the opportunity afforded him good practice.

'Nay, the dance of the ballroom is nothing like the dance of the sword,' Eowyn said gloomily. 'It is all stiff and rehearsed.'

'But dancing can be the expression of love, aye?' Theodred pushed.

'Love? Why should I be concerned about love?'

'Come now, a beautiful young lady like yourself must always be in love,' he said jovially.

'Must she?' Eowyn's eyes rounded in a mixture of fear and shock.

Theodred laughed at her alarm and reassured her that he was only jesting.

'I would like to resume our training tomorrow. Would it be possible, cousin?' the girl asked matter-of-factly.

'Aye, my lady. We will meet again at the same time. For now, wash up and be not tardy for your dreaded dancing lesson,' he said in mock sternness.

Eowyn smirked, gave a small curtsy, and bounded out of the room. Theodred decided to train her indoors for several reasons: that her skin would not burn and remain beautiful as she aged, that he could easily control the environment, and that they would not be seen by others. This last point was not because he was ashamed to teach her, but because of the cruelty of the mouths of court. Theoden King was aware of his niece's training, but Theodred thought it better to keep her proficiency hidden. It was, after all, out of fashion for a noblewoman to be thus versed in the art of war. Nevertheless, he had to keep his promise to his beloved aunt.

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In time, the prince went in search of his other cousin and found him galloping through the countryside on the back of his new favorite steed. Theodred steered his horse to the adolescent, carrying two bows and many arrows on his back.

'Theodred! Ironsides! Is it not a glorious day for riding?' Eomer called across the field.

'Indeed!' the man called back, noting the elation in his young cousin's face. The boy was good with horses already and learning to master weapons early. With every year he grew taller and stronger, if not wiser. Wisdom will come with experience, Theodred reminded himself.

Eomer was likely to become a great leader. He wondered how long it would take for the young man to command an eored of his own.

'Woah, Ironsides,' Theodred spoke to his stallion as he stroked his grey mane. 'I have brought you a wooden bow, the likes of which you will often use in battle. Sling these arrows across your shoulders and let us begin.'

Eomer did as he was bid. Archery was not his favorite form of attack, but learning to fire whilst riding was a challenge he looked forward to mastering. His cousin set up several targets around the field before straddling his horse again and explaining the basics. Eomer listened with rapt attention to every word. After several tries with an empty bow, he nocked an arrow and let it fly.

Whap!

The point stuck into the top of the target he had been aiming for. With a yell of surprise and glee, Eomer lifted his bow in the air and looked toward his cousin.

'Very good! Now, let us see if you can manage it twice.'

The next hour went on in similar fashion, with Eomer hitting nearly as many targets as he missed. For his first day, he was quite accomplished. Somehow, the boy found aiming easier while he was moving rather than standing still. After the noon bell rang out from the city, the two men gathered their arrows and started back for the midday meal. Along the way, they spoke of battle strategies and why archers were so important during guerilla-style warfare. As they reached the open gates, their talk had turned to matters of the heart and the difficulties that come with romance.

'After all, "arrows of the heart cut deeper and burn longer than any arrow of mortal-make" dear cousin,' Theodred quoted.

'You have memorized a verse of poetry?' Eomer asked incredulously.

The man laughed.

'The world is not only for war-waging and weapons-training, Eomer!'

The adolescent's face warmed and he muttered, 'Indeed.'

'Do you know, I was just having this conversation with your sister today.'

'Eowyn? Talking about love?' His face screwed up in disgust. 'But she is so young!'

'Many of our foremothers had children of their own at her age,' Theodred replied, trying to keep the mirth out of his voice. Eomer's eyes widened in alarm and outrage, his ears burning red.

'She wouldn't even know how… at least, I think she wouldn't,' he said, still adjusting to the idea.

'Worry not, worry not. If it will ease your suffering, she made it quite plain that she has no interest in the male species,' Theodred chuckled. 'Not yet.'

'And hopefully never,' the brother sighed in relief. Theodred only smiled to himself in response.

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'Hail, Theodred, Prince of the Mark!' a booming voice called from across the throne room. Eomer's cousin whirled about, his sword hand twitching.

A tall, broad-shouldered man held out his arms in greeting. His hair was cut short, black as Nightstar's mane, and his face was shaven. Eomer wondered at the man's strange appearance and his unfamiliar accent.

'Hail, Captain Boromir, son of Denethor,' Theodred called back as he strode to meet the man. The two clasped forearms and grinned at each other. Eomer stayed by the back wall and took in the stranger's clothing, broadsword, and the great white horn hanging on his hip. He was a marvelous spectacle, adorned in black and silver, with an image of a white tree upon his breast. At this, Eomer realized the man must hail from Gondor, perhaps Minas Tirith itself.

'What brings you to the Mark, my hairless brother?' Theodred asked, pinching the Gondorian's exposed chin.

'My father wished to send a letter to your father, and I volunteered myself to be the messenger. I have not seen the Golden Hall since I was a lad!'

'Yes, nearly a decade it has been! I am gladdened to finally see you again. You were away when last I visited your City,' Theodred said.

'Ah, for that I am sorry. The East-borders grow unruly. But I hear that you survived my absence and found common ground with my little brother, Faramir,' the man replied gleefully. He was a jolly fellow, nearly thick around the middle, yet light in his demeanor.

'He was a suitable replacement indeed, though the two of you are remarkably different,' Theodred said thoughtfully. 'Speaking of little brothers, I have acquired a new family member since last you were in Edoras.'

Boromir's eyes widened and his brow furrowed slightly.

'You don't mean to say-' he began, but Theodred cut him short.

'Come, Eomer. I want you to meet someone,' he called, holding a hand out to his cousin.

Eomer obliged, squaring his shoulders and trying to seem older than his fourteen years.

'No, Boromir, he is not rightly my brother, but my cousin. However, I count him to be as dear to me as Faramir is to you, though he be much younger indeed than any of us.'

'Well met, sire,' the Gondorian said in that odd accent, offering his arm.

Eomer took it and replied, 'Well met, Captain. I am Eomer, son of Eomund, adopted son of Theoden King. I welcome you.' He noticed that the man's grey eyes were warm, but somehow more shallow than those of Theodred.

'I am welcomed, son of Eomund. I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain of the White Tower. Thank you for your hospitality,' Boromir answered, placing a closed fist over his heart. Eomer glanced at his cousin, but made no remark about the odd movement.

'How many winters have you, Eomer?'

'Ten-and-four this year, sire.'

'Surely you jest! This here is a man, Theodred, nearly as long as you!' he grinned, patting the other man on his shoulder. Eomer swelled with pride and decided that this Gondorian, though he be strange, was not all bad.

'He will be, in due time. Now, Boromir, have you yet had anything to eat this night?'

'I would be a fool to deprive myself of the finest food in the Mark!'

'Then come, let us discover what Porrin can prepare for our hungry guest,' Theodred granted, leading Boromir to the dining hall. Eomer looked forward to hearing tales of the lands beyond their borders and the good mead that would undoubtedly be served for such an esteemed guest.

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'Are you prepared?' The king asked his sister-son. The young man nodded without hesitation. He had been preparing for a whole year.

'Then begin.'

Eomer shifted his grip on the spear and leaned his weight back. As hard as he could while keeping control, he propelled his javelin through the air and into the first target. Without stopping to celebrate, he sprinted ahead fifty yards to the bow and quiver waiting for him. Clearing his mind of all doubts, he raised his arms and nocked the first arrow.

Zing! The arrowhead ripped through the bottom of the hanging sack, spilling the sawdust inside. Not a perfect hit, but permissible. He quickly nocked the next arrow and stretched his bowstring. This time the point stuck in the middle of the sack above the first one. Now for the moving target. A man threw an apple in the air as Eomer drew his hand to his face. He saw the fruit falling in slow motion as he tracked it.

Splat! Another perfect shot. But Eomer had no time to rejoice. He ran another fifty yards to the set of physical obstacles. Up the ramp, jump the distance, down the next ramp, under the barbed tunnel, up the rope, ring the bell, jump back down and duck the swing to his head, roll past the man who had swung and pick up the thin wooden sword. Now the young man turned to face his final trial - a soldier who had passed the exam the previous year. Eomer was winded as he hopped the fence into the herefeld, but his opponent was jeering at him.

'The little lord thinks he's done well! Shall I let him catch his breath?' he said with a snarl. Before the soldier could catch him off guard, Eomer slashed at him from above. He blocked the blow and parried, still smirking.

'Come now, rich boy, have you no better moves?'

Eomer set his jaw. His opponent, Broca, was two years older than him, but thanks to his mother's mother, Eomer was his same height. They were physically equal, though Broca had already been training with the Muster for a year. In theory, the challenger should lose this battle because of his lack of skills. This day would be different, Eomer thought.

'Put your sword where your mouth will not get you into trouble, Broca,' he retorted.

'Going to run to papa, are you?' The man slashed before Eomer could answer. He parried, reposted, and parried again.

'Ah but I forgot, you don't have your papa. Maybe the king will come and fight this battle for you, eh?'

Eomer slashed again, but Broca blocked him with ease.

'How pitiful. I wager your sister could give me more of a challenge,' Broca yawned.

'Let her name not cross your lips,' Eomer growled as he attacked again wildly. After a few blows, his foe pulled back and laughed.

'Jesting aside, you put your forebears to shame. What would your mother have to say?' he jeered again. Eomer's annoyance turned to rage in an instant. He lashed out at Broca so quickly, he nicked his hip. The seventeen-year-old howled in pain and came at Eomer harder, making him move his feet. Now they were battling, twisting and turning, coming closer and closer to hitting their marks.

'How about your mother, Broca? She must have been horrified at birthing an orc,' Eomer smirked as their blades crossed at their knees. The soldier snarled, took a great step, and shoved his weight against Eomer's shoulder.

Knocked off balance, the younger tried to swipe at Broca's shins, but the man moved too quickly. In a panic, Eomer stabbed upward but hit nothing. Somehow he had ended up in the dirt and saw Broca preparing to land the final blow. He rolled away and jumped to his feet.

The two warriors circled each other, neither one underestimating the other. The world around them seemed to fall away as Eomer focused on what needed to be done. He had landed his practice sword on his opponent's right knee and noticed he was favoring it. His battle plan came together in his head without trying. He knew how to defeat this man.

'You know, I shouldn't have said that about your mother,' Broca taunted again. 'Your father might have been disappointed in you, but that meuling cow wasn't even strong enough to keep herself from dying! Why would she care about your lack of-'

A great roar of anger erupted from Eomer's throat, and before he knew it, he was on top of Broca, punching him into the ground, his wooden weapon laying forgotten behind him. His vision was blurry, his head full of fire, and his fists were unstoppable. He felt something like pebbles hitting his back but ignored them. Blood poured from the soldier's nose as Eomer pummeled him again and again. Something wrapped around Eomer's middle, pulling him away from his victim. He struggled against the force carrying him out of the arena, but the strong arms would not release him. Eventually he relented, as his vision cleared and his head began to pound with the beating of his heart. The steel trap was released.

'Eomer,' a deep voice said sternly. The boy's spine tingled.

'Theodred,' he sighed, suddenly ashamed of the recent event.

'You may refer to me as "Prince" or "sire."'

Eomer's eyes widened in surprise, but he responded in Westron, 'Yes, sire.'

'Firstly, do not interrupt me.'

Eomer nodded, staring at his boots.

'Secondly, do not provide excuses. I do not want to know what was said between the two of you.'

Eomer hesitated, but nodded again.

'Thirdly, think before you speak. Now, have you behaved honorably today?'

'No, sire.'

'Is throwing away your weapon and attacking like a beast becoming of a soldier of the eorlingas?'

'No, sire.'

'Do you deserve to join my ranks and become one of my comrades today?'

Eomer's head snapped up. He looked into those eyes which matched his late mother's and understood the severity of his actions. He would have to wait another year for his chance to join the Muster. Without looking away, he repeated the answer: 'No, sire.'

Theodred nodded.

'No, you do not deserve that honor, and I am sure the king will agree. When you learn to control your temper, you will try again.'

'Yes, sire.'

'You nearly killed him, Eomer.'

His heart skipped a beat.

'I did?'

'Yes. The healers are tending to him. His face will certainly scar, but I hope no permanent damage has been done. He must have really pushed you,' Theodred said, almost without thinking.

'He-' but Eomer stopped himself. His cousin already told him not to explain.

Theodred sighed. 'Look, I don't want you to tell me, because if you do, I might have to finish what you started.'

Eomer's lip trembled. 'You don't want to know,' he whispered. He began to feel throbbing in his hands and looked at them. He jerked in surprise at the open wounds on his knuckles and the scarlet blood caked around them. Could he really have inflicted so much damage?

'I'm sure I don't. But I am also certain that whatever he said was not true.'

Eomer shook his head in agreement, still staring at his hands.

'He got what he deserved then, and that's that. Come, let us wash and bandage your hands,' Theodred said, and the two cousins returned to the city.

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"sigor" - good/well-done

I hope that action scene was as fun to read as it was to write! Don't get shy now, review! ;)