Note: I'd like to thank all those who read and enjoyed the first chapter. I normally answer to all the reviews, but could not do so in some cases, as the writers declined being contacted. Well, be thanked this way. I'll try to update once a week, unless RL gets really unpredictable.

There will be some drastic language, as I intend to write in a realistic way, and am old enough to know the difference between a member of the boys' choir and some hard-boiled warrior. If you feel easily offended, please don't read. If you think, the story should be upgraded because of some expressions, please let me know.

Chapter 2

Leaving the busy quays behind them, they passed into the outskirts of Dol Amroth, a clutter of little whitewashed houses, workshops and shipyards huddled along the rocky bay that formed a natural haven, blotched with little crafts of all different sizes and colours. The unpaved dirt road followed more or less the shore of the bay with most of the buildings to their left, while between its edge and the water fishing nets were drying on frames, obstructing the free view over the port.

Walking in front with Elphir and Lothíriel, Éomer tried to get the morning's events into a pattern that was making sense, while Éothain and young Folcred were following behind, together with two guards in the colours of Dol Amroth, keeping a respectful distance. When there was a sudden stop, as one of the craftsmen had approached Elphir and was now talking with him and his sister about a certain piece of equipment, Erchirion had ordered for their boat, they closed up.

Feeling his friend's inquiring glance, Éomer decided to avoid looking at him and rather let his eyes sweep over the people lining the path to get a glimpse at the prince's children and their royal guest. A young woman in a simple dark garment caught his eye, as she stood in front of the open door of one of the workshops, an infant on her hip. In front of her stood a little barefooted girl, not more than four years of age, clutching her mother's apron with one hand and hugging a quite threadbare rag-doll with the other, while eyeing the men with a frown. Her dark brown curls were unkempt, her frock heavily patched and her face streaked with dirt, but her eyes were clear and her chubby cheeks glowing with health. Suddenly she stepped forward and patted Éothain's knee. "Are you from Rohan?"

Surprised the captain of the guard looked down at her and nodded. "Den where is your horse?" she asked.

Her mother rushed up, apologizing to him and trying to pull her little daughter away, but Éothain raised his hand, motioning to her to be at ease and bent down to the child.

"The king is going on a sailing trip, little mite, the boat's too small for his horse," he explained in heavily accented Westron, trying not to laugh at the little girl's serious requests.

The frown on her face deepened. "Are you de king?"

"No." Pointing his thumb at Éomer, he added: "He is."

The girl looked doubtfully from him to Éomer and stated: "But you are wearing … dis," gingerly touching the hem of his shiny mail shirt, obviously thinking Éomer's linen clothes much less impressive.

By now the odd couple was in the centre of everyone's attention, and Éomer beheld smiling faces, people nudging each other and overheard some joking remarks, commenting the unusual entertainment.

Éothain was grinning openly. "I'm his guard, accompanying him down to the jetty. A king is to have a guard, you see."

Cocking her head, she said: "You fpeak funny."

"You speak funny, too," Éothain countered without hesitation.

But his little challenger was not that easily cowed. "Mama says I'll learn when I'm bigger. But you are big an' ftill fpeak funny."

Éomer watched the reaction of the crowd. Some bystanders now smirked openly, some women giggled, only the girl's mother opened her mouth in shock and dismay, before helplessly covering it with her hand.

He felt sudden anger stir within him. So that's it! We "speak funny", don't we? We are a funny, uncouth barbarian lot, aren't we?

But Éothain just threw his head back guffawing and bent to scoop the little girl up in his arms, doll and all. "Surely, clever clogs, that's what my mama told me too, when I was as small as you. But we speak a different language in Rohan."

"A different language?" the girl's eyes opened wide.

"Yes," grinned Éothain, adding in Rorirric: " Ic sprece se tunge thaera Mearc."

"Dat's your language?"

Éothain nodded.

With a thoughtful expression she stroked his red golden whiskers. "What did you say?"

"I speak the language of Rohan."

Éothain repeated the sentence slowly, translating it word by word, and word by word, with an expression of uttermost concentration on her round little face, she repeated them: "Ic fprece se tunge daera Mearc"

Grinning from ear to ear, Éothain prodded her tummy with his large forefinger: "Now you sound funny in Rorirric, too; like my little sister, when she was your age."

The little girl nodded in her strangely serious way: "Dad says de Rohirrim are our broders and saved us when de dark Lord came."

It took Éomer all the presence of mind he could muster not to stare at her open mouthed. The faces in the circle had turned serious now, an old woman dabbing her eyes with the hem of her apron.

Éothain softly kissed the girl's dirty cheek and turned to put her down besides her mother, when her dark eyes met Éomer's.

Pulling gingerly at Éothain's whiskers, the girl leaned back in his arms and tilted her head to look at him... then back at Éomer. "He looks sad," she finally stated.

Éothain nodded. "Yes, he does." And looking straight into his friend's face he added: "When we fought against the dark Lord, a lot of his men died... He lost many of his friends in the war, and the old king, his uncle, died too."

The frown reappeared on her face, and then suddenly she stretched out her short, chubby arms, shoving her grubby rag-doll at Éomer. "Dere, you have Melian."

He cautiously took the doll. "Why?"

"Mama made her for me when Granny died and I was sad. In de night when it was dark, I was very sad an' I cried. Melian will watch over you when you sleep. You won't have to be alone in de dark."

He felt the small rag-doll in his large hands, the child's sincere eyes on his face and swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. Screw the conceited idiots! It didn't matter any more that some of the bystanders smirked at the girl's remark and the shabby doll in the king's large hands.

He took a ragged breath. This too was Gondor. "What's your name, little one?"

"Melwen."

"Well, look Melwen, it's very kind of you to give me Melian, but I'll be sailing today, and she might get wet. And then I'll be going back to Rohan, that is far away and Melian might miss Dol Amroth and get homesick." He carefully put the doll back in the child´s arms.

She looked down at its featureless face, obviously deep in thought, and then lifted her eyes again. Shaking her head she said: "See, if you love her, Melian won't feel homesick. I'll keep her for you till you come back from sea. Den you can have her in de evening."

She nodded, having made up her mind and demanded Éothain to put her down. Stepping besides her mother, she looked up to Éomer: "We'll wait for you at de jetty."

Éomer felt a hand on his shoulder, and turning his head, he found himself looking into Elphir's grave grey eyes. "The tide doesn't wait. Let's go...brother."

When they finally arrived at the jetty, Erchirion and his younger brother Amrothos stood waiting for them besides their boats, one of which had been moored directly to the bollards on the pier, while the second one, a longer, yet more sveltely built craft, lay tied up to the far side of the first one. A short distance further down a third boat was tied up, it's dark, polished wood reflecting the sunrays. Two sailors in some kind of livery stood near its bow, seemingly waiting for someone.

Éomer felt a knot in his stomach. How should he greet Erchirion? Would he be able to hide his feelings? A few strides brought him up to Imrahil's sons, and before he could make up his mind, how to behave, he felt himself caught in a bear hug by a broadly grinning Erchirion. He went rigid, and Erchirion pushed him off at arm's length to look enquiringly into his face.

"Man, Éomer, don't take it that serious. The weather is just fine for a sailing trip, not the slightest chance to sacrifice to Osse!"

Lothíriel had stepped up to Amrothos in the meantime, kissing him on the cheek, before jerking her head in the direction of the third boat, rising her eyebrows enquiringly at the same time. In response her brother turned all smirks and winked at Erchirion. "His Lordship has not turned up yet. Some people tend to have certain feelings of discomfiture after a wassail with your dear brothers."

A sudden flash of a vicious smile shot over Lothíriel's face, before she slewed round to face Elphir and Éomer. Her face showing nothing but courtly haughtiness now, she announced in a voice dripping with contempt: "Well, the tide is already quite low, so as much as we might regret it, if he has not turned up yet, we won't be able to wait for Lord Handasse Masca." With that she whirled round, kicked her shoes off, and snatching them up, jumped into the first boat.

Amrothos hurried after her, while Elphir started to remove his shoes and motioned to Éomer to do the same, much to the entertainment of the Rohirric guards. Only now did he notice, that Erchirion and Amrothos had already been barefoot. He stepped aboard quite gingerly, but soon he relaxed, the planks of the boat feeling warm and smooth under his soles.

The princess had put down her satchel and now took a length of thin, dark blue cloth out of it, which she wound around her head with apt fingers, covering her hair completely. Smiling at Éomer, she handed him a similar cloth in green. "You'd better cover your mane, unless you are madly fond of inseparable tangles." Éomer hesitated, but then he saw out of the corner of his eyes that Amrothos was busy winding a cloth around his long black curls.

"You'd better do her biding," Erchirion quipped with a grin, busy with his own headscarf, "She can get quite persistent. And you have to acknowledge, she even chose the Rohirric colours for you."

"Though it won't be necessary to distinguish you, as you will soon be wearing Rohan's colours all over your face." Amrothos' snicker switched to a wail, as he bent to rub his shin, were his sister had kicked him vigorously.

"You're an imbecile, Roth," she said, her eyes sparkling with laughter. "Come, Brother of mine, let's cast off."

With nimble grace she climbed over to the slender boat tied up alongside, followed by her brother, and while Amrothos cast off the ropes and pushed the boat off the other vessel's side, she pulled up the fenders and then went to sit at the tiller while her brother busied himself hoisting the sails.

Well aware of Éothain and Folcred, watching him from the jetty, Éomer carefully went to sit on the gunwale, while Elphir and Erchirion prepared their boat to cast off.

Being pushed off the mooring with an oar, the boat turned her bow towards the port entrance, and the single sail soon billowed in the breeze.

Fascinated Éomer watched the brothers' coordinated actions, while the boat slowly took up speed. Elphir manoeuvred her deftly through the harbour, and when Éomer looked ahead, he saw Amrothos' boat already passing the last rocks near the port entrance. Moving out of the cliff's lee, her sails tautened and the boat heeled visibly.

When their own boat went out into the bay, Erchirion adjusted the ropes that held the sail and then dived into the cuddy, looking for some provisions.

Elphir pointed north-west. "The island of Tol Cobas lies over there, but as the tide is already quite low, we can't make a beeline for it but have to follow the deep channel supplied by the Ringló, flowing into the bay near Edhellond and passing Dol Amroth before finally reaching the open sea. I hope we'll still be able to pass the island to the east and round it for a very nice bay in the north of it."

"Then why did we wait that long, if the low tide makes it so difficult to reach the island?"

Elphir smiled: "Spiny lobsters. We'll arrive at low tide, which enables us to catch them quite easily in the coves on the west coast of Tol Cobas, without having to wait more time for the water to be shallow enough."

Éomer wasn't sure to have ever heard of anything called spiny lobster, but he just didn't feel like asking. He felt unsure of himself, like in some strange kind of dream. The movement of the boat, the sound of the wind, the salty tang in the air, the splashing of the waves against the boat's bow and the unimpeded view over the vast space of water soothed and excited him at the same time. He looked down into the green water, rushing by, feeling a certain loss of mental balance. What was he to believe? What could he rely on? Who could he trust? Had he really heard that talk between the siblings in the morning? Was he imagining things? Would he not feel it if Imrahil's children were deceiving him?Yet there was no falsehood in Erchirion's behaviour... brave, pragmatical Erchirion, who reminded him that much of Éothain. He abruptly checked himself. He had to find out what all this was about, and he'd better face it now.

"Bloody fools", Erchirion muttered, coming up from the cuddy with some bread and a wineskin in his hand, waving somehow uncoordinatedly into the direction of Amrothos' boat. "One day they'll manage to capsize just fine."

Elphir shrugged. "You know best yourself they won't. Let them have some fun, Brother. You're just jealous our own nutshell won't take up speed like that."

With a snort Erchirion sat down, resting his back against the mast, the wineskin between his feet. "I don't begrudge them the fun, especially after Loth having been stuck with Alphros for almost a fortnight, but they never know any limit."

Seeing Éomer's questioning look, Elphir explained: "We had a rush of three-day-measles recently, and my son caught it as well. My wife being pregnant, the healers forbid her to tend to him but rather advised her to stay away from him as the illness might affect the unborn child. So our sister attended to the poor mite, well until yesterday. And then she took over the role of Dol Amroth's hostess to spare our mother the ordeal..." His voice petered out and he absentmindedly stared at the horizon.

Éomer felt his hackles rise. There it was again, this suspense, the feeling there was something nasty lurking beneath a surface of sunlit waters. The Lady Geliris had never seemed frail to him, what could there be that would make presiding over the celebrations to honour the trade agreement such an imposition? He had to end this uncertainty. Like in a fight he would have preferred his opponent to make the first move, but it could not be helped now.

Just as he was about to open his mouth, Erchirion shove the wineskin at him: "Here, have some real thing, not that baby piss they call tea."

Sniffing the mouthpiece of the container, he could not help a grin: He would have taken any bet that Erchirion preferred ale for breakfast. Seeing Éomer's reaction, Erchirion's face broke into a wide grin. "See, Amrothos and I went down to the harbour first thing in the morning to make sure we could cast off as soon as you arrived, so there has been no time for some decent breakfast."

"Well Brother," Elphir countered, " I suppose any other man would rather consume the amount of grain he needed for breakfast in the shape of bread or porridge."

"You're just a party pooper, brother. Serves you well to be responsible for the madhouse Dol Amroth when Father will settle at court in Minas Tirith."

Taking a swig, Éomer launched the first approach. "Perhaps you were right to be so well prepared. Your sister seemed rather eager to get going." Handing back the skin, he waited for Erchirion's reaction.

"And perfectly right she was." Ripping off a big piece of bread and munching vigorously, Erchirion continued: "We all were more than happy that swine hadn't turned up."

Elphir audibly cleared his throat, shooting his younger brother a warning look.

So that's how the land lies! Or were they just trying to distract him?

"You mean Lord... what did your sister call him? Handas..."

"Handasse Masca," Erchirion quipped, grinning like mad.

Éomer frowned. "Never heard of he at the negotiations?"

Instead of answering, Erchirion howled with laughter.

Éomer felt a strange sort of twinge in his stomach. What did that remind him of? Where had he seen Imrahil's son like that before? An image formed itself in his mind: Erchirion, sitting on the ground at the Black Gate, the earth heaving with the convulsion of Sauron's downfall. Erchirion, his armour torn and gored, his helmet lost, a gash across his forehead, blood, sweat and grime mixing on his face. Erchirion, his head thrown back, laughing like mad, his eyes pinched shut, tears of laughter trickling through his swollen, crusted eyelids... and suddenly he knew Erchirion's cheerfulness for what it was: relief. Sheer relief. But why?

What was all this about? He shot Elphir an enquiring glance and Imrahil's eldest son explained in his calm and reserved way: "Oh, you surely have been introduced to him at the feast, though most certainly not under that title."

That called forth another fit of laughter from Erchirion, while his brother continued to explain further, his face as blank as possible, yet his eyes seemed to sparkle with mischief. "Well, his real name is Mardil, and he is Lord of Edhellond, one of Gondor's more important nobles. And as he is so proud of his ancestry, our sister dubbed him in Quenja, the most scholarly language in Middle Earth, and certainly one only few people understand. Handasse means brain in Westron and masca soft. "

"That is, she called him an idiot?" Éomer asked.

Erchirion by now had switched to snorting, and added, still unable to contain his mirth: "Nay, it rather refers to what some people believe to be the consequences of a too high intensity of a certain activity." He made some distinct fist movements in front of his groin.

Éomer's eyebrows shot up: Did they want to tell him, the Princess of Dol Amroth had called an important noble of Gondor quite publicly a wanker?

Seeing his disbelief, Erchirion assured him: "You certainly can trust our sister to call a spade a spade."

And his elder brother added, with just the hint of a smile playing in the corners of his mouth: "You certainly can. But she'll ever do it in such an accomplished way."

"Yeah," Erchirion acknowledged, "she can be such a lady. Unless she is with Amrothos, then she immediately transmutes into a pirate."

"Whereas with Erchirion she turns into a swearing stable hand," Elphir chuckled.

"Well," Éomer threw in, "at least the lady I saw at the feast yesterday."

But Erchirion emphatically shook his head. "No, you saw the diplomat. To see the lady you have to see her dance. She has a grace that makes you even enjoy those stiff and stately Gondorean court dances." Another chunk of bread disappeared between his big white teeth, before he continued: "You see, to avoid the obligation to dance with …," he peeked at his brother, "his Lordship, she had to forgo dancing at all."

"It is ever so easy to drop some hint about a sprained ankle," Elphir added. "Just tell it to the servants and the whole court will know in the time of lightning. And with her not having been in public because of Alphros' illness..." He shrugged. "It worked, didn't it?"

Mardil of Edhellond, Éomer pondered. He didn't remember anybody of that name being present at the negotiations, and he bluntly said so.

"Yes," Elphir nodded, "he wasn't, "though he had been officially invited. He only turned up the evening of the feast and that really affected us, as we had thought we had got rid of him."

Éomer slid down from the gunwale to sit more comfortably with his back against it. The information seemed to make sense, fitted with what he had heard and seen...Trying to keep his voice even, he probed deeper. "And what makes you that sick about him?"

The brethren looked at each other, and then Erchirion growled: "He is the most hideous swine I can imagine, he's a coward, an upstart, oh bugger, he simply is everything I despise in a man." He took a final gulp before he stopped the skin and got up to put it away.

Elphir thoughtfully look at his broad back, hunched over the cuddy and sighed, before turning towards Éomer. "Mardil certainly is a disgrace to his name and his family. He was never meant to inherit the title, but with his father and his elder brothers having fought valiantly and fallen at the Fords of Linhir, he was the last male member of the family. Except for his cronies nobody is happy with the situation, but it can't be helped. Edhellond was quite important in the negotiations, and quite interested in them as well, but Mardil had been clever enough to sent his counsellors rather than coming himself."

"The sod even had the nerve to brag that he had not been present to avoid too much contact with certain uncouth barbarians." Erchirion let himself plop ungracefully to his former place near the mast. "But when he heard about our plans to go sailing, the presence of said barbarians' king didn't keep him from inviting himself along. Bloody bastard!"

"His boat is better than mine and probably even faster that Amrothos'. How could you expect him to let such a chance to show off slip?" Elphir asked with a wry smile.

"He didn't turn up though." Éomer fought to keep down the urge to believe them, to relax into the banter, that reminded him of the Field of Cormallen, to just shove away all uncertainty and trust them as before. He first had to be sure about this.

Erchirion chuckled. "No, he really didn't. Roth and I got him as pissed as a newt between the two of us and I'll be buggered if he'll manage to see straight before noon."

"Well, as far as I know that's Éothain's tactic to get rid of twats," Éomer stated, "perhaps your battle tactics are catching some barbaric taint from too much contact?"

The brethren laughed. "Nay," Elphir finally stated, "at least this brother of mine surely is more barbaric than all Rohirrim together ever will be."

"Father is all the time afraid I might turn up married to some tavern wench after one of our booze-ups."Erchirion admitted. "Not that I expect Rohan's nobility to have a certain bias to marry tavernwenches."

"No, certainly not." Éomer couldn't help but grin. Erchirion, waking up with some good solid hangover, finding himself married to some tavern girl was quite an entertaining image. "Perhaps we should at least marry you off to some Rohirric wench, at least your father would not have to see the misery," he smirked.

"Pha! I wouldn't call it misery, there are worse things to happen to a man than to marry a tavern girl," Erchirion snorted, "But truth be told, sometimes I think you know better how to take things in your stride in Rohan."

"We certainly do," Éomer affirmed, "but that does not mean that life is easier in the Mark."

"Don't get me wrong. It surely isn't. But you don't insist in making it even more difficult with a whole lot of rules and regulations on propriety!" Erchirion huffed.

"Well brother," Elphir quipped, "perhaps we should ask Éomer to find you a wife in Rohan to keep you satisfied."

Éomer felt it impossible to resist the bait: "True, and with so many good men lost in the war, there will be quite a bunch of young widows to chose from."

Erchirion grinned. "Widows normally are Amrothos part of the trade. But I surely would not mind some nice cuddly thing with ample tits and a big bum."

"Seems you need them large to find them in your ordinary state of drunkenness." Éomer was now grinning as wide as Erchirion. "Well, we'll find you some strapping widow with a handful of kids so you won't have the trouble to make your own and can stay with the booze."

"Never thought of fucking as some kind of trouble, though I wouldn't mind raising some snot-noses with the right woman, and I don't particularly care if they are all mine. That is..." He never got the chance to correct his blunder, as Éomer and Elphir doubled over with laughter.

Joining them, Erchirion poked his forefinger at Éomer's chest: "Well, you scoundrel of a king, find me a young widow with two or three kids and at least five mares and I'll settle in the Mark and start horse breeding."

Éomer tried in vain to pull a straight face. "Don't let your Gondorean fellow nobles hear that, or they'll develop their own theories about your studding abilities. You know the rumours quite well that circulated at Cormallen about the Rohirrim and their horses."

Erchirion flung up a hand. " Ah darn, I'd rather cover a mare than one of these prissy, conceited Gondorean prunes. Look at those beauties! They're all titles and propriety but there's no life in them!"

Elphir shook his head. "You're unfair, brother. There certainly are women like that, perhaps more in Gondorean noble society than in any other but you shouldn't just lump all women together. "

"I know," Erchirion interrupted, his face now serious, and shrugged. "I admit I'm even wronging them more than you perhaps think, as I don't believe that they want to be like that, it's society that makes them behave like that, and when it comes down to it, it's men that do it. Mind you, behind what we in Gondor call a woman's propriety there is eventually a man's property."

Éomer stared at him. Bantering, boozing and wenching Erchirion. He had not put thoughts like that past him.

Sighing Erchirion leaned himself back against the mast. "I could never do without willing women. I need them to feel alive, to feel my blood throbbing, to pick up the pieces of my own being after a fight. I'd just stop to exist without them."

His elder brother smiled barely discernibly. "What would we be fighting for anyway? Aren't we fighting to support and protect the ones we love?"

"Perhaps we are," Éomer shifted his weight, wrapping his arms around one bent knee, "but we are not the only ones fighting." He felt their gaze and looked up. "The people of the Mark believe that men and women fight their distinct battles for life. And as we protect them, women bring forth new life, their commitment not being less brave and worthy than that of any valiant warrior. Therefore we believe that women dying in childbed will be received in the halls of our ancestors with the same honour as a Rider, having died in battle."

Erchirion gave him a lopsided smile. "Bet you that with the horselords everything to be ending in battle, honour and death. They seem to have a soft spot for that."

But Elphir did not fall in with Erchirion's attempt to lighten the atmosphere."I have not been in the room when my wife gave birth to Alphros, but from the little I witnessed I dearly doubt that many men would have the stamina to go through that. And that was said to be a birth without any complications." His serious face looked even more grave than usually. "For what women do for us we should try our utmost to repay the debt."

They sat in silence for quite a time, until Elphir turning the tiller further left, demanded his brother to change the angle of the sail. Looking up, Éomer noticed, that Amrothos' boat had already changed direction and was now heading north, towards what seemed to be some blackish lumps of rocks in the middle of the bay.