Thank you so much for your encouraging comments. I have to admit I do like cliche-bashing, ;-) and I am intrigued by any kind of culture clash. Hope you will enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing.

Chapter 5

Looking around for Erchirion, to his amazement Éomer found the bulky warrior collecting the blue and white flowers growing right above the tideline, already carrying an immense bunch of them in his arms.

"What is he doing?" Though it was obvious, he couldn't keep from asking.

Elphir just shrugged. "Gathering sea-lavender. Our mother loves that flowers, as they remind her of her childhood on Tolfalas. They dry without losing their bright colours and therefore are liked as a cheerful decoration in wintertime."

Chuckling Amrothos added: "He's mother's good boy. Stuffing the whole cuddy any time we come here while they are flowering, even drinks up his ale before, so he can fold up the skin to gain more room."

Picking up the leftover lobster they had set aside, he looked at Éomer enquiringly. " Hey, Horselord, would you like one for your men? I'll take one for our parents, but I don't see why Erchirion should gobble down the other one, as he already had a complete one all to himself."

"Don't be unreasonable, brother." Elphir's usually calm voice was slightly on edge. "Erchi surely would not begrudge Éomer's guards the lobster." Turning to Éomer he continued: "But I could well imagine your men really might like to try it, as there certainly is nothing the like in Rohan."

"Well, we do have something similar: crayfish. Though they don't taste exactly the same. But my men will no doubt like it, and its size might even elevate Gondor's reputation in their eyes."

Discerning the badly hidden grin in Éomer's face, Elphir shot him a quick glance. "Why so?"

"Well," raising one hand, as if he wanted to rake it through his scarf-covered hair, Éomer explained: "Crayfish plays a quite prominent role in the traditions of the Mark. It is somehow seen as a token of fertility...or rather virility." He could not go on, because Amrothos was doubling over, chortling.

Elphir just raised a brow at his younger brother's mirth. "I see. Perhaps we should blame Amrothos' generally improper behaviour on too much lobster eating then."

"No brother, it's Erchirion who is devouring them like a starving warg." Amrothos stuffed the lobsters into one of the bags. "One more reason to keep him from guzzling this one too. We don't want the wenches to get too exhausted, do we?"

"Already packed?" Erchirion rounded the corner of the awning, his arms full of sea-lavender. "Well, let's just finish off the rest of the ale, so I can fold up the skin."

Guffawing Amrothos let himself fall back into the sand. "Blimey, he's so predictable!"

Erchirion just shrugged at his brother's antics. "I've done that for years now, so how much does it take to "predict" anything?

Still chuckling, Amrothos sat up again. "You know Erchi, you would be a success with the wenches in Rohan if they knew how many lobsters you manage to dispatch."

"How much wine have you had, Roth?" Erchirion seemed totally unconcerned, but Amrothos did not give up that easily.

"Just ask the Horseking," he insisted.

"I'm afraid the lobsters you ate here won't really help you to impress the girls in Rohan," Éomer explained laughingly, "nor your ability in eating them. First of all it's crayfish in the Mark, and then your success with the wenches will depend on your deftness at catching them... the crayfish I mean, not the girls."

By now all four men were laughing and finally Elphir asked the Rohir, whether he was joking. Éomer shook his head. "No, I'm totally serious. We even have a special festival in summer, celebrating crayfish catching. The young people go to the tarns and streams that night to catch crayfish."

"The young men you mean," Elphir interjected.

Éomer shook his head. "I certainly have enough Westron to express myself. The young people; that is lads and lasses."

The three brothers looked at him dumbstruck, and Éomer continued grinning: "Well, once they have caught enough crayfish, they carry them home to the villages and a feast is held, with everybody eating crayfish, as it is believed to give health and virility for the whole year to come."

"I have the impression I would bloody much like those Rohirric traditions," Amrothos stated. "Sounds really promising. Do I guess right that they have a try if the crayfish work after the feast?"

"No," Éomer smirked, "not after the feast; on the way back from the tarns. If you still manage a cock stand after an hour waist-deep in icy water you certainly deserve a reward." Turning to Amrothos, his smirk deepened. "You are invited to find out on your own, but I'm afraid the lasses of the Mark don't fall for sweet words, they demand hard facts."

Now it was Erchirion's turn to guffaw, and Elphir shook his head in mock despair. "Éomer, I'm afraid you should take both of these imbeciles to Rohan and dunk them in some mountain stream till some wench takes pity on their shrivelled appendages."

"I would not mind taking them with me, but I can't guarantee for the girls' mercy. As a matter of fact with all the poison Saruman's creatures dumped in the streams and brooks of the Westfold, there is no crayfish at all left in many." All mirth now was wiped from Éomers face. "It worries my people greatly."

Elphir frowned. "Well, I can imagine that narrows the range of foodstuffs, and to forgo a festival like that specific one might be drab, but certainly it should not be the cause for serious problems and sorrow."

"And even without the festival," Amrothos chipped in,"I can't imagine the Rorirrim to stop bonking, just because one particular occasion for it has ceased to exist. They'll rather invent a new one."

Éomer shook his head. "You don't understand. Life in the Mark may be free and splendid, but it is also hard and unforgiving. We are farmers and herders, our very hearts and souls are interwoven with the land we live in, the land that nourishes our bodies. Fertility is something sacred to my people, and the fertility of the land and the herds reflects directly to our hearts. We see mating as the source of joy and strength, of life...a boon to be shared. And therefore the disappearance of the crayfish hurts us to the core. Crayfish is seen as some kind of a symbol, a token of life continuing. And given that, the poisoning of the waters cuts deeper into my people's existence than any sword or axe could reach. You may call it superstition, but it frightens them and sucks dry their vital force. That is far worse than the lack of grain and housing, it's the lack of virility, of life."

"I don't know, Éomer, perhaps if you set an example, I mean, get yourself a wife and produce some heirs and spares, your people will revive, too," Erchirion suggested, scratching his head. "As you are a belligerent crowd, leading from the front might do the job."

Éomer felt tension run through his body like some kind of cold flame. There it was again! How much he might love Erchirion, he was a Gondorean, and as such he was not able to comprehend what moved the Rohirrim. He just thought them strange, uncouth or at times funny.

"It might sound funny to you Gondoreans." Éomer could not help notice the frostiness in his own voice, but he was not going to let anyone smirk at his people, not even his friends and brothers in arms. "For us, as I myself am one of those uncouth Northerners you like to chuckle about, it is our tradition, our way of life, and Gondor had well remember what she owes the strength and dedication of Rohan's people."

Imrahil's sons reacted each in their distinct way: Elphir put on his diplomatic mien, giving away nothing of what he might think or feel, Amrothos, though sobered, looked straight at Éomer, his chin slightly pushed forward in some kind of challenge and Erchirion... Éomer nearly choked, when he saw Erchirion's reaction. Within the blink of an eye a multitude of contradicting emotions displayed themselves and then his face changed into a mask of granite, lips pressed into a thin line, jaws set, but his eyes, those lively brown eyes, inherited from his mother's side, for just a split second longer showed the heart-piercing hurt he felt at Éomer's harsh words, before they went cool and inscrutable.

"Peace, Éomer." Elphir was the first to speak again after some uncomfortable seconds of silence. "Nobody present would even think of disesteeming your people and what they did for Gondor. My brothers meant no harm, and you should know by now how much especially Erchirion admires them and their way of living."

Éomer turned his head, feeling even more embarrassed than before, when he had taken their banter for downright insult. He had hurt Erchirion, and he knew in his heart of hearts he had snapped, because Erchirion had been right, had said what was whispered and by some demanded aloud in the Mark: The King should set an example and assure the continuity of Eorl's line. It was paradoxical: He had rebuked his Gondorean friend for thinking too much like a Rohir.

And because Erchirion had touched a sore spot. He admittedly felt chased, cornered. Was enough not enough? Since his sixteenth summer, when he had joined Elfhelm's éored, he had given everything for the Mark, his youth, his strength, his blood. Had given it willingly and with a full heart. And as willingly he would have stayed Rohan's Third Marshall, but war and fate had catapulted him into a position he had never wanted, he tried to fill, out of duty and love for his people and country, and things were running well. But for all that, it seemed to him that whatever he did for Rohan, it would never be sufficient. The permanent nagging of his councillors, reminding him of his people's expectations wore him out, made him jumpy and aggressive. He would not allow his choice of a wife to be dictated by matters of politics... And he feared the day he would give in to the reasoning of the council, betraying his belief and that secret dream he had hidden in the depth of his heart all those years.

Reluctantly he turned to Erchirion. "I'm sorry, Erchirion, but you strummed exactly that chord my chief-councillor Eáldred has been harping for the last year. And I'm fed up with it to my back teeth."

"I didn't think about it, though I should have, with all our noble arse kissers parading their daughters in front of you," Erchirion sighed. "It just didn't come to my mind that the situation might be similar in Rohan."

"Similar but worse," Éomer huffed. "Being Queen in Rohan means to be ruling in the King's absence, and you can certainly imagine that it is a compelling temptation for any noble family to try and get one of their female members on the throne."

"Does not sound too appeasing,"Elphir remarked. "And I can well imagine that there are certain competing parties like there are in Gondor."

Éomer laughed mirthlessly. "Bet you there are. And whoever you chose, there will always be those who are not satisfied."

"Why not chose a wife from Gondor then?" Amrothos asked.

"To have the whole pack unite against her?" Éomer shook his head. "Being Queen demands a lot of any woman, and it would simply not be fair to drag some woman to Edoras without any knowledge of the tasks awaiting her. All those women here see the crown and imagine themselves admired as some decoration at the King's side. They don't see the responsibilities that position demands, besides providing an heir perhaps, and even that might put up some problem."

"Aren't you exaggerating a bit? How should it be a problem for any healthy woman to give birth to a child, be she from Gondor or from Rohan?" Amrothos looked totally unconvinced.

Éomer shrugged. "I'm just afraid to sire sickly children if I bedded a Gondorean woman."

"Could it be that you are just a tiny bit prejudiced and condescending?" Amrothos cocked his head, "challenge" written all over his face.

"Am I?" Éomer jeered. "Then tell me, Amrothos, what lasting passion can a woman evoke in a man, if he knows she only wanted him because of his position? What passion is he able to stir in her? Mind you, I'm not even talking about love, which I highly believe essential between spouses. Only mere plain passion. Where would that go during the long years of a loveless marriage? And how could any woman give birth to a healthy child without passion?"

Amrothos looked flabbergasted. "Well, I can surely understand you would not like to bed a woman you don't feel any passion for, but what has that to do with the child's health?"

Éomer blinked. Could it be that anyone in Middle Earth did not know about something that basic? Were they really that daft in Gondor?

"If a woman does not conceive in passion, the child will be sickly and whiny."

"What? Éomer, are you serious?" Elphir had somehow lost his countenance. "How could you blame such a thing on a child's mother? That's mere superstition!"

"Call it what you want, it is like that." Éomer was in no mood to give in. " And mind you, nobody blames anything on the mother, as we see it as the man's responsibility to give joy to his woman and rise her desire."

"Blimey, a man's life doesn't seem that easy in the Mark!" Amrothos' chortle roused Éomer's ire even further. Just as he was about to give a harsh reply, Elphir motioned to him and turning he saw the princess approach the awning. She had removed her headscarf and having knotted it into something like a bag, used it to carry something.

Noticing the tension, she stepped in for a direct confrontation. "What are you tussling about?" she demanded to know.

"Rohiric superstition concerning fertility," Amrothos answered to Elphir's dismay. "Quite an interesting topic."

"Oh, is it?" She seemed totally unagitated. "I can well imagine that for a horse breeding people fertility is quite important, and important things always call forth superstition."

How very cultivated! Éomer's foul mood did not abate the least. With some kind of perverted satisfaction he imagined how her composed facial expression would alter, if he told her that the Rohirrim believed that taking ones wife from behind, like a stallion covering a mare, would result in strong and healthy children.

His irritation must have shown on his face, for out of the corners of his eye he saw Erchirion's worried expression, and all of a sudden he realised he was holding her responsible for her brothers' ideas, blaming her for an attitude she had never shown to him. All he knew she was just trying to be friendly and save the situation. He felt the heat of a blush creep up his neck and averted his gaze, feeling he deserved to be kicked where it really hurt.

Sensing his uneasiness, Lothíriel turned to her brothers. "And around that interesting topic there certainly is enough superstition in Gondor as well, isn't it?"

Elphir seemed at least slightly alarmed. "Lothíriel, I think this is hardly a topic a lady... "

"Oh, forget it, Brother!" Giving her eldest brother a dismissive wave of her hand, she continued lecturing them: "Every midwife along the Falas would swear that women give birth easier with the incoming tide, and everyone believes that more children are born at spring-tide, when there is a full moon, though nobody can really prove it. It's just that the sea is so important for us. And like that every people in Middle Earth surely has some folk lore, no matter whether you call it lore, belief or superstition, that is deeply rooted in their way of life and the land that surrounds them."

She had spoken in that imperturbable but nevertheless determined way, only a woman that was certain of her opinion being valued would speak. The Lady of Dol Amroth, and no doubt.

Éomer could well imagine his counsellors, standing with gaping mouths. Béma, that woman would shut up even Eáldred!

"Anyway, whatever it is, it certainly is no reason to quarrel about and spoil a day like this. And mind you Brothers," her lips curved into a mischievous smile, "if you don't behave yourselves, you won't get any figs."

"Figs? Oh Loth, you surely won't disappoint your favourite brother, will you?" Making the most doleful puppy eyes, Amrothos approached his sister with suppliantly outstretched hands. Rolling her eyes in mock-disgust, she threw him a little green fruit which he caught deftly. Having given one to Elphir and Erchirion as well, she smilingly turned to Éomer, holding out a small pear-shaped fruit to him.

"Have you ever eaten figs?"

Wood pears, he thought without much enthusiasm. These little wild pears they collected in the autumn, hard as wood, and as tasteless, uneatable, unless cooked. Why did Amrothos make such a fuss about them?

Hesitantly he took the offered fruit and was greatly surprised, to find the surface yielding like soft leather. His puzzled look must have given him away, because the princess retrieved the fruit, nipped its peel with her fingernails, and tearing it apart, revealed the fleshy pink inside, dotted with uncounted minute spherical seeds, before handing it back to him, with what he only could describe as an encouraging smile.

Erchirion to his left was pulling the swelling flesh out of the fruit with his big teeth, a more than content expression on his face and even the normally composed Elphir seemed to enjoy the taste. Amrothos had already finished his one and ruthlessly dived for his sister's headscarf on the ground, that obviously held more fruit.

Without any hesitation Lothíriel stepped on his greedily outstretched hand. "I brought two for each of you, and I will distribute them justly."

Eomer had to admit he felt a definite satisfaction at the sight of the princess' foot on her brother's hand, though he perfectly well knew that due to the straw sole of her shoes and the soft sand Amrithos would very unlikely feel any pain.

The course of action resembled a well known play with defined roles and rules, and while the other men received their second help, he slowly made to taste the strange unknown fruit in his hand. It was soft and caved in at the touch of his tongue and teeth, the moist pink flesh being uncommonly sweet and rather sticky than juicy.

Seeing that he was about to finish his fig, Lothíriel offered him the second one, but Amrothos intervened. "I wouldn't eat more than one, if I were you, Horselord."

"That's enough, Roth! I know you like them, but to grudge a guest and friend a treat should even be beyond your imbecility." Elphir's face was stern, while Erchirion shook his head.

Lothíriel lifted her hand. "Don't get agitated, Elphir. Even if Éomer did not want a second one, I would rather eat it myself, than stuff it down Amrothos' greedy throat."

"Well, that certainly was the last thing I expected to see," Amrothos smirked, "my sister sharing figs with the King of Rohan."

"Roth!" Erchirion yelled, his fists clenched, while Elphir simply stared in total disbelief. Not understanding what exactly was going on, Éomer saw Lothíriel blush profoundly, before she wordlessly dropped the fruit and turning round, grabbed the grill and some piece of cloth lying near it and made for the shore.

Seeing the tenseness in her shoulders, Éomer felt his anger rise. Wasn't it enough that this vain git was trying to twit him all the time? Couldn't he leave the woman in peace? "What is all this about? What was your brainless remark aimed at, to embarrass your sister thus?"

"Éomer, please..." Erchirion grabbed his shoulder. "It was just brainless, as you said yourself, but I assure you not meant to hurt."

Amrothos at least had the decency to look sheepish, throwing Elphir a doubtful look. When Elphir eventually spoke, his voice dripped with contempt. "You're just a conceited ass, Brother. There is nothing else to be said."

"Wait!" With a quick thrust of his right hand Éomer grasped Amrothos' tunic right across his chest, crumpling the cloth in his fist. "I want to know the meaning behind the words you said."

Imrahil's youngest looked him right into the eye. "Oh bugger, Éomer, just pack your punch, I deserve it."

Flaring his nostrils, Éomer gave a mirthless laugh. "That I know for sure, but I want to comprehend what you said."

With a sigh Elphir raised his hand. "It is simply idiotic. You see, eating too many figs, especially when not used to them, will cause the runs. The fruit is even used an agent against constipation."

"You are not trying to tell me your sister gave us a purgative." Not letting go of Amrothos, Éomer eyed Elphir suspiciously.

"No, certainly not. But that's why Lothíriel didn't bring more than two for each of us, I suppose." Erchirion's voice sounded edgy. "The fruit's absolutely safe, as long as you don't eat too many, and she knows how much we like them. We collect them every time we come here."

Reluctantly Éomer loosened his grip. They certainly were not lying to him, but from the way Erchirion averted his eyes, he was sure that there was more in it than they had told him. The general embarrassment could be grabbed with both hands. He suddenly felt sick of their company.

"Éomer..." Looking up, he saw Erchirion standing in front of him, extending the fig in his outstretched hand.

Wordlessly Éomer snatched the fruit, and with a flick of his wrist threw it at Amrothos. Let the sod choke on it!

Turning away from them, his eyes followed the upright figure walking down to the shore, and he felt his stomach clench with apprehension. He was on instable ground, not knowing the exact reason for her obvious hurt, but he would not back off. He had to set this right. Now.