Thank you all so much for your encouraging comments; you certainly made me very happy, though you gave me a bit of a bad conscience aswell.

So here's to all of you who were waiting for an update last week:

Sorry for updating a bit late; the delay is due to a very nice one-week sailing trip on a traditional two-masted clipper on the Baltic Sea! (And no, I'm not in the slightest ashamed of making you green-eyed! ;-))

Warning: If you like the Horselord too much to stand the idea of him ...well ... embarrassing himself (I just can't think of any other innocuous phrase, though he himself does not care a horse's fart, as he told me ;-)), keep off and don't read!

I try to catch reality with all the nasty (or not so nasty) odds, so you are very welcome to complain if you think Im not realistic enough. ;-)

Chapter15

Slowly waking to the jubilant song of a blackbird at the break of day, Éomer lazily turned in bed, reaching for the smithereens of his dream, unwilling to let go the sensation it had stirred.

He felt a smile crawl over his face and sink into his heart, unfurling a wave of sated warmth. How good that felt ... He realized the familiar tug in his groin, not urgent, needy, like it had been in his dream, but somehow right, wholesome. He felt complete, sated, curled up in the warmth of his bed, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his heart mingling with the blackbird's song, greeting the rising sun.

What a dream! He stretched himself with a sigh.

Her lithe body in his arms, her breath mingled with his own, … the silky waves of her night-coloured hair, raven wings caressing his face, ... the creamy colour of her skin, soft under the touch of his lips, ... so soft, belying the strength of her limbs, … his hands cupping her breasts, … those sinewy ankles, ... those tightly-sculptured calves, clamped around his hips, … those long, well-muscled thighs around his neck...

He shook himself. He had to stop this or he would not be fit for his morning ridehe thought, grinning contentedly.

He sat up, pushing away the coverlet and with a surge of embarrassment noticed the clotted stickiness on his belly. Small wonder he had felt so relaxed when waking! With a shrug he shoved the sheets aside; it couldn't be helped, so what? Walking over to the screened-off area of the room for his morning ablutions, he couldn't help a wry grin. Sure he had provided a wonderful piece of domestics' gossip: the King of Rohan, soiling his sheets.

He should have taken matters in hand last night to prevent anything like that ... The tavern had been no option whatsoever, and it had taken him quite a time to fall asleep, his mind running wild with pictures of her ... But then, it had not been lust he had felt, pondering the events of the day ... Well at least not primarily. Lust had certainly been there, like it had been there during the whole day, seething now and then through him like a burning wave, but most of the remaining evening after sharing that cup he had felt a strange kind of solid contentedness, doing nothing but sitting there, listening to the family's conversation, feeling her sitting beside him, hearing her voice and seeing her smile ... that smile that had wrapped itself around his heart, warming him like a loving caress. Béma, how he wanted to see her smile!

Scrubbing the wet washcloth across his stomach, a thought hit him: What would she think of him, if she heard about him tossing off in his dreams? He thoughtfully sucked his teeth. Did she even know about such things? This was Gondor ... And if she knew, how would she react? Oh, she had reacted in his dream ... No, she had acted. Breathing deeply, he recalled the feeling of her long fingers, the calloused fingers of an archer, sliding down his flanks, encircling him...

With a desperate groan he threw the cloth into the washbasin. He had to stop this, or not even cold water would be of any help. No doubt: He needed some exercise!

ooo

The bleary-eyed boy sat up below the manger, straw criss-crossing his tousled hair. "My lord … Éomer King?"

"Good morning, Winfrid. What are you doing in Firefoot's box?" A sudden suspicion crossed Éomer's mind. "Did the men make you leave the barracks?"

Raking the bits of straw out of his hair, the boy shook his head. "No, my lord, it's not because of that. Éothain does not allow them to bring any women to the barracks. I just thought ..." His voice petered out and he blushed furiously.

"Well?" Éomer insisted.

The boy stood up, reaching around the big grey and patting him lightly. "You see, Firefoot doesn't obey me." Still flustered with embarrassment, he scratched his head. "I think, he doesn't even listen to me. So I thought ..."

The blush deepened, making the boy's ears shine with the intensity of corn poppy. Breathing deep, he tried a new start. "They all say, I'm a pathetic mock of a squire because I'm too small."

Éomer frowned. "Who says so? My guards?"

Reaching for the currycomb, Winfrid shook his head. "No, not them, Éothain would kick the shit … I mean, he would not let them, but I know they think the same as the stable hands in Edoras."

Avoiding his king's eyes, the boy started to groom the stallion. "It's not that they are wrong. I am small, I lack experience. I can't control Firefoot. You know what happened yesterday."

The steady-going movement of the currycomb seemed to calm the boy, and while his hands never ceased brushing the dappled coat, his voice grew more confident. "You see, he's a decent fellow, a great heart … if he knew me better, I mean … if he knew I like him, perhaps he would listen to me … because … because he would understand, you see. He would understand that I need him to come to me." The last words were hardly audible, mumbled into the grey's mane.

"So you slept in Firefoot's box for him to come to know you better?" Éomer smiled, remembering himself at Winfrid's age. Surely some things in the Mark never changed.

The boy nodded. "Grandfather told me to, when I got my first pony. Not that I would call Firefoot a pony, but company is company."

"You are right, and it may be a good idea to try with Firefoot. It is crucial for a Rider and his horse to know and trust each other."

The boy blushed again, this time grinning happily. "You see, Firefoot is a much better bed-fellow than the men of the guard anyway."

"Oh, is he?" Trying to conceal his own grin, Éomer took Firefoot's tack off the peg.

"Sure, Sire. He doesn't snore, and though he farts more than all six men together, he doesn't stink that much. And he never pukes."

"I would be surprised indeed if he did, " Éomer answered drily. The discipline of his guard seemed to lack considerably. "Were they all drunk yesterday?"

"Oh, no!" Winfrid straightened up, beaming with pride. "Our guards drank much less than the ones of Dol Amroth! And Éothain and Folcred almost stayed sober."

"Almost?" Éomer asked, spreading the saddlecloth on Firefoot's back.

"Yes." The boy nodded eagerly. "At least until the Prince Amrothos came and told us about … Oh!"

Winfrid eyed his Lord and King with uncertainty, blushing to the roots of his hair.

That brat Amrothos! He would toast the day when Imrahil's son finally took abode in Umbar or even in Far Harad.

"So the Lord Amrothos came, and what happened then?" Trying for his most casual mien, Éomer smoothed the crinkles out of the saddlecloth.

"Well, he brought some wine and brandy for the soldiers, and they sang and toasted in the yard, and then the kitchen staff came over, and that was when I went to sleep in Firefoot's box."

"I see. Run over to the barracks and wake Éothain and Folcred."

While the boy sped away, Éomer heaved the saddle on Firefoot's back. When he looked up from fastening the surcingle, he found one of the grooms looking over the low door into the box, an old man with a mat of wavy grey hair, grinning from ear to ear, exposing what little teeth he still owned in a hearty attempt to be friendly.

"Good morning, my lord." The voice was deep and a bit raspy. "Just came to give the promised treat to the old boy."

From a wooden bucket he was holding, the man produced a small bunch of the little round carrots typical of the limy soil around Dol Amroth. Éomer at once recognised them as one of those unfamiliar vegetables he had liked exceedingly at Imrahil's table. They had been served with a spicy crust of breadcrumbs and brown butter, which had provided an interesting contrast to the tenderness of the slightly sweet carrots, that were so different from the much sturdier varieties that were cultivated in Rohan. Waving the bunch invitingly, the groom held it out to the big stallion, who took it eagerly.

"Ah well, that's something you like, eh?" Feeding two more carrots to the destrier, the old man turned towards Éomer. "Scrumped them from the kitchen garden. The glutton's really keen on them, and right he is. They're really a treat, crisp and tender as a maiden's tit."

Totally unconcerned about the King of Rohan, the man patted Firefoot's neck fondly. "And well you deserve them, old bugger, old acquaintance not forgotten."

Éomer raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You've met before?"

The old man nodded. "Was in Minas Tirith in the war, responsible for grooming Imrahil's cavalry." He made a rasping sound deep in his throat, as if he was going to spit but instead continued. "Mighty proud swanks, those chaps over there, but they know as much about horses as they know about fucking. Prince Imrahil wouldn't risk his horses with that twits. That's why I went ... anyway, couldn't stay behind with all the horses gone, could I? Wasn't easy for the wife though, me and the boys gone, but we were lucky, came all home safe and sound and with a nice piece of coin, too."

Éomer frowned. Sure, loot had always been part of any soldier's income, but he could not well comprehend how a Gondorean stablehand came at it. Feeling curious, he asked: "So you got a share of the loot?"

"No, as we grooms weren't in the fray ourselves we didn't, and that's all right with me." The old man chuckled. "No, I'm no hero. As it was, I was well behind the walls to care for the horses coming in, and even there I nearly shit bricks. It was later, when the people returned from Lossarnach that things started to pay off, what with the help of your boys."

"You had dealings with the Rohirrim?" Éomer felt slightly alarmed. From the Battle on the Pelennor till the departure of the main contingent in May there had been several thousand Rohirrim in and around Minas Tirith, so logically all kind of transactions might have taken place. Just what a stablehand from Dol Amroth, being a stranger himself in Mundburg had to do with it was beyond him.

The old man gave him a wary look. "Well," he drawled, " birds of a feather … and horse people and horse people are the like. And then the boys told me, that their horses were their own, as was their armour, them coming forth at the biding of the King for the muster."

Seeing the uncertainty in the groom's eyes, Éomer gave an affirmative nod. "That's absolutely correct. We do have standing forces, but most of the Riders are farmers and herdsmen, joining the army at need when the King calls them."

"Ah well, and that 's were the business starts." Feeling at ease now, the old man grinned from ear to ear. "See, there's no horses like the Rohirric ones. Not that the plonkers in Minas Tirith would understand, needing but some fast ones for their messengers and what not, but there's the farmers of the Pelennor and Lossarnach. They know the worth of endurance and tenacity. Well, and there was a bunch of blokes from that East Emnet, as they called it, horse-breeders' sons with some mighty fine stallions. Mind you, the farmers have no use for any warhorses, but along the river the soil is marshy, fertile like muck, but heavy. That's where they need strong and reliable horses."

He gave Éomer a side glance, but sensing no reproach, he continued. "I would contact the farmers and inspect the mares, as we didn't want to take any risk, they provided the stallions and in the end we shared the stud-fee, with everyone involved happy."

Éomer laughed. "Seems I've come too late with my trade negotiations. You were well ahead with it."

"Ah, it's always good to have useful neighbours." Patting the stallion for a last time, the old groom picked up his bucket, and went to distribute the ordinary kind of carrots to the other horses, while Éomer finished bridling Firefoot to lead him out into the sunny yard in front of the stables.

Éothain and Folcred were still not in sight, so Éomer set down on a mounting block, stretching his long legs. The skin on his nose and cheekbones prickled slightly, the sunburn he had not realised yesterday due to the wind becoming noticeable.

Closing his eyes, he breathed in the mixture of horse, hay and the honeysuckle that was climbing a nearby walnut tree, and his memory drifted back to his childhood, following the herds across the Emnet in spring, looking out for new foals under the watchful eye of Eadric, his father's stablemaster.

Éomer could not remember Eadric but old, beard and hair nearly white, but still tall and healthy. As a young man he had been injured severely in a warg attack, leaving him with a heavy limp, but once that man had sat a horse, he had turned into a god. There had been no one who had not admired him, and though his face had been badly scared, no woman he had set his eyes at would turn him down … no one but Burhred. Short, round and fierce still in her sixties, she had been a force of nature as they said in her youth. She had led him quite a dance until she at last had given in and married him, the people joking about Eadric finally taming his personal warg.

Éomer had loved being with them as a boy, their rough fondness for each other radiating in their vicinity like a glowing sod of peat in the hearth on a wet and cold winter evening, warming limb and soul. Their love had been so entirely different from the devotion his parents had shown for each other ... and yet it had been the same steadfast and absolute merging.

When Burhred, being well into her eighties, had died of the coughing disease that every early spring swept the plains, mostly felling the very young and the very old, few had expected Eadric to last more than a few weeks without her. "He's just waiting for this year's foals to be born," his children had said and been puzzled when he had lived on afterwards, withered and not taking much notice any more of the ongoings around him until at the end of June the fireweed had started to bloom. Then he had demanded his daughter to lay out his best clothes for him, and one morning, when the plains had been covered in a veil of pink, they had found him gone in the morning.

Searching for him with his hunting dogs, his eldest son had discovered him, lying on his back amidst the flowers, dressed as for a feast, his face calm and content, clutching a bunch of fireweed to his chest. It had been then that his children had remembered the yearning with which their mother had awaited its bloom every year and realised that he had only waited for that.

Fireweed, that herald of summer, token of life persisting. With a sigh Éomer lifted his face to the sun, his eyes still closed, recalling those early summer nights of his childhood out on the plains, sitting at the campfire after a busy day, listening to tales and low-voiced songs, till the gentle softness of the night wrapped itself around him like a velvet blanket, soft as a horse's muzzle, mothering him to sleep.

And there had been that night, when Eadric had lectured them on martial life. How old had he himself been then? Eight? Nine? He was not sure, but he still remembered the atmosphere: a group of boys, him being the youngest, some lads and Eadric having been out for branding the foals, the elder ones cracking jokes that Éomer had not fully understood then at the expense of Cenhelm, who had been planning to get married that summer.

And then Ealdric had spoken to them, the marred half of his face a demonic mask in the flickering of the fire, his keen eyes glinting like half-hidden steel, but his voice deep, enchanting, drawing the boys in, soothing them, as it soothed the scared young foals after the touch of the marking iron.

Smiling contentedly to himself, Éomer realised that though he had been too young to understand the ribald jokes, he had well understood Eadric's tale and had never forgotten it.

"Marriage is as simple and as difficult as making a good porridge. The basics you need for both are some fuel and a cauldron.

You lads are the fuel, burning up in the attempt to keep the fire going, and it is your task to provide a gentle and constant heat. Why? You'll see. Flaring fire may be excused in the beginning, till the water starts boiling so to say, but have a care not to burn up to soon. You'll have to last a whole life, not to die away like a dowsed torch after the first turn. And for the final cooking, that is life-long happy marriage, gentle fire is needed, gentle and lasting, lest your porridge sticks to the sides of the cauldron and gets burnt.

The cauldron, that's your wife. And well you do to aim for one fitting to your flames: not too big and not too small. And be careful, lads. Not the biggest, not the most shiny one is the best. Don't let yourself be dazzled by decoration and adornment, look for the solid material, the smooth surface, the well-worked and proven. A golden cauldron may please the eye, for every day's fire and cooking it's useless. A decorated one may attract attention, but how to keep it clean, how to keep the porridge from getting burnt in all the recesses and nooks? A crack might not cause too much problems in the beginning, but with daily use it might open and spoil all your labour. So chose carefully.

Well, and once you have that, the porridge making can start. The first thing you have to put in is some water: clear and fresh. That's your and your wife's thoughts and determination. Clear as the water you should be to each other, flowing into the same direction, providing the foundation for anything to come.

Then you add the oats: sustaining and healthy. That's the trust and reliability of both of you, the support you give each other in the daily struggle for life. And mind you: If you have that, you and your people can survive, as long as the fire keeps going and the cauldron doesn't break, for that are the most important ingredients.

But if you are lucky, you get some more to put into it. Cream: thick and sweet. That's the care and sympathy you show each other. Not necessary to survive, but as the cream in the porridge turns some tasteless though nourishing glue into something nice, it gives you a taste of what life can be.

And to top all this, there is honey to go into our porridge: delicious and enticing. That's passion and desire, to brighten up your life and make you enjoy each other.

But all this is nothing in the long last: It feeds you, it keeps you, true, but to keep you healthy in body and soul there is something more to go into your porridge, though it requires just a tiny dash of it: salt. Though it does not flatter the tongue, it is essential for Man and livestock. Without salt, the fattest pastures are of no avail. And that tiny dash, that is so important, that's love: the bitter but life-saving that makes the sweet the sweeter."

What a story teller Eadric of the East Emnet had been! Éomer opened his eyes, looking over the sunlit stable yard. Some sparrows were quarrelling over some horse droppings in the shade of the big trough, here and there hawkbit grew in the chinks between the cobblestones, little yellow suns in the black and grey pavement.

He shifted his weight and as if following a familiar path, he started to ponder the validity of Eadric's analogy on his own attempts.

Water: Oh, she was more than fitting, of that he was sure, and had she not given proof of her intelligence and determination?

Oats: Had they not been open to each other, had they not trusted each other, allowing the other an unveiled look into each other's souls?

Cream: Had she not concerned herself with him from the first moment? Could it be true, what Amrothos had said, that she cared for him? Of his own care for her he was more than sure.

Béma, had it really been only one day?

Honey: He smiled wryly. There was not doubt of his own desire, probably by now the servants were already giggling, and about hers? Had she not invited him to kiss her that moment on the battlement, wrapped in his arms, her eyes hazed? And what about her piratey attack with that incredible brandy? In his mind he saw her lips touch the brim of the cup, her tongue liking her lower lip ... Béma that woman was bold!

He had it all … They had it all … But would there grow love? Would he know when it was there? What would it feel like? What had it been, that had wrought his parents' souls together, till they had been inseparable, intertwined like damascened steel?

Salt: The bitter that makes us feel the sweet. For Theodwyne there had only been the bitter in the end.

It had been the first incurable pain of his life. He shook himself. It was no use to brood about it for still another time and yet ... His mother had been young, she had had her children to love and care for ... Éomund's children, then how could she simply give up fighting like that?

The old familiar ache got hold of his heart, not as fierce as in the first years after their parents' death, leaving him and Éowyn orphaned at the age of twelve and eight, but still ache it was, dull and throbbing. Why had she left them? She, who had never been weak, but always passionate and determined? How many times had he pondered this? How many times feeling deserted and betrayed? Growing up he had understood the love his mother must have felt for her husband, but that nagging feeling of being left behind had never ceased.

And then, for the first time in the sixteen years that had passed since his parents' death a thought struck him: What if his mother had died first? And with a grim sense for reality he had to admit to himself: His father would not have lasted for long without her either. Sure, Éomund of Eastfold, Marshal of the Mark, would not have succumbed to illness and grieve, but how easy was it for a warrior to seek and find death in battle. And with the situation given then: How likely the next pursuit of raiding orcs would have been the desired end of a life devoid of meaning?

He raked his fingers through his hair and blinked into the early morning's sun. It was time to make his peace with his mother ... his parents, and to leave the past behind.

Firefoot's soft snorting alerted him to somebody's approach. Turning his head, he saw Éothain and Folcred crossing the yard, a seemingly nervous Winfrid in tow.

When they came nearer, Éomer noticed that Folcred's right hand was badly bruised, his middle finger looking twice as thick as normal. Frowning he asked his guard: "What happened to your hand?"

Avoiding his gaze, Folcred straightened up. "Nothing, Sire."

"So you want me to believe that you accidentally ran into a wall that all of a sudden jumped into your way?" Éomer's face did not give away any of his emotions, but his voice was dripping with sarcasm.

Folcred swallowed. "No, Sire."

"Look," Éothain interjected, supporting his young subaltern, "there was some booze-up yesterday night, and..."

"And what?" Éomer snapped. "The Royal Guard of the Mark ending up in some drunken brawl?"

"Not that you never did," Éothain muttered under his breath. Noticing the furious glance that Éomer shot him, he straightened up. "No, Sire."

Éomer waved him down. "Just tell me what happened and have done with it."

Shrugging, his face clearly displaying the unease he felt, Éothain reported. "Well, it was that orc-brew Imrahil's son dumped on the boys, when they already were quite ratted. That stuff scorches your brain away. The lads are just not used to it."

"Wrap it up, man! What are you trying to prepare me for? A full scale alley fight?" Éomer's patience was running low. Turning to Folcred, he demanded: "Who did you hit?"

Swallowing hard and avoiding his king's eyes, Folcred said: "Berhtulf, Sire."

"Berhtulf? "Éomer was flabbergasted. Folcred and Berhtulf had been closest friends since childhood. "How come?"

Struggling for an answer, Folcred looked pleadingly at his captain, and with an assuring nod, Éothain took over. "Éomer King, Berhtulf was besides himself, pissed as a fart. Well, and then there was the kitchen staff..."

"The lasses you mean," Éomer interrupted.

"No, more or less the whole staff and some others of the servants as well, I deem." Éothain shrugged. "Actually we had a full scale feast, what with the food for the called off festivities, and as for the drink ... Well, you know."

Éomer nodded wryly. "I certainly do. What I don't know is why my standard bearer broke his hand in the face of his friend and comrade."

Éothain chewed his lower lip. "They were plastered."

"You've said so repeatedly," Éomer interrupted, his voice cutting.

Éothain's face started to turn reddish. Béma's balls, if it was something Éothain was embarrassed by, it had to be severe!

"As I said," Éothain continued with obvious hesitation, "they were drunk, the women no less than the men."

"And?"

"Berhtulf grabbed one of the women, who had shown interest in him and started to canoodle her."

"And she turned him down?"

"I'm afraid she was much too sloshed to do so."

Éomer groaned in frustration. That was the last thing he needed: A member of the Royal Guard, molesting some intoxicated woman.

"So that is were you stepped in?" he asked, turning to Folcred.

"Not exactly, Sire."

Rising his eyebrows, Éomer looked back to Éothain.

"Well," Éothain cleared his throat in a cumbersome way, "the woman obviously was one of the servants' sweetheart or … " Avoiding Éomer's gaze pointedly, Éothain finished in a second attempt: "Well, wife. We don't know for sure. Anyway, the man stood up to Berhtulf and complained, but you see, he never stood a chance, as Berhtulf simply showed him aside. We tried to talk some sense into Berhtulf, but he was totally pissed and would not listen to anything and anyone, so Folcred gave him a tap on the point of his chin and that ended the discussion."

"I could not stand by and let him disgrace the Mark and himself." Folcred's voice was choked.

Folding his hands behind his back, Éomer straightened up to his complete impressive height. "I see." Balancing on the balls of his feet, it took him some will-power to restrain his temper.

"Captain!" His voice was biting.

Sensing the lay of the land, Éothain sprung to attention. "Yes, Sire."

"We will leave the day after tomorrow. As long as we are in Dol Amroth there's no more booze and no more wenching. That's an order. Folcred, get yourself to the healer's. Éothain, we're off for a ride as soon as you've saddled. Winfrid is coming in Folcred's stead."

"Éomer King, I'm not having you ride without guard and worse, mail." Adopting an official air, Éothain emphasised the Captain-of-the-Guard attitude.

Éomer snorted. "What use would it be to drag some rat-arsed blokes around to air their hangovers?"

"They didn't get drunk on purpose," Éothain tried to defend the guards, "that brew was unpredictable. You should have tried that concoction."

"I have," Éomer grinned, "and that is why I refrain from chopping off your balls. Come on, let's get going."

"Not without mail," Éothain insisted stubbornly.

"I'll go and fetch it, my lord." Winfrid's eager voice reminded Éomer of his responsibilities and grudgingly he nodded his consent. He needed the exercise and distraction a ride would provide, even if, for the sake of the Mark, he had to wear that dratted mail.