Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings. I am only playing with the fandom for the enjoyment of myself as well as others.

Author's note: Take care that a spew warning might apply and be cautious when handling food and liquids while reading this.

Chapter 63

Exiting the stable Aragorn took the opportunity to fill his pipe with the finest pipeweed. Striding up the steps to Meduseld he took a seat on the terrace outside the large ornate doors with their gilded carvings.

The last time he had been seated such as this it had been with worn and travel stained Ranger's clothes. The times had been hard and the very land cast under a darkness that never seemed to disperse. Indeed, though it was now many days since, the land still bore the scars of the darkness, as it would for many days to come.

In his own land, there was a black charred spot on the ground on the Pelennor where not a blade of grass had grown since they body of the evil witch king and his steed had been burnt. Beside it, was a mound that never failed to stir a great sadness in Aragorn.

Faithful servant yet master's bane,

Lightfoot's foal, Swift Snowmane.

The words carved in the stone he knew by heart, and though the grass on Snowmane's howe grew greener than anywhere else it was still with a heavy heart he laid eyes on it. Théoden had been a great man and a worthy king. He had suffered for Sauruman's witchcraft and evil spells. He had lost his own son and heir, and had been tricked to treat his sister son most cruelly. Though never had Éomer ever entertained even an ill thought for it. While Théoden had been lost in the battle on the Pelennor, mortally wounded as his horse was slain and fell on him, Éomer had been named his heir after the loss of his son.

It was a heavy burden to bear, heavier than even the crown, and yet Éomer bore them both and Aragorn was proud to call him friend. He had taken much counsel from Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and few were the ones who dared stand against him.

Yet peace had not been total, for yet their enemies sought to poke and prod at them in the hope of finding a weak spot to exploit.

During one such attempt Aragorn and Éomer had joined forces, something that had night on cost them dearly. As Faramir's horse was wounded, Éomer had pulled him in the saddle behind him on Firefoot. Yet in doing so, he had been exposed himself long enough for a severe blow to the head that had plagued him for a long time. When he and Lothíriel had left Minas Tirith, he had still not been fully recovered though well on the mend.

In his despair as he saw both his Steward and his friend held hostage at sword point, Aragorn had to himself promised a barrel of apples to Firefoot if the stallion was able to see his friends safe. He should never have even had the slightest doubt of the horse, for Firefoot had aided him beyond his wildest hope. On his signal, the horse had attacked his captors and taken both men to safety.

Of course, this was when Aragorn's trouble started for real, for he had indeed sought to be true to his word, and had plied the horse with apples until the barrel was empty.

To say that Firefoot had not been happy would have been a horrible understatement. He had tormented stablehands and Aragorn himself to get his way. To give in to the horse, and risk the ire of the Rohir, or to stand firm against the horse and bear the stallion's wrath was a choice he never more wished to have to do. Yet he had thought it over as Firefoot had grudgingly left him alone at Éomer's command.

It would however seem the horse had a long memory, for it was now well over six months six, as he and Arwen had come to visit Rohan. Aside from the need to keep up negotiations at times, Aragorn had to admit a desire to see for himself that Éomer was indeed improved. He might have phrased the question in one of the missives they sent back and forth, but felt it wisest not to.

Éomer had little time for flowery worded missives, he did not have the patience for them. Though his Westron was excellent, his mastery of the written word was somewhat more strained. He read it well enough, and could phrase himself as well in writing as he did in speech, though it took him somewhat longer than for Aragorn himself or Faramir. The Rohirrim lived in such small settlements and were so widely spread apart that schools were not a practical thing. Their language could be written, but so few knew it that it was almost never done. Snowmane's howe had the same message in Westron and in Rohirric, and it was one of the few Aragorn knew of.

There was simply no need for it, and while Éomer was indeed well educated, he would grow annoyed if Aragorn started putting what he considered to be pointless nonsense in his missives. If he replied at all, it would be a sharp retort and no useful information, so instead Aragorn had decided it was a good idea to make use of the last fine weather before winter set in full. Arwen had been delighted for the chance, putting her evenings to use with needle and thread. What it was, Aragorn did not know, but it was obviously meant to be a gift for Lothíriel.

So far the visit had been most pleasant, and he had found he had not even needed to ask Éomer, it was obvious he was in better health.

It was also equally obvious Firefoot still held out a hope for apples, for as Aragorn tended to Brego, the magnificent stallion had pestered him relentlessly.

He had never known another horse to act as Firefoot might. The magnificent war horse could act like the most mischievous colt, and be as terrifying as a charging oliphant. Before Aragorn had gone to see his own horse he had passed Firefoot's stall, and taken his time in greeting the horse. Scratching his forehead, stroking the soft nose and powerful neck he had found himself smiling as Firefoot nickered and pushed his nose into his shoulder.

Brego was only in the next stall, and had been dozing as he took the brushes to groom him. The whole time, Firefoot would push his head in over the low wall of the stall to pester him for attention. Pushing him when he was able to reach him, banging his hoof against the wall of the stall. He had even gone out of his own stall and into Brego's so that Aragorn had to lead him back time after time.

In the end, though he might have spent longer with the horse, he had retreated out here to enjoy his pipe.

Below him, the city was buzzing with life as he watched them. Children ran here and there, unhindered by the parents that might have put them to work if they had been fast enough. Three boys with crude wooden swords raced up the street, crying their charge against an enemy horde of thousands.

Laughing over their antics, one of the armour clad man of the Eored used the but of his spear to engage them in mock combat. Going as far as to pretend a mortal wound while the boys shrieked with laughter and joy.

Aragorn would take he knew the boys well, for suddenly he sprang up, grabbing one of them and threw him over his shoulder before he continued on his way with the other two trailing behind him.

Blowing a smoke ring and allowing himself to enjoy the peace and tranquillity Aragorn frowned as he heard the hoofbeats behind him. Looking over his shoulder he sighed. For without saddle or bridle Firefoot was making his own way up the hill to the hall.

Shaking his head and neighing in distaste over the smell of pipeweed the horse still pranced on the spot beneath him. Rearing up playfully, front hoofs beating the air as he tossed his head.

"Go back," Aragorn shook his own head. "I doubt your master shall be pleased you go about like this. Go back my friend."

Firefoot turned around, and for a moment Aragorn felt a surge of hope that the mighty grey would heed him, then Firefoot spun around again.

Coming to stand behind him the stallion pawed at him with one steel shod hoof, and though the action was most annoying Aragorn was impressed by the level of control he exhibited.

"Come, this is not where you should be," standing Aragorn nodded towards the stable. "Go back, my friend." He had no doubt that Firefoot understood him, and no illusion as of why he did not heed him. "Your master shan't be happy if I give in to you," he tried to explain. Éomer would indeed not, so he might as well let Firefoot know it was the young King who was the reason why he did not give him the apple he sought. "Later mayhap," he added, hoping to get in the stallion's good grace.

Retreating from the smell of smoke Firefoot still did not go back to the stable, instead he remained below him, whickering and rearing up on his hind legs a few feet as he danced about.

Knowing that the stallion was at least as stubborn as the man who rode him Aragorn sighed. There would be no peace to enjoy his pipe in. Tapping it against the stone to clear the bowl, and making sure there was nothing that could alight the dry grass he left the terrace. The doorwardens watched, but said not a word as he started for the stable, hoping the stallion would follow him there.

This Firefoot did, but as soon as Aragorn left, the big grey followed him once more.

"Firefoot, enough," he stopped and turned to face the horse, meeting his gaze eye to eye. "You shall not bully me to do your bidding," he stated firmly. "You know very well that Éomer shan't let me spoil you, there is no use in persisting!"

Neighing cheerfully Firefoot shoved a large nose in his shoulder, pushing him back.

"Enough!" Aragorn repeated firmly, though he was beginning to wonder if his efforts were in vain. He led the stallion into the stallion, into his stall, and exited himself, firmly shutting the gate behind him though he knew it was only a token resistance. Firefoot stayed in his stall due to training and loyalty, not because he was shut in.

Yet he allowed himself to hope, for during the rest of the day he saw naught of the stallion. It was not so strange that the horse had tried one last time to get more apples, but it would seem he had seen sense and since given up the idea.

Or so he hoped until the next day as he walked through the streets to hear a soft thudding of hoofs behind him. Thinking it a rider on his way he stepped aside, and the hoofbeats stopped. As he once more continued on his way, so did the horse behind him and he threw a glance over his shoulder.

There Firefoot stood in all his glory, the evening sun setting his grey coat alight, dust shimmering and glowing in the sunrays as he shook himself. He was a glorious creature Aragorn mused, and a royal pest at the same time.

"I think, your master might be cross if you are not where he might find you," he sighed. "Go back Firefoot. Even if I was minded to heed you, I have no apples on me."

Approaching him, Firefoot nudged him hard with his nose in his hip, setting the small purse he carried there to jangling. It would seem the horse knew that the coins were ample to buy an apple indeed.

"No, I will not," he shook his head, firmly. "Do as you please, but you will not sway me," so he started once more on his way. Many of the merchants in Edoras were still struggling as no one had much to spend. He had felt it was the perfect reason to find a gift for his wife. She would love the intricate knotwork in most Rohan designs.

They were nothing like the elven designs, but just as beautiful in their own way. Purchasing one would benefit the merchants and please his wife at the same time. He purchased a bracelet and necklace and sighed as he found that Firefoot was waiting for him when he exited the small shop again.

"You really must stop this," he sighed. "Your master shall think I am attempting to steal you. Do you wish to have him angry at me?" Sighing as Firefoot merely scraped a hoof on the ground. The horse gently butted him again and Aragorn sighed as he scratched him behind one ear. "We had best get you back to the stable. You are a menace when you wish to be, you know," he mused as he started on his way back up the hill.

Arriving at the stable he led Firefoot into his stall, Brego giving a happy wickering as his friend joined him once more. "Now stay here!" he stated firmly. Turning around to leave the stable he made his way outside, and dropped his head against a pillar with a satisfying thunk as he heard the light thudding of hoof beats behind him.

"Firefoot," the voice that spoke was soft though firm, authoritative while amused and as Aragorn straightened he noted that Firefoot cheerfully went back into his stall.

"Thank you," he breathed softly.

"I do not see why that was so hard," Éothain shrugged. "He's an amiable lad that one, at least when he is of a mind to," he added with a grin.

"He also seems to be of a mind that I shall give in to him if he is persistent enough," Aragorn mused as he hurried to leave the stable.

"If he is indeed determined, I should very well think he will," letting out a loud laugh Éothain slapped him on the shoulder before he continued on his way.

Sadly, Aragorn felt quite certain the large Rohir had a point. For only the next day he had barely left the halls of Meduseld before he found a large grey shadow after him. The big grey even stuck his head through the window of his chambers to greet him in the morning.

"Hello Firefoot," Arwen laughed lightly as she greeted the horse. "So delightful to see you this fine morn."

The horse nickered cheerfully, tossing his head as he met Aragorn's gaze.

"Firefoot, go back!" he tried to copy Éothain's tone, tried to sound as authoritative, and yet Firefoot seemed completely unaware of what he desiered.

"Estel, dear, are you not being rude?" Arwen mused. "He is only saying good morning."

"He has been pestering me for days now, hoping I shall give in and give him the apples he wishes from me," Aragorn sighed, scowling towards the window as he moved to do his morning ablutions and dress.

"And are you not about to?" Arwen queried with a light laugh.

"Aye," there was a note of despair in his voice.

"Husband, I love you, but I do not think you will win against him," Arwen laughed. "I should either give in with good grace, or beg Éomer for help if I were in your predicament."

"Éomer shall most likely find it highly amusing, and then scold me for allowing it to happen," Aragorn muttered.

"Aye, but of course he will," she chuckled. "Oh husband mine, just give him an apple, he is such a sweet dear."

"He is a war horse, I do not know if I would call him sweet. He is foul tempered and ornery," Aragorn stated firmly.

"You only say so for that he has the advantage over you," moving into their chambers Arwen selected a crisp juicy apple from a bowl of fruit on the table. Cutting it in four wedges to give them to the horse who took them gratefully before nuzzling her cheek in delight.

"If Éomer disapproves of that, I will not take the blame," Aragorn decided.

"Oh don't be silly," she laughed. "The reason he is cross with you is because you give him far too many. Not to mention that you give them when he misbehaves. Of course he will continue to do so then."

Looking at the horse who had thrust his head as far in through the window as he was able, Aragorn shook his head. "And you would say this is proper behaviour?"

"Well, you can not blame him for wishing you to continue as you started it," Arwen decided. Giving the horse one last stroke over the soft nose she moved away from the window. "Though you must please excuse me now," she gently told the horse. "I must be getting ready, and it would not do to dress before an open window."

Wickering softly, Firefoot nodded his head before withdrawing it and lumbering away from the window.

"Yet as I tell him to, he does nothing but ignore me…" sighing Aragorn closed the window. It would seem it was a hopeless situation. Unless he was able to come to an agreement with the horse, he would be forced to beg Éomer to help him.

For two more days, whenever he sought to enjoy a quiet pipe, or enjoy a meal, he found the soft thudding of steel shod hooves behind him. Intending to leave the Golden Hall he peered through the door, scanning the hill as it sloped downwards to the city. There were many riders walking to and fro, women with baskets coming one way or another. Most likely one had traded plums for apples, and some would be taking meat and bread to their men where they worked.

"What am I to think, when the king of Gondor sneaks around in the dark corners like a thief in the night?" the voice suddenly booming behind him caused him to jump, and he turned around to see Éomer there.

"If I am, it is but for the fact that your horse will not leave me be," he stated. "I have refused to give in to him, and yet he will not cease his efforts.

"I have warned you, many times," Éomer snorted. "He is a glutton that one, but he is good and loyal. I shan't mind a few bad habits too much for that which he gives me in return."

"He is a noble steed, though he is also relentless. I had not though he would still continue this," Aragorn shook his head. "Might you give me any advice?"

"Aye, next I tell you not to spoil him, do not spoil him…" laughing, Éomer slapped him on the shoulder as he strode out on the terrace and down the steps.

Sighing once more, Aragorn had to admit he wondered which course of action to take, if he should beg his friend for aid, or simply give in to the horse.

He pondered it through the day, feeling at nightfall that there was but one course of action open to him.

In the stable the next morn the magnificent grey stallion wickered cheerfully in his stall as the tall man approached him. A large juicy apple in his hand. At the sight of it, Firefoot danced about in his stall, finally thrusting his head over the low wall in a cheerful greeting that involved head butting his friend and giver of apples.

"Aye, that's a good lad," the warrior stated. "That's the way, now heed me, huh? I shall be glad to see you have another by nightfall if you do…" He sliced the apple into quarters and fed them to the stallion one by one while Firefoot crunched happily. A few drops of juice dripping down his chin as he closed his eyes in enjoyment.

"Aye, that's a good lad," tucking the dagger away his benefactor grinned. "And I think we shall keep this a secret between the two of us, do you not? There is no need to tell your master now, is there?"

Shaking his head as if in complete agreement Firefoot swallowed the last of the apple, nudging the man cheerfully as he turned to leave with a light laugh.

Firefoot remained where he was, but the next time he saw Aragorn come across the courtyard he pushed the door of his stall open, neighing loudly in greeting he trotted out across the yard to greet him.

"I thought we were past this," Aragorn shook his head ruefully. "What more must I do?"

The answer was simple, he had but to give in, and dropping his head in his hand he groaned as he knew it was just what he was about to do. Walking into the stable he chose an apple out of the barrel in the fodder room. With an air of defeat and despair he gave it to the horse who munched it happily.

While the horse crunched the apple, Éomer approached his friend. "You are despicable," he stated firmly, but without any heat.

"What have I done?" Éothain raised an eyebrow as he regarded his boyhood friend. Éomer might be king now, and it was many years since his mother would pull them apart by the ears when they fought each other, but they had been the best of friends for many years. Sometimes he thought those fights had been the best part of it, none other could challenge him like Éomer could back then, even if he had been small for his age for many years. First a good fight, then after his mother was through yelling at them, she'd sit them down with water and a bit of cider in it, hot bread from the oven and fresh butter.

"Do not think I did not see you before," Éomer snorted. "It's bad enough what he does," he nodded to where Aragorn had just admitted defeat and given the grey stallion an apple. "Nay, you have to encourage his bad behaviour. He would not have acted as he has unless you had given him apples for it. Pray tell me, why you see the need to behave so disgraceful, have you no respect for visiting royalties?"

"Oh, certainly I do," Éothain laughed. "I respect him as a man, and as a friend I see no reason to spare him. For that he is a King he is not mine and thus can not throw me into the dungeon. I rather think that is all the reason I need."

"Might be, but you are forgetting one thing," Éomer mused. "Should your mother find out about this, I doubt she shall be as lenient…."

"Aragorn would not stoop to such devious methods," Éothain frowned, then beheld the mischievous smile his friend wore. Also the direction he was walking in. "Éomer, you would not!" With fear in his voice he hurried to seek to catch up to his friend. "Éomer…..!"

A Temporary End... Please review, the Cricket is hungry...

Additional Author's note: Some of these stories might not fit into the Tolkien timeline, I apologise for this, I have not yet been able to procure an English copy, and therefor there has been things I was unaware of while writing. Some I've changed, some I've left as I liked them.
Most of the Rohirric I use, is, as I believe Tolkien himself used, Old English. Though some is modern Swedish, as, frighteningly enough, these are quite often the same. In order to give the story a more pleasant flow for the reader, I have opted not to use a glossary at the end, rather, I try to make the meaning very clear in the story.