For Author's Note and Disclaimer, see chapter 1. Additional, This chapter does not fit in the Tolkien Time Line, I was unaware of this when I wrote it, and as I really liked it, I chose to keep it. I therefore beg, forgive me the indulgence.

Chapter 7

Allowing Brego free reins Aragorn relaxed noticeably to be away from the stifling capital. It wasn't so much Minas Tirith that bothered him as it was the self important nobles and their need to squabble and argue about every single matter. Escaping them was not as easy as he would have wished it to be. As the King, he needed to be in control of it all, and it was one reason why he had never desired the crown. He had been a ranger, a free life, and even when he was known as Thorongil it had been different. He remembered Boromir and Faramir when they were only small children, the younger of the two at play wearing the uniform of the citadel. It had been love that had Denethor seen it made for his son, no matter how that love had been poisoned by Sauron.

Pippin had been given that uniform then, and it had suited him well, though he would have wished to spare him the hardship.

He had been in Rohan as well back then, serving under Théoden's father, Thengal, and he remembered two other boys. Théodred, the son of Théoden was but a child at the time and Aragorn had seen his courage and valour. Théoden's sister had been staying in Meduseld at the time as she was weakened by the birth of her first son, and her husband, Éomund rode with Thengel and Théoden. He could recall the blonde scrap of a boy that followed his cousin around at the heels. A toddler dragging a wooden sword on the ground where it hung from his belt. Théodred's old toy, belt looped twice around his too narrow waist as he clutched a toy horse in one grimy hand. Carved for him by Thengel's own hand. Not two winters old the child still caught Aragorn's attention, serious minded and fearless. He'd ride before Théodred in the saddle, leaping from the steps leading up to the great hall in play battle.

Aragorn had not yet told Éomer, though the young king knew he had been in Rohan just as Éowyn did. He was not certain if Éomer had any memory of him at all from that time. He would rather spare him painfully memories if he could, and though he knew the toddler had been happy there, he knew he would not have been able to enjoy his childhood for much longer than so. Two children had worn on Theodwyn's health and Éomer had been a very active boy full of life. He had cried when they were to leave Edoras, and Thengel in an attempt to distract the child with a trinket had gifted him a blunt dagger in lieu of a sword he was much too small for. The child upon receiving it had fallen to his knees, and stumbling over the words he had only ever before heard a few times he repeated the oath the riders of Rohan had given their King. There was never any doubt in Aragorn's mind that the tiny child had meant it in his heart. Had Orcs come to the gate of Edoras at the time, they would have been met by a tiny blond thunderstorm wielding a blunt dagger, and knowing how fierce that child had been, Aragorn would not have been surprised if he had at the very least managed to injure a couple of them.

That was perhaps though not what a young King, still somewhat insecure in his role wanted to be reminded of. That he had been tearing across the grass with a wooden sword and a bent pot lid as he fought an invisible horde of Orcs until he received a bloody nose from tripping over his own sword.

No, there might be a time to remind him of those days, but it was not now. Éomer though he had never expected to sit on the throne was in Aragorn's mind a great king. He was fair but firm, he placed the needs of his people before all else, but he knew very little of politics and he had been born for the free hills and the wind.

It was not a sense of duty alone that had Aragorn often seeking out his company if he was able. It was a kinship he had come to share with a friend and an equal. Faramir was a very dear friend, and closer, but Éomer understood the burden of the crown in a way that Faramir never could. His steward was often also more serious and serene while Éomer away from the great hall was more careless in his nature.

While as kings they were both supposed to have escorts, the young Horse Lord often refused, and Aragorn when claiming his company was better able to do so himself. Despite one or two misshapes where circumstances had turned against them, he still felt that two warrior trained would not need an escort. Without crowns and royal robes it would be harder for anyone to mark them as kings. Neither cared overly much about finery so their clothes were simple though well made. Neither one usually wore armour though both had their swords and Éomer his vambraces.

For their business in Ithilien Aragorn had arranged to meet up with his friend. No more instructions were needed but that they would meet by the river as it passed through the valley. Éomer who would get there first knew well the place. Sheltered by a glade of trees with a cool stream carrying fresh water and an abundance of fish. He therefore imagined that Éomer would not be horribly put out that he had been delayed a full day before his own departure.

He caught the scent of woodsmoke and fish as he neared and hoped there would be enough for him as well. He found it to be somewhat amusing that out of the two siblings the warrior was the one who could cook while he would avoid Éowyn's food when at all possible. There had been many a time when it was harder, for he would not hurt her feelings. A difficulty that the young king did not share, as he thought nothing about speaking his mind concerning his sister's cooking. Éomer did not care if his words angered her, nor about having her fury turned upon himself. She had a strong arm, and a good aim, and Aragorn wondered at times if there would not come a time when Éomer did regret evoking his sisters anger.

At this moment in time however the fragrance made his mouth water as he neared the camp, and instantly reined in his horse who objected to the brusque action with a low whine. On the riverbank sat a figure with a fishing pole, tossing his head as he gazed out over the gently lapping river.

It was not Éomer however who watched the bobbing cork in the water, no the young king was over by the fire, sprinkling what Aragorn took for a pinch of salt on the slowly roasting fish.

"Hail the camp," gazing once more to the riverbank in utter confusing Aragorn kicked Brego into moving again as he moved closer, slipping down from the saddle.

"Welcome Brother," smiling Éomer grasped him in a strong grip around the forearm as warriors were want to do. "I am hoping we should have more to eat in but a moment, fishing has been plentiful though I did not know when you would arrive."

"Neither did I, it seems all the lords are intent on calling crisis whenever I wish to leave the city," he sighed as he unsaddled Brego, unable to keep his eyes from straying to the river. The horse seated there on his haunches, Éomer's magnificent stallion, had a fishing pole…..

"Something amiss?" Éomer followed his gaze but seemed to find nothing wrong with the grey horse seemingly holding on to a makeshift fishing pole.

"I've known your horse to do many a thing I did not know a horse could or would do, but tell me my friend, how does he bait the hook?" Aragorn shook his head, causing Éomer to break out into a laugh.

"He's merely watching the line, he will make me do most of the work yet," he grinned.

Looking closer, Aragorn could see the pole was jammed into the ground by Firefoot's hooves, and he was indeed only watching the cork. As it sank for a second, the horse gave a whiney and Éomer strolled over, taking the pole and reeling in the fish. Laying the pole down on the ground he grasped what Aragorn called a mighty fine fish of a fair size and worked the hook out of its mouth. He was about to break the neck when Firefoot gave him a hard shove. Unbalanced Éomer lost his hold of the fish as he strove to keep from falling into the water.

Aragorn watched as the fish fell back into the water with a splash, Éomer just barely able to keep himself from doing the same by taking a step into the water. Turning around he scowled angrily at his horse.

"It would seem he either does not care for fishing, or is displeased with you," Aragorn noted. Firefoot had to be the horse with the most personality he had ever known. While the most loyal beast, he also if the mood struck him could give Éomer quite a challenge to handle.

"He does not like my method of fishing, and I do not care for the mess he makes when fishing his own way," Éomer gave the horse a sour look as he stepped back up onto the bank. "T'was my last worm, and he knows it," he mused as he untied the line and empty hook from the pole. "Fine, do as you want," he told the horse, gesturing to the water. Firefoot got to his feet with a small whiney and strode into the water. Standing in the shallows with one hoof raised as Éomer returned the line to a small pouch in his pack.

As Aragorn removed the saddle and bridle from Brego he saw Firefoot splash in the water several times, curious as to what he was doing, until the horse gave another whiney.

Bracing the spit he had taken from the fire over a rock Éomer strode over to his horse, wading into the water and pulling out a fish with a badly crushed head. It was still suffering spasms, though it did offer an answer to Aragorn's question. At least in as much as how the horse would fish. There did indeed seem to be nothing a Rohan horse could not do, and he allowed himself to wonder idly for a moment if one could be sent to the shop for more pipe weed?

Éomer gave the fish a distasteful look as he took in the crushed head and sighed, getting his knife to clean it out just the same. "I think sometimes he insists on his own way only to give me more work," he complained, though there was no venom in his voice as he gave his horse a fond scowl. Attempting to cut away some more badly damaged pieces of flesh from the fish.

"Your horse is truly magnificent, horse master…" Aragorn mused. "And I would be glad to take over that duty, as it would seem I am the guest in your camp."

"Tis almost done," Éomer shrugged as he fixed the fish to the spit and placed it back over the glowing coals. "Though if you have a bowl with you, we might put it to use for I have none."

"Aye, I think I can be of service in that regard," he had known that Éomer would not bring anything that was not absolutely needed, and for the Rohan plates and bowls tended to be optional. Useful enough when you had them, but the young king would be just as minded to eat the fish off the spit with naught but his knife and fingers. A goblet for ale was of more use to him than a bowl or pot for the food. Unfairly for their free way of living many of the Gondorian nobles would think the Rohirrim no better than heathens and peasants. When it was nothing more than their desire to be able to travel far and fast. Never had any mounted troops of Gondor been able to outmatch those riders of Rohan. Be it on the open plains or in the mountains, the Rohir would ride where those of Gondor could not. Their skill and their habit of traveling light played equal parts in this Aragorn felt. He sometimes wondered if not too many of the noble born had wanted their offsprings in the cavalry, and insisted they always be given soft beds when they were there.

His own pack held not only plate and bowl, but spare tunic and leggings as well as some healing herbs and a pot for boiling water. Lembas bread, nuts and dried meat, as well as some cheese. He had even brought some sweet oatmeal biscuits from the palace kitchen and knew that while the Rohir would shake his head at packing such a pointless food item, it would not hinder the young man from devouring his fair share of them.

Firefoot gave a loud whiny to let them know that another fish had been most efficiently killed and Éomer went to retrieve it while Aragorn searched through his saddlebag for a small wineskin. While he did not require such comforts he was glad enough to take them when he was able, and they were not straying out into the wild. There would be plenty villages where anything eaten could be replenished should they desire so.

Taking the fish that was well done and gave a most delicious fragrance he laid it on the plate while Éomer cleaned out Firefoot's latest kill, sighing as he cut away a piece of the tail as well as the head.

"He makes a most frightful mess out of it, but it seems to please him to do so," he mused as he casts the entrails as well as the discarded pices back into the water where other fish would devour them. Digging into his small pack he found an apple that he cut in half, giving the two horses each their share.

"Your noble steed is indeed a marvellous creature..." Aragorn mused. He was sure he had never seen a horse do such a task before, and he doubted he would have the fortune to ever see it again. He had a feeling that even in Rohan, Firefoot was a rarity. Though he was of the race of the Mearas, as had Shadowfax been. Idly he wondered if there was some feat or trick that Brego might have been able to perform for his first master, Théodred, that Éomer had not made him aware of. It was possible that Aragorn, being but a poor substitute was not entitled to all that Brego was capable of.

Shaking his head and beholding the scene of Firefoot and Brego idly playing in the shallow water he went to his pack. Èomer was roasting the fish so he prepared the bowl and the plate, taking out the wine and the oatmeal biscuits that would go well with the meal.

After they had eaten he was content to lie back on his cloak with his pipe in hand, enjoying the warm afternoon. His companion who cared nothing for sitting idle and even less for pipe smoke had pulled a dagger from his boot and was sharpening the blade with a whetstone. Looking closer at it Aragorn was amused to note he recognized the weapon. The hilt was small for Éomer's hand, though Aragorn remembered when he had used both to hold it, the horse head by the blade and the intricate carving on the handle he remembered having seen before. It had once been made as a piece to compliment the King's sword, though always meant as a tool more than a weapon. A serviceable blade for the king to use on his supper, and the king had given it to a small toddler as a token. Indeed it would seem Éomer still had the blade his grandfather had given him, and it pleased Aragorn to see as he sent a smoke ring through the branches over their heads.

Maybe Éomer did not remember the time he had been given the blade, but surely if he still had it he remembered enough, he remembered the grandfather who had doted on his grandson….

A Temporary End

Thank you all who's read and reviewed, the Cricket is thrilled...

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.