For Author's Note and Disclaimer, See chapter 1. Also, this chapter does not fit into the Tolkien timeline. I was unaware of this when I wrote it, and I liked it enough that I chose to leave it as it was. Therefor I beg, forgive me this indulgence.

Chapter 25

Tapping his pipe against a pillar to empty the last dredge out of the bowl Strider slipped it into his pocket. While he had travelled almost over all of Middle Earth there were some places where he felt more at home than others. Aside from Rivendell that was home, he truly enjoyed being in Edoras. The city of the horse lords, the Rohirrim. Gondor had a grace and beauty, but Edoras had a friendlier air about it. Though times were dark and dire the people of Rohan seemed unwilling to give in to their fear. The children played in the streets, some were sons of peasants and some were sons of nobles and only few of the parents cared to make the distinction.

Thengel King, knew him and whom he truly was, but as he was mostly passing through he had simply been welcomed into the hall. It had been a surprise to find that the king's daughter was there. Her husband, Éomound was away with his Eored and would be for several more months. They were guarding one of the passes into the mountains and the lady Theodwyn, was frail of health. Therefore she had taken her boisterous son with her to Edoras where she could turn his care over to her father and brother as she rested.

Thengel King's oldest grandson was thirteen summers of age, growing up into a fine young man who was serious when need be, and a wild young boy whenever he was allowed. He rode well, had a strong sword arm and a pleasant disposition. Théodred would do his father proud, and his grandfather gladly boosted with the boy's skill.

The son of Thengel's daughter was still not quite three summers and would toddle around after his older cousin who allowed it with fond indulgence. Théodred cared much for his young cousin and Éomer was absolutely fearless. Wanting to do everything that his cousin did, and he cared not for limitations of size or age. With a shriek of laughter the tiny child would race down the steps of Meduseld when he spotted his cousin, he would dash to where his cousin was riding until Théodred lifted him to sit before him in the saddle. Then the child would calm, already learning the skill of riding and the handling of horses he would prove himself most serious as he gripped reins in tiny hands.

After he dismounted to lead the horse into the stable Théodred would let the child ride the horse on his own into the stable and into the stall where seated on his back, Éomer would help him groom the powerful horse.

Strider had to admit he enjoyed watching the cousins tend to the horses for standing on the floor, Éomer was barely able to reach the top of the war horses legs, and yet he cared nothing for the risk of being trampled. He would even stand under the horse to brush the belly with a giggle until Théodred shook his head with a sigh and pulled him out. Nay, it was safer for the child to sit on the back, and he would do so with Thengel's mighty stallion as well.

As he had only just watched Théodred at sword practice, and noted his mother in the golden hall with her embroidery Strider had wondered where the babe was. His mother was much too weary to worry about the child all of the time, and as the sentries would not let the child leave Edoras he was allowed to run free as he pleased.

Walking into the stable Strider knew there was a fair chance of finding the boy in there, and indeed as he walked past several stalls he found him. Éomer enjoyed to climb the wall of the stall so that he could pet or brush the horse, and though a mighty war horse that could kill and trample orcs, the stallion seemed willing to indulge the child. Possibly it sensed that it was but a babe that wanted it no harm, or it was that Strider had noted that for one so small, Éomer had some skill with the horses already. Certainly he tried his best to handle them with care and respect, if his small hands sometimes were clumsy and his reach too short. The mighty creature could have swatted the little one away with no more care than had he been a fly, but Éomer while wild did indeed know to treat the horses with respect.

The brush lay on the straw in the stall where it had no doubt slipped from a hand really too small to hold it, and the child in question had curled up on the broad back. While he had no doubt been grooming the horse when he climbed there, without the brush the babe had curled himself up on the back of the horse, and promptly fallen asleep. He lay there, while the horse stood perfectly still least the child fell from his back. Head pillowed on the neck, one hand wrapped in the mane the little one was breathing softly, blonde hair spilling over the white mane.

At least he was safe where he was, in fact, Strider did not dare to step into the stall to remove him. The horse was protective of the child, and though under any normal circumstances Strider was allowed to approach the creature, he would not be allowed to do so now and he knew it. The stallion was a mighty horse, it had slain many foul creatures on his own with the steel shod hooves and Strider knew it well. He had seen him in action and knew not to underestimate a war horse of Rohan.

Éomer could not have been safer than he was then, though Strider knew well that most Gondorians would have been horrified to see a child so small alone with a horse so powerful. Aye, the child was fearless he mused as he stuffed his pipe again for want of something to do. He would not light it in the stable, but there was something of peace over the scene and he wished to enjoy it a moment longer.

They were heading for darker times and he knew it, in Gondor the Steward raged and the son of his son, Boromir no older than Théodred was also trained for war. His younger brother Faramir, walked around the citadel in the uniform of the citadel guard, as much in play as in preparation for a life of soldering.

Théodred already rode on patrols though only ones where the danger was believed to be very low, to teach him of the life of the Eored. The skills he needed to know to survive in the wild, to find food and shelter where others believed there to be none.

This little one still had no real knowledge of the dangers he would like as not have to face as he grew older. The wooden sword that lay outside the stall was near as tall as the child that dragged it with him was. It had been Théodred's when he was young, and was finely carved and well worn with much battle damage. Dents aplenty in the blade, and blood stains in places where play battles had been fought with conviction. Upon arriving at Edoras it had been passed to Éomer, though the belt it hung on was wrapped twice around the thin waist, and even then it sometimes slipped off his hips to trip him.

He had been told he must not wear it when he was with the horses, and though most thoughts seemed to leave him as quickly as they came, that had stuck with the child who obeyed the rule. The tunic was cut of fine cloth, embroidered with horses if one was able to remove enough dust to see it. The leggings of linen torn at the knees in spite of a mother's attempt to mend them. It seemed Éomer was twice as fast to tear them, as his mother was with her needle.

Likewise her futile effort to keep his hair neatly braided out of his face never lasted long and now tangled tresses hung where the braid had come undone.

Just an hour earlier he had been tearing across the stable yard, fighting a whole army of invisible orcs though he knew not what they truly looked like. Cutting off all three heads of one with one mighty swing of the sword, that sent the boy himself to the ground as the too large weapon caused him to overbalance.

Not one to be deterred he got back up to his feet, cut off the tail of one, and stomped on it, and Strider had laughed softly under his breath as he watched him. Soon enough he would know what it was to face one of the foul creatures, until then it gave him hope to think that there might indeed be lighter times to come again at some point.

There were, for indeed Aragorn lived to see when the darkness was finally vanquished and thought the cost was heavy, the reward was great. He mourned what they had lost, for indeed it was a great loss. Boromir, son of Denethor, who himself was lost to madness though he at heart only sought to protect his people.

Théoden King, who survived the treachery of Saruman and Grima Wormtongue only to then fall prey to the witchking. Théodred, his son who would have been king after his father, but passed even before him. Mortally wounded in an ambush, passing with his cousins by his side as his father at the time barely even knew his name under Grima's manipulation.

The wild, rambunctious untamed boy that Aragorn had once known for a short time Edoras now sat on the throne of Rohan. He had grown, and learned to tempter his rage with patience. A formidable warrior who had grown his whole life learning to wield a sword was now a man expected to find new ways of peace.

He was proving to be a good fair king, loved by his people as he truly served them with all he had. Éomer was not one to fall pray to power, he used it when he had to, but he did not let the desire for it rule anything he did.

His stubbornness and rock hard determination had served him well for once his mind was made up he could not be swayed. Still as fearless as he had been as a child the people would never forget how their King faced down a charging Oliphant and took two of the giganormous beasts down with one thrown spear….

His grey stallion was now just as legendary, Firefoot, and no horse could be better trained. The tiny child, smaller than even many others of the same age had grown to be a true lord of the horses, more skilled than most in training them and getting them to do his bidding. Firefoot, was a horse like no other Aragorn had ever known, and indeed he believed that it was as much due to Éomer and his ways as it was to the lineage he came from. Firefoot was of the Mearas, as true as the line could be these days and he had been gifted to a young boy by Théoden King as a still unborn colt.

Éomer had trained the horse to be a true warhorse and the stallion had proven his worth an immeasurable number of times since then. Nay, no matter how long a life he was granted Aragorn did not think he would ever see a horse such as he again. Firefoot was as stubbornly wilful as his master. he suffered no other than his master to ride him. He could adapt his training to suit the situation he found himself, in, and Éomer did indeed seem to find himself as home on his back as he ever did in the Golden Hall.

He and Faramir had left the trail to shoot some quail with their bows, and upon returning Faramir had shaken his head when he saw the king of Rohan. Since he carried no bow, and had deemed it unlikely the quail would wish to engage in a sword fight, he had volunteered to find a suitable place to eat. A proposition that had sounded well enough to both Aragorn and Faramir they had left him to it, and now beheld his choice. The ground was rocky and muddy, and their friend was a new father who loved his son like nothing else even if the infant did not always allow for much rest at night. Apparently this had not in any way hindered the man from managing a short respite as he awaited his friends return with their lunch. With no place to comfortably stretch out on the ground, he had still unsaddled his mount and laid the saddle on a rock.

Without it, he had stretched out on his back on the top of his horse, one arm curled behind his head over the neck of the horse, one long leg hanging over the side and one stretched over the grey's rump there was no way to mistake the deep even breaths as anything but sleep.

Firefoot seemed to be nothing less than perfectly content as his master first had taken the care to gather an armful of the long grass growing here and there, no doubt, judging one patch with the sharp cut, he had done so with his sword… Battlefriend the blade was called, Gúthwinë in his native tongue. It would appear it was also a friend of the Mearas in that it did not mind to be put to the occasional use other than slaying orcs. Just as he had left the wooden blade outside the stall as a child, he had now propped the blade against his saddle, but Aragorn would not judge him defenceless for it. He was not at all as helpless as he might appear for Firefoot's ears were turning to listen to their surroundings. The arm that seemed to hang lazily by his side would not have far to go to grasp the sword, and should Firefoot give warning, Éomer would be awake and rolling off his back in one moment Aragorn knew. The mighty stallion bared his teeth for a moment as they approached, mostly just to prove that they were there at his suffering Aragorn would guess as he dismounted Brego.

Faramir, who though married to a Rohirric woman had not seen this before was rubbing his chin with a bemused smile. "I feel I should not be surprised, but grateful that he first saw to the fire," he decided as he took in the small fire built in a firepit, an armful of dry branches beside it for firewood. "T'is not the best camp, but the terrain is much similar for many miles and it shall certainly suffice."

"Aye," Aragorn nodded his agreement. "I would wager our friend chose it because we're more sheltered by the wind here, and there is easy access to the creek from the bank," it sloped gently down into the water, making it easy for the horses to drink.

"Our Rohirric friend do have a tendency to base his choice on that of his horse's needs," Faramir agreed. "And the only disadvantage with this spot, does indeed not seem to be bothering him much, though that is something I have never seen before…" he shook his head again, preparing a slender sapling to use for a spit to roast the birds. "I wonder he does not fall off, for I am certain I would if I tried it." A soft snore told him that his brother by law was as of yet unaware of their presence.

"If I told you for how long he has been wont to do the same thing, I do not know if you would believe my words," Aragorn offered a smile. "Though I will tell you that this is not the first time I behold such a sight."

"I have heard Gondorian cavalry boost they could sleep in the saddle, at full gallop," Faramir shook his head. "My brother at the time assured me it was a pure boost and without truth. I have since heard my beloved wife make the same claim on behalf of the Rohirrim, and that I think I may believe."

"I think you would be wise to do so," Aragorn agreed. "Or no doubt our friend here would be glad to give us proof." He reached forward and put a hand on the booted ankle, giving it a light shake. "Éomer, we have the game, what say you give us a hand in preparing it?"

In one fluid movement Éomer came awake and heaved himself into sitting on the back of his stallion. One leg still lazily dangling off the side, giving his position no more thought than he would had he been sitting on a chair. Proving that while the joy of fatherhood may have left him tired and fatigued, it had no way dulled his reflexes. Without a thought he took them in and nodded to the game they carried. "I will be glad to cook it, if you pluck it, for there your skill surpasses mine."

"I think I can accommodate you there," taking a seat on a rock Aragorn started plucking the birds, swiftly pulling the feathers from the skin while Éomer slid off the back of his horse, both rider and beast stretching before Éomer went to put more fuel on the fire. Driving forked saplings in the ground on each side of the fire to lay a spit over. Faramir searched in his pack and found a small wooden box, divided in small compartments when the lid lifted. Salt, and dried herbs to season the food he tossed it to his friend who deftly caught it.

Opening the lid Éomer sniffed a pinch of the herbs and gave a soft grunt of contentment. In the meantime Faramir took to unsaddling his and Aragorn's horses so that they to would be able to enjoy their respite better. Glad that when it came to the preparation of food, the King of Rohan by far surpassed the skill of his sister. He never used much of the spices available to him, but was content with a light dusting. Unlike Éowyn's food that was at best not lethal, the young rider's food was generally fairly pleasant to eat.

Unless one should happen to have a couple of Hobbits along, then Faramir generally felt that he was glad to catch the food if Éomer cooked it. He had thought it odd once, that the male sibling was so much better than the female, then decided that depending on how one looked at it, it was not so strange after all. For truly, if all of the Rohirrim were as bad as Éowyn, there would have been no need for the orcs, they would have laid waste to themselves long before that…

He was not going to put this thought forward to Éowyn though, he did have some wish to survive…which did not mean he did not enjoy a little bantering at times, taking the bowl out of his saddlebag he turned to where Éomer was now fixing the birds to the spit. "Do you wish me to set you a seat here with us, or would you rather eat seated on your steed?"

Pausing in his task, Éomer's eyes narrowed for a moment as if in anger, hefting the spit as if he was also judging its balance for throwing. It was enough to cause Faramir to swallow for he knew that should Éomer seek physical retaliation, he would be hard pressed to hold his ground against the younger man. Then the Rohir laughed, slapping him so hard on the back in mirth that the Steward of Gondor nearly lost his balance and fell in the fire. Catching himself he shook his head. It was no more than he should have expected, angered or amused, the Rohirric were likely to leave you bruised.

"I should demand your service, Steward, from your liege, so that you might ride with us long enough to learn to properly ride," Éomer grinned. "What say you Aragorn, would you consent to lending me your Steward?"

"Knowing I would have him returned nearly as skilled as one of your Eored, I might be willing to consider it," Aragorn mused as he found his pipe in his bag. "But you forget my lord, that there is one who holds a higher claim on him than do I. If you want him, it is not I you shall have to barter with, but your own sister…"

"Aye, I do not think I am willing to do that," Éomer shook his head. "Nay, I value my hide too much for such. I think however, that I should put it to my sister that she has failed horribly in her appointed task as your wedded wife, young Steward, you have yet to ride a horse worthy of the man wedded to a shieldmaiden of Rohan."

"I think that my beloved wife declared I rode the best horse she felt I was able to handle," Faramir mused. He was not affronted for the way Éomer, with less years than himself behind him referred to him as young. It was Éomer's way to seek to embarrass him at times, and he seemed as content if he succeeded or not. "And regardless of what you do, my lord, I do not think I could ever match your skill. For should I attempt to sleep in the saddle, as apparently do you, I am certain I should find myself awakening in the dust behind my steed."

"You forget Faramir, how many more years he has trained for that very task," Aragorn smiled softly to himself as he blew a soft ring of smoke from his pipe. Once more thinking back to the tiny blonde child that was so at ease he would nap on a horse of war. Éomer, sensing there was something he was not divulging frowned, then turned back to his task with a shrug. He felt no concern over what it might be as he was by far more interested in their meal.

Faramir however met Aragorn's eye, and smiled softly at the unspoken promise of being told the story later.

He found he was looking forward to the prospect.

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.