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 57

His hand clenched in the dark mane of his grey stallion Éomer was biting his cheek so hard he tasted blood. Well aware of what his uncle said of his temper, and that this was no time to lose it. Though he could not recall having ever struggled so much before, he did so now, for he would not shame his uncle.

Even so it was all he could do not to turn around and snap at the men who seemed to find such amusement in mocking him. Their voices might be hushed, but he could hear them well enough. Had it been in Rohan, he would long since have given in to his anger and challenged them, if he thought he could win or not. He would not have taken such insults.

As an official delegate of Rohan to Gondor, he could not do any such thing and was therefore forced to endure the snide remarks. He was well aware that he had not yet reached his full height, and while Firefoot was unlikely to grow taller, he still had the lankiness of a young horse about him. It was clear he was not yet fully mature, a little skittish at times, decidedly stubborn at other times.

As they entered the city of Minas Tirith, the young stallion had been uneasy in the confines of the stone walls, and he had danced and sidestepped. Tossing his head and shying back as sound echoed in the tunnels, things he was not used to.

At one point he had backed away from the tunnel as some child ran though it with a toy, afore Éomer once more regained control he had scraped his knee on the stone wall, and Firefoot had snapped at the horse next to him. Had it been Brego, it would not have mattered much, for Brego was older and more experienced and knew well to put the young stallion in his place without causing a fuss.

Instead the horse belonged to Boromir, son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor. Though the heir of the Stewards chair had merely laughed as he brought his own mare under control, it had not stopped the men behind them, the detail that Denethor had sent out to meet the envoy from Rohan, to snigger and snicker.

Aye, they were having a great laugh at his expense and it made him furious. Théodred had no doubt noted his gritted jaw and his white knuckled grip on the reins, shaking his head as he rode on the other side of Boromir.

"That beast is going to be one to reckon with in another few years I wager," Boromir noted with an easy smile. "I have rarely seen such a magnificent creature."

"He has Meara blood in him," noting Éomer's locked jaw and thinking it unlikely he was able to speak shortly, Théodred answered with a soft sigh. In truth, having overheard a few hushed though snide remarks he was impressed his much hot headed cousin had yet managed to rein in his temper. Had they been in Rohan still, and he had been forced to endure it from the Rohirrim, he was certain his cousin would have challenged them one and all. "He is a horse allowed only to the royalty, as the blood of the Meara is running thinner in our herds." The last was meant as a point to the men behind him, though he feared it was in vain.

"Aye, though I can not tell as you do, I know an exceptionally fine horse when I see him," Boromir nodded. "He does you credit Éomer."

"He is not yet fully trained," Éomer managed to unlock his jaw in order to speak, noting absentmindedly how his jaw ached from the strain. "I would not have taken him yet on such a long journey, but I have no other horse to use."

"Father gave him the use of his old war horse, until Firefoot was ready," Théodred explained. "A very fine and honourable horse who helped win us many battles. Alas, he is now far too old for a journey such as this, and while green, Firefoot is well trained."

"I would wager he is also very fast," Boromir noted. "Perhaps later, while your cousin is locked in a battle of words with my father, you will honour me with a display of his skills?"

"If you wish," feeling his cheeks heat at the sound of a snicker behind him, as Firefoot sidestepped and danced briefly on the spot at a deep gutter with foul water flowing through it.

Boromir throwing a glance over his shoulder frowned. "Pay them no heed, my friend. They know not horses as do you."

"I am aware," Éomer bit off the word sharply and ducked his head. He found it increasingly hard to keep his temper in check.

"Éomer," Boromir's voice dropped so they would not be overheard, and the seriousness in his tone caused the young Rohir to look at him and meet his gaze. "Do not let yourself feel shame or aggravation. The mightiest warrior can be defeated if he allows himself to be manipulated thus."

"I am aware," biting the inside of his cheek and feeling the coppery tang of blood running over his tongue he struggled to keep his head up and his tone civil. Absently rubbing his arm, not so long ago broken because he had indeed allowed himself to be played such, a fact of which he knew Boromir was very well aware. The blonde Gondorian had ever only been kind to him. He admired his skill and valour as a warrior, as much as he admired Théodred. Though Boromir oft seemed jovial and unconcerned about such matters as politics, he knew better. He was shrewed and ruthless when he wished to be.

Where the Lord Denethor had always made him feel wanting and like a lesser man. So had never Boromir done. He never forgot his youth and his lack of experience, for Boromir was older and well versed in battle of which he yet knew little. He looked up to Boromir as the warrior had never made him feel that this was a fault. Rather he had appreciated the skills he did have, and assured him he had the potential to learn the rest. He had praised his horsemanship and his skill with the sword, even after his mistake, the warrior had been nothing but kind.

Now he shook his head, as if saddened. "Théodred, what have you done with him? I had high hopes of escapades and daring do, instead I am met by this sullen creature…"

"The fools behind you are to be blamed for the sullen attitude," Théodred snorted and Éomer was not quite able to bite back a squeak of indignation. "As for escapades, you had best not plan anything more serious than to sneak him an ale. Father near did not let me take him with me. If I return him in less than pristine condition, it shall be my hide, and yours if you put him up to it."

"That is not fair, it was my mistake," Éomer felt his cheeks heat once more. Angrily he wiped at his mouth, specks of bloody saliva staining the back of his hand before he wiped it on his breeches.

"Your only crime was to be young and naíve," leaning over Boromir ruffled his hair, and at his second cry of indignation in as many minutes, Firefoot snapped at Boromir who simply laughed. "We shall find something to amuse ourselves with, I am certain."

Glancing at his cousin, Éomer noted how he shook his head in defeat. He had no doubt Boromir would find something to suggest, at the very least he would wish to see what Firefoot really could do, and that was enough to draw a reluctant smile from him. "He needs exercise," he stated. "He is not used yet to being forced to remain in the stable to wait. He is well trained, but he is young and needs to be allowed to use his energy."

"Not unlike a certain young man," Boromir laughed. "A race I think, might not be a bad idea. Certainly, you do not think that too reckless, Théodred?"

"T'would depend on where you thought to race," the Rohir stated dryly. "For Éomer will go wherever man or horse can go, and Firefoot will gladly go wherever they can not."

"We shall only be on the fields then," Boromir decided. "Plenty enough space for a good race, and no fear of hidden dangers. Shall that suit you?"

"Aye," Théodred agreed. "That will suit me fine."

They dismounted in the great stable yard, leading the horses inside. Firefoot objecting briefly, but once he recognized the stable, be it of stone, as a place where one got oats he entered.

"Have I your leave to approach?" Éomer was grooming the horse when Boromir approached. Making certain that he was out of reach for the vicious teeth. He still held up an apple to show his intention.

"Firefoot," Éomer called the stallion's attention by tapping him on the knee. "Frẽond," he stated softly. "Boromir is a friend, he may approach you at all times, to feed you and care for you."

"It never ceases to amaze me, how you may command your horses so," Boromir held out the apple and Firefoot took it, his ears swivelling as he regarded the Gondorian. Satisfied, he dug his nose into his neck, drawing a startled gasp from the man who for a moment feared the horse would bite him.

"He is only seeking to ascertain he will know you," Éomer brushed it off. "You have leave to approach him now, if I am here or not. He knows this is not something I grant lightly."

"As you should not," Boromir agreed. "What say you we have our race tomorrow on the morn? He should be well rested then I think."

"Aye," Éomer nodded, that he was looking forward to.

"Good, now I have to find a very unpleasant task for a few fools," the warrior stated. "Mayhap the dung heap needs emptying, that might teach them to show proper respect? What think you, my friend?"

"Do you not need an escort for a race such?" Éomer frowned. "Firefoot only acted as he did as he is unused to all this stone. Out on the plains and knowing he'll get to run, he shall behave quite differently."

"You my little friend, are very shrewed," Boromir laughed. "Aye, indeed I think an escort would be in order. After all, I will be in the company of Royalty, it would not do to take chances. I'll see to it that it is the same men, and we shall see how loud they laugh then."

As it turned out, not loud at all, Éomer grinned as he watched the men striving to catch up. Boromir's magnificent horse had not done too badly, but was still no match for Firefoot. Well rested, and delighted for the chance to run he had streaked across the field like a wild fire. Éomer had hunched down, distributing his weight to make it all that much easier for the horse and his yet somewhat small frame was barely noticed by the stallion.

Beaming the blonde Rohir waved cheerfully to the men as they came slowly after them. "Now you may set them to empty the dung heap," he told Boromir, who let out a roaring laughter. Slapping the young Rohir so hard on the back he nearly fell off his horse.

"I like the way you think my friend," Boromir laughed. "I like the way you think…!"

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.