'Where now the horse and the rider?'
Prequel to 'Rain on the Mountain'.
Before the storm clouds of war gathered.
Before the growing shadow in the East took form.
Before the Riddermark knew the choking hold of a wizard's malice.
Before the illegitim...
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Chapter 8
"Well, Son of Gondor, have we impressed you?"
Éomer's laughing voice rang clear over the grassy hilltop as he pulled Firefoot to a halt, the young man lifting his hand to wipe a bead of sweat from his brow as the summer sun beat relentlessly down upon the plain.
"Impressed, yes, but you have not stolen my love for my own realm, horselord." Boromir chuckled as he pulled up his own mount alongside his fair-haired companion. His eyes were drawn to the cheering of the other members of their small party, a grin crossing his lips as Théadain streaked past him in a blur of fiery curls, whooping victoriously as her mount beat both Théodred and Éowyn to the crest of the hill. Five days Boromir had spent with the young family of the King, who had been tasked with guiding him on a tour of a small corner of their realm. He had imagined at first a stuffy parade of meetings with obscure lords, weighed down by the formalities of court conduct that he had been raised upon. Instead he found his sides aching from laughter, his cheeks fixed in a broad, easy smile that was often solely reserved for his younger brother. What encounters they had met were filled with effortless familiarity, the lords of this land as willing to jest with him as they were with the wards of the King. Indeed, he was certain he harboured a bruise on his shoulder from the parting embrace of Erkenbrand, the Lord of the Westfold. There was a growing warmth in his heart for the people of Rohan – they were loud and bold, quick to brandish a sword but quicker to laugh.
For the first time in many years he felt free of the shadow of responsibility, and he only wished he had managed to persuade his father to allow Faramir to join them. These days of galloping across open plains would stay with him longer than the lessons his father had insisted that Faramir remained in Minas Tirith to experience.
"I expect to be able to see my reflection in this saddle when we return to Edoras!" Théadain goaded her brother as she drew Folca up beside Boromir's mount, evidently referencing some bet she had made with him before their race.
"I'm surprised your backside hasn't worn through it with how fast you were going." Théodred retorted, patting Brego's neck as his young colt gave a snort. "Let us rest a little before we make for the city."
"As you wish, my prince." Théa stuck out her tongue playfully at her brother as she swung herself from her saddle, reaching to hold Éowyn's reins for her so she could dismount from Windfola.
"Is it much farther to Edoras?" Boromir frowned as he dismounted, a little unwilling to admit that he had lost his bearings somewhat since they had last passed this way. As beautiful as the rolling plains of the Riddermark were, they lacked distinct landmarks for the untrained eye.
"We will be there before nightfall, do not fear – I shan't let the ghosts get you." Théadain cast a grin over her shoulder as she loosened the girth of Folca's saddle and turned him loose to graze. She had delighted in recounting the stories that had thrilled her as a child as they had made camp under the stars or sat upon the steps of the Hornburg keep on their journey. A fresh pair of ears to bestow the tales of the Dimholt Road upon was almost as fun as hearing the stories again herself for the first time.
