Between Brothers
by Suzie

Part 1

Word had come that Boromir, son of Denethor, was dead. Hearing it Éomer sat by the fire and stared unseeing into the dancing flames. In the area about him where the light of campfires reached were the lines of horses and his loyal men. Not all the snorts were equine as sleeping men's snores were broken, and then returned to their even rhythm. Here and there the low mumbles of conversation became a soft buzz like that of insects in the night.

Boromir? Dead? It was so difficult to accept. Éomer remembered how brave and proud the Son of Gondor was. Tall, fair, and handsome with the weight of all of Gondor upon his broad shoulders. "Perhaps in death he has escaped, finally, the adoration of the steward."

"You speak of Boromir."

Éomer glanced up at the intrusion to his thoughts. His best friend Hamlin held out a bowl of stew. "I do. It is a sad day that such a man has departed us, and yet he is at peace now, far from the grasp of his sire."

Hamlin sat, grunting in agreement. "Woe to the younger son who never could walk the righteous path their sire paved golden for the heir."

Faramir. Éomer had nearly forgotten about him. Hamlin was right in his assessment; Denethor exalted Boromir, and despised Faramir. With the eldest son gone would the youngest finally be loved, or ostracized even more?

He tried to think back on Faramir, but the last memory was only of a young redheaded male not quite a man. Gangly and shy, soft spoken, and doted upon by his elder sibling. Even then Éomer could see the way Denethor treated the lad. He and Boromir had taken the boy fishing to rescue him from his father's ire, only to have the steward punish him for going. Éomer had wanted to leave, but he and Boromir had been ordered to remain to witness the ten lashes from the leather belt upon a young bottom. The steward had left his youngest a sobbing heap upon the floor, the disgust on the older man's face obvious, and Éomer had stood horrified and sickened, and grateful that his uncle, the King of Rohan, was a kinder man.

"There is naught you can do for Gondor, my lord Éomer. Best you keep your mind upon these new Orcs bearing the White Hand of Saruman."

More sage advice. "You natter me like an old woman,' teased the Third Marshall of the Riddermark. He lifted a spoonful of stew to his mouth. "Do not prattle my ears off, Hamlin, or I will not hear the enemy creeping nearer to slit yon pretty throat."

"Oh-ho!" Hamlin laughed in delight. 'Worry not for my throat, but for your own hide. Should you fall every female of Rohan will weep, and the unwed ones loudest of all, each plucking one golden lock from your head to fondly remember you and lament they never led you down that blissful path of marriage."

Actually flushing Éomer tried to scowl, but he could not be angry with his friend. "How many of those unwed maidens are not former light-o'-loves you once knew?"

There was no repentance in Hamlin's face as he replied, "not many."

They both laughed, and Éomer finished the stew, glad for the chatter as his friend talked and demanded no reply so he could rest and eat. Before he could sleep he appointed piquets, checked on his mount Firefoot, and then found his bedroll.

The stars were numerous, and bright. Every so often a wisp of cloud drifted before them to momentarily dim their light. The moon was a sliver, and Éomer lay staring up at the heavens, his mind drifting as the clouds were.

Fresh out of boyhood, now considered a man by all, and appointed as a Rider of Rohan. Theoden King had gifted the blond youth with a fine steed named Firefoot. "He is now your responsibility, and if treated well will be your best ally in battle."

"Yes, Sire." Éomer had looked into the sage dark eyes of the animal, and his heart had leapt. For long seconds they gazed at each other, and then he rubbed the velvety nose and smiled.

"Come, there is a delegation from Gondor arrived moments ago. You may remain in the hall for the discussions to keep our truce."

Not long afterwards Éomer stood by the king's throne, watching the Gondorians near. There was a young male perhaps a few years his senior, and two grey-haired men, and Éomer knew they had a score or more of armed men outside. His gaze fell on the youth. Blond, the promise of a beard shadowing his chin, and his head held high. There was confidence in the stance, a touch of arrogance, and a regal bearing. Lips curling back slightly Éomer wondered if the man could fight? Could he ride a horse well? Gondorians were not exactly known as proficient equestrians.

Boromir was aware of the young man who stood by the king's throne. When that one's lips drew back some in an obvious sneer his spine went rigid in affront. How dare the whelp look upon them insultingly! Who was he to stand there with such arrogance and disdain? How he would love to wipe that sneer off his face.

"You'll stay of course." Theéoden rose, and nodded to the long tables on either side of the hall. "These talks can wait until we've had our fill of good food and good ale."

'And good company,' Boromir thought as pretty fair-haired women brought in the meal. He smiled at them, and found a seat, noticing a pretty girl who sat before him. Nodding to her he slid his gaze away dismissively, and it connected with that of the young man.

It was a silent battle of wills in that stare, neither willing to admit defeat by looking away first. The battle came to an end when the king spoke.

"Éomer, since neither you nor Boromir seem to have an appetite why not show him about Edoras?"

He would rather not, but Éomer did not choose to disobey his king. Taking a loaf of bread he tore a chunk off, and topped it with cheese and a slice of meat. He would not starve because of this... Boromir. He knew the man would not be impressed with the dung-brown houses despite the elaborate horse-head decorations of scrollwork. Outside of the hall he paused a moment, eyes squinted against the high winds.

"Is it always this windy?" Boromir found his hair whipping about his face an annoyance.

"Nay. Sometimes if fair blows hard enough to knock a horse off its legs." His teasing ended abruptly, and a new glint entered his eyes as he spied a familiar face further down the sloping village. "Do you enjoy women, Boromir of Gondor?"

Startled Boromir arched a brow. "What should I enjoy? Horses?"

Éomer smiled tightly. "I will overlook that slight, and not disembowel you. Come, I've a friend you should meet."

"You would never succeed," Boromir snorted even as he followed the other man.

Éomer rushed behind a cottage and when a pretty female came around he smiled. "Pretty Anaida."

She halted, startled. "My lord Éomer! You... I did not see you there."

Boromir admired the flush on her cheeks, the blue of her eyes, the gold of her hair, and the bosom straining at the bodice of her gown. She had nice wide round hips and a waist tucked in for a man's hands to span.

"Do you see this one behind me?" Éomer asked her. "He is Gondorian."

"Aye, so?"

Boromir drew himself up at her lack of impression. Éomer grinned. "Be kind lest your wicked tongue wound."

"If I remember correctly 'tis you who sports a wicked tongue," she shot back with a leer.

"And you who sports delicious charms, and a mouth to inspire dreams," Éomer joined into the game. He glanced at the pail of milk she carried. "Need you aid?"

She snorted. "Were you to attempt to aid me this milk would curdle before you let me up from my back."

"A ride not even Shadowfax can surpass," he said with a heavy sigh.

A giggle escaped her. "And your Gondorian?"

"I have not ridden him therefore I cannot compare him to you," teased the Rohan male.

Boromir scowled and flamed as the female erupted into peals of laughter. He pushed past the Rohirrim male. "And no ride will I ever give you for I doubt you would ever be able to remain in the saddle." He lifted the woman's hand and kept his gaze upon hers as he caressed her knuckles with his lips. "A pleasure."

Her lashes fluttered at him. "You have a charismatic tongue, milord. Do you have other skills?"

"Many," he purred, giving her a slow smile and not yet relinquishing her hand. "In Gondor not all of our time is spent mounting a horse."

Rolling his eyes Éomer snorted. "Which would explain the lack of skill atop one. In Gondor do you mount anything at all?"

"Aye," Boromir faced the other man, the anger within him displayed so well in his eyes. "We mount dissatisfied Rohirrim females who come to us seeking real pleasure."

"Aye, well, so you are desperate enough to mount old women..." Éomer heard the growl seconds before the big man tackled him. They fell to the hard-packed earth, and wrestled about, each searching for the upper hand, but both evenly met.

"Will you roll in the dirt like sows, or roll in the hay with me?"

Both males had halted, and glanced at the only female. Éomer pushed off the other man, got to his feet, and offered Boromir a hand up. "Aye, well, given the choices..."

Lazily Éomer watched her dress. He lay upon a fur over a soft mound of hay in the stables, one muscled arm up beneath his head to pillow it. One leg was bent at the knee, his other stretched out before him. Eyes at half-mast, his long hair tussled and sporting a few pieces of hay he gave a satisfied and tired grin.

"You are a woman without equal when you are naked, Anaida."

Snorting she grinned. "Tonight I am a woman finally well pleased." With a swish of her skirts she flounced out.

Boromir was chuckling, too spent to lift his head as he lay upon his belly. "Told you, friend."

Éomer shrugged. "I am not concerned for you will return to Gondor and your pleasures, and I will then return to mine." His free hand rubbed at his still sweat-slicked belly, and then scratched absently at his exposed genitals. "Anaida is an energetic wench with many needs."

"She is," Boromir's eyes fluttered open, and he grinned. "I would thank you, Éomer of Rohan. Better to tumble an energetic wench in the hay than to listen to old men quibble over politics."

Chuckling sounded from Éomer. "Perhaps she will be energetic once more later. I fear with two of us to service her I was not spent at usual."

"Aye," Boromir shifted and rolled onto his back. "I now need to bathe. Lovely as she is I do not fancy stinking of horses and sex."

"Then you will appreciate the bathhouse." Éomer rose, grabbing his breeches as he did so.

Boromir was positive he would never appreciate the bathhouse. A contraption showered him with icy water, and a room was stifling hot and cloying as Éomer poured water over red-hot stones. He was bathed in sweat, and then was shown how to 'scrape' it off with a wooden knife-like object before the icy shower. How the Rohirrim could withstand such punishment he had no idea. And then a large man pushed him onto a table and proceeded to knead, pound, poke, press, pull, and bend him into near submission before soothing his body with warm oil he rubbed into the skin from toes to throat. A hot cloth was laid over his face until slightly cool, and then oil rubbed into the skin.

Éomer chuckled as Boromir moaned in pleasure. "I do not know how Gondorians bathe, but the heat releases dirt which is removed, and the cold rejuvenates. That beating you took soothes muscles tied in knots, and the oil will ease sores and soften skin. It has a pine scent. The women use oil with a flowery scent. You will be amazed how well you will fell when you rise."

He hated to admit it, but the arrogant Rider spoke true. Boromir felt relaxed, energized, limber, and the pine scent was appealing. Perhaps the Rohirrim bathhouse was not so primitive after all. "In Gondor we have large sunken tubs, and hearths to boil water to heat bathwater."

"Hot water is for cooking," snorted Éomer. "But perhaps someday I will try your way of bathing."

"And I will introduce you to Amalinin," Boromir grinned. "She also is... energetic."

Éomer laughed. "Let us go find ale and drink to energetic women!"

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