Chapter Text
High School Rivendell
Index
1. Brother and Sister
2. Beyond the Argonath
3. Elves and Men and Dwarves
4. The Entrance Ceremony
5. Go, Rivendell!
6. You All Breathe So Loud
7. The Try-Outs
8. Enderi
9. The Breaking Fast Club
10. Rides and Ties (TBR)
Chapter One
Brother and Sister
Last night I dreamt about Théodred again. We were riding together with my brother and my uncle, heading towards Rivendell. He was to start school with us, in my year, for we were the same age, and I realized, when I woke up, that I hadn’t felt so joyful in ages. But dreams are just dreams and the crude reality hit me like a sharp wind: I was certainly starting my first year at High School Rivendell the following week… But it wouldn’t be with Théodred.
It was barely September but the morning dew had already returned to Edoras. Éomer noticed as he stood outside the hall, staring across the lands of his forefathers. He had woken up early, excited yet nervous about the new school year. Of course, this was his second year and he pitied not himself more than his sister Éowyn, who would be starting as a freshman. But he still had that sinking feeling in his heart that made him wonder if he would be happy this year as well.
A soft breeze made the grass fields outside the walls dance in unison and he sighed, remembering that he had not stood there since the funeral. The death of their cousin Théodred had deeply moved Rohan two years ago, and somehow, the pain had remained so deep inside his heart that he couldn’t bring himself to visit the tomb. He knew that Éowyn did, she had a different way of dealing with grief. But then, she had always been headstrong and valiant, proper for the women of her country. If she did still feel the pain, she would not show it in front of her people. Éomer tried very hard to do the same but the very mention of his cousin and best friend’s name brought sorrow to his heart. He shared that with his uncle Théoden, Théodred’s father, who wished not to speak of his son.
Absorbed in deep thoughts, Éomer did not notice his friend Háma standing beside him and he jumped.
“Why would you scare me like that?” He muttered.
“I simply walked towards you.” Háma answered, putting on an innocent face. His expression then brightened. “Are you ready for school?”
Éomer laughed at Háma’s eagerness. He would be a freshman, just like Éowyn, and thought highly of the idea of spending the following years in Rivendell. It clashed a little with his personality, though… He was known for being obsessively proud of the Mark.
“I am not too excited, my dear Háma…” Éomer said, solemnly. “ I care a lot about my friends but I’m always apprehensive of leaving Edoras for a long time.”
“Lie to me not, Éomer.” Háma grinned broadly. “ For you are a cousin of kings and you face is crystal clear. What worries you most?”
Éomer sighed and looked swiftly towards the hall of Meduseld, where only the sound of a few servants lighting fires could be heard. They shuffled around the stone paved floor and there was a distinctive sweeping sound echoing through the building.
“Two reasons I am worried for, worst one I cannot chose.” He said, sadly. “I worry for my sister, who will be starting this year and knows nothing of the outside world. I worry also about my friends, for they are a tight group and sometimes I don’t feel as if I belong. I am not as noble as they are, in so many ways.”
Háma shook his head with disdain and gave Éomer a reproachful look.
“Tell me not, Éomer son of Éomund that you are worried about your social status. Are you not good enough a company for Aragorn son of Arathorn? For Boromir of Gondor? For Arwen Undómiel?” Háma sighed deeply. “I cannot say that I’m proud of the prince of Meduseld at this very moment.”
Éomer shrugged slightly but then turned towards Háma with a frown.
“Théodred deserved this place that was so abruptly given to me. I am not the rightful successor of the Mark.”
Háma looked him in the eyes.
“You will never be the rightful successor of Lôgrad, prince Éomer, if you do not believe in yourself. Theodred’s death was not at your hands and you could not have done anything to save him. You are by love and blood the only heir King Théoden will ever have.”
Éomer nodded, looking once more towards the fields strewn with symbelmynë. The sun had risen now and was casting pale shadows on the outer walls. He turned towards Háma.
“It’s getting late. I will wake up my sister if she hasn’t risen yet.” And with that he turned into the hall.
Háma laughed.
“I would not worry about Éowyn. She has read more books then everyone in Rohan together. She has had a bigger glimpse of the real world then us.”
Éomer smiled at his words while he walked towards his sister’s bedroom, at the far end of the house. As he suspected when he knocked softly at the wooden doors, there was no response at all. He opened it quietly and had to laugh. Éowyn was still sound asleep, curled in a ball with the sheets tangled around her. The sheepskin cover had slipped off somewhere in the night and now lay on the floor, strewn over her dress from the day before. There was absolutely no order in her room or in her lifestyle and Éomer strongly suspected she had been up late again, reading adventure novels from the times of old. Two or three books lay around her; one on the sheets, one next to her cushion and one slightly poking her face. He picked it up gently, as not to wake her, and peeked at the title: Beren and Luthien. It surprised him, for she was no romantic, and even if she seeked for love in the books she read, she preferred it to be entwined in battle and despair. Éomer could not understand that bloodlust that she had and that desire to move through everything with a fight. She was no ordinary maiden.
Éowyn muttered something in her sleep and then set up bold in bed. She looked at Éomer accusingly.
“You! Why did you wake me?”
Éomer took a step backwards, with a slight grin spreading across his face.
“I did not wake you, my lady.” He laughed. “I was just standing here.”
Háma appeared around the corner and leaned against the doorpost, looking slightly bemused.
“Already up, my lady? Ready for school?”
Éowyn’s eyes narrowed and her arm moved slowly, sleepy but very steadily towards her night table.
“No.” Éomer muttered, a look of terror in his eyes.
“What have we done.” Háma echoed him, slowly retreating.
Éowyn’s hands clasped around the object laying on the little table: it was a rugby ball and she was a very good shot indeed. Her elbow moved backwards as her shoulder lurched forwards and the ball flew across the room right into the hallway, narrowly missing her brother and Háma, but shattering the only vase that decorated the corridor in a thousand pieces.
“Oops.”
Éomer and Háma stared at her, incredulous.
“Oops? That’s what you have to say for yourself?”
Éowyn smiled lazily and sought for something to wear from the pile of clothes hung over her desktable.
“Don’t tell uncle.”
Éomer and Háma left, laughing and Éowyn pulled her night-tunic closer around her shoulders, sighing. It was a simple robe, used by the riders of Rohan when they went scouting. She had begged her uncle for one, as they were so warm and comfortable, although she couldn’t hide the real reason: there was nothing special about a simple nightgown, even though women from other parts would probably disagree. Éowyn was reminded with a heavy pang that school was starting today and that she would be launched wildly in a crowd of maidens her age. Why the thought of it scared her, she did not entirely know, but she knew part of it was a nagging insecurity, a voice inside her telling her that she was not like the other girls and that she would find it very hard indeed to make any friends at all.
Her brother had told her not to worry, though, as they belonged to the elite group of students whose parents or guardians had founded the school together with Lord Elrond of Rivendell and Lady Galadriel of Lóthlórien. There was always a place for them at that school, even if they might have to stick together.
Éowyn sighed once more. She had heard so many stories from her brother about High School Rivendell… how he had become friends with Aragorn and Boromir… how he had joined the rugby team… how beautiful the Lady Arwen was… She had her own theories about Éomer’s adventures, which made everyone seem much grander than they really were… Of course elven ladies were the very image of beauty, but sometimes her brother would spend such long a time speaking about the Lady Arwen that Éowyn just wanted to bang her head against the nearest pillar in the hall. No man should speak that much.
She thought of Arwen while she dressed, wondering if she really was that beautiful. The pictures her brother had taken were oddly foggy and rare-angled, as if he had overcome great deeds while taking them. Éowyn slightly suspected Arwen hadn’t even been aware of those pictures, but she looked peaceful enough in them.
She heard her brother calling for her again and she hurried up, tying a last string on her leather tunic in order to fasten the front. She made the attempt to move with haste into the hall but then saw the wildness in her hair walking by the mirror and she fastened it with a piece of string so that the front would not strew around her face. She then hurried into the golden hall, worried that breakfast would not be there anymore if she delayed one more step.
Her uncle Théoden, Éomer, the guards and Háma were all gathered around the table, enjoying a firm Rohirric breakfast: big brown sausages, mashed potatoes full of spice, scrambled eggs and big fresh loaves of brown bread. Éowyn smiled at the sight of food and sat down between her uncle and brother, ready to fill her plate with all the goodies.
“Good morning.” She smiled, as she stuffed herself on mashed potatoes. Théoden, who had already heard about the vase from the servants, could not help but smile.
“Éowyn…” He said, giving her a look of paternal love. “Try to slow down today, will you not? No rapid running, no overeating. Just be the gentle maiden I know you can be and do not worry about school. It will be just fine…”
Éowyn looked up, feeling grateful. Admits her masquerade, her uncle always knew exactly when she was fretting. But then, she did share a lot of her mother’s features, and King Théoden could not help noticing how much she was starting to resemble the Lady Théodwyn.
Háma interrupted the King’s thoughts with an exciting stream about his desire to form a pro-Rohan group at school and everyone’s attention was inevitably adverted towards that. Even the guards joined in the discussion weather the Mark should unite with Northern Gondor and become part of the vast country, therefore sharing its many resources and products. Háma firmly stood by Rohan staying independent, growling fiercely at anyone who opposed him. Sometimes he could be a little overbearing with the subject, but the truth was, he constantly reminded the people around him that it did not feel right to simply accept being a part of Gondor.
Discussions like that flowed through the Hall of Meduseld every morning and every single one of them was used to it. The arguments, the tingle of knives, the bristle laughter and the merry pouring of ale was not the mightiest but yes the most comforting part of the Rohirric culture and it would not be erased so easily.
* * *
The tall and handsome young lad stood in front of his proud father, his dark auburn hair shining like a night’s helmet as he heaved up his chest. The Lord Denethor carefully pinned on it a silver brooch in the form of a rugby ball, his hands shaking with excitement.
“Many men play the noble game of rugby here in the citadel but none shine more than you, my son…” He said, crooning every word as if he were speaking in pure gold. “Be sure you show your true strength this year so you be made captain of the school’s team.”
The lad grinned at his father.
“I, Boromir of Gondor, swear that I will do my utmost to become team captain.” He sighed. “But I must tell you, father… Aragorn is ever so good and…”
“Aragorn!” Denethor spat out the name as if it were poison. The whole hall went silent and everyone looked up. The servants humbly resumed their cleaning, though and the guards looked once more towards the raven doors. Only the Steward’s youngest son held his gaze for a while, from the breakfast table, and then slowly turned back towards the book he had been reading, his hair falling around his face like and auburn curtain. He was already wearing his school uniform, the beautiful embroidered elvish shirt with the black tie. His brother, though, wore the rugby team jacket and did not seem to bother about the dress code. He caressed the pin his father had given him.
“He is a good friend of mine, father. He’s a good man.”
“I do not care about him.” Denethor muttered, sitting down at the breakfast table with a look of disgust. “The line of stewards has taken care of Gondor for many years and now this little boy appears out of nowhere, carried in by Mithrandir, claiming to be the rightful king…”
“He never claimed to be king, papa…” Boromir mumbled, humbly. “ I do not think he cares about regency at all.”
“Yet it is unforgivable…!” Denethor exclaimed. “…that a ranger from the north would ever be king over us or, as a matter of fact, captain over you. You are the rightful rugby captain of High School Rivendell! You will be the rightful ruler of Gondor…”
The youngest son closed his book shut with a sigh and picked up his silver fork in order to shove some spicy tomatoes into his mouth. His plate had been too full from the beginning: the little cheese-filled buns, the scrambled eggs with toast crumps, the tiny beef squares with onions and now the remaining spicy cherry tomatoes. He felt almost sick, but he knew that did not have much to do with the food… It would be his first year at school and he had no idea what would happen.
Faramir had never paid much attention to his lessons. Mithrandir had tried to tutor him from the age of seven, alongside his brother, but both of them had always other matters in their head. Boromir mostly liked playing games with his citadel friends and Faramir wandered out on his own, slaying imaginary dragons and rescuing unfortunate prisoners from their grasp, hardly what his father would have expected. From a very early age, Denethor had always professed a single love, deep and powerful, for Boromir, and weather all his mischiefs were creative, those of Faramir were disobedient, leaving both brothers never really understanding what was right and what was wrong. Boromir had grown with no lack of self-confidence, standing always on top of the mountains and in the middle of crowds. But Faramir, so often compared and reprimanded, hid away in the shadows and discovered knowledge by his own, much later then Mithrandir’s classes. They would often catch him reading all the volumes of Gondor History, or the parchment scrolls that explained ancient sorcery, texts that only the most advanced of readers could understand.
“And you.” Faramir looked up suddenly as his father had turned towards him sharply. “ You had better be in the team as well. If I hear you did not get in, I will not send your allowance.”
Faramir sighed, sadly.
“I am no man of rugby, father. But I can assure you, I will excel at academics… I will get the highest average in the class… in the school… in order to make you proud.”
Denethor shook his head and turned back to Boromir.
“See to it that I can be proud at least of one son this year.”
And with those cold harsh words, he left through the black doors that led to the dormitories. Faramir stared after him, with a tired look on his face. But Boromir gave his brother a sympathetic look.
“Little bro.” He said, kindly. “Let us prepare for school. I will show you how everything works, even rugby.”
Faramir could not help but return the smile.
“Maybe rugby is the one thing I cannot be taught.”
His older brother had a tender look on his face; he had always been extremely protective over Faramir, seeing in him his mother’s gentleness and his father’s brain. He realized he could be fairly obnoxious sometimes, but he had always tried to include his little brother in everything that he did. It had been so different when they were young and careless and so completely not aware that Gondor would one day belong to them… he remembered how they rode their ponies through Ithilien, using sticks as swords and wooden planks as shields, pretending to battle against the most dreadful orcs imaginable and mounting fake camps in order to chase them down. Why had so much changed? Their childhood had been so lovely, but for some reason, that was gone now. Faramir cared not for Boromir’s friends and preferred reading in dark corners holding no more than a single overwaxed candle. His eyesight had grown to be pretty bad because of that and now he had to carry glasses around with him, if he wished to look afar. Boromir could not understand his little brother anymore, but he hoped that hiding in the dark thing was just a phase, and that he would get him back soon enough. School would be good for him, and High School Rivendell was just what he needed.
The doors of the hall opened and for a moment both brothers were dazzled by sunlight, for in the entrance stood no other than the White Rider Mithrandir, now whitest of all wizards. He carried a mighty posture and a big grin on his face. Faramir was beaming and stood up, walking happily towards the wizard and embracing him fondly.
“I am so glad that you are back, Mithrandir. What brings you here?” He asked, as Boromir hugged him as well.
“I am to be your escort.” The wizard laughed. “We will ride to Rivendell together.”
Boromir snorted.
“We don’t need an escort… I’m a second year already.”
Mithrandir’s face grew serious.
“You know only fourth years are allowed to ride alone. If you were to encounter students from West Orc High or the Nazgul Academy, would you be able to protect everyone? No? I did not think so…” Then he laughed again. “Those schools take rugby very serious. They would do anything to mame your players before the season even begins.” He beamed around the group. “GO RIVENDELL!”
Faramir sighed. He shared a great deal of interests with Mithrandir, but not rugby precisely… The wizard was a real fan and loved assisting all the school matches alongside Lady Galadriel, and Boromir had even told him that they were know to throw popcorn around in anguish if Rivendell was losing. Faramir felt like he had to watch at least one match, just to see them do that.
Shortly afterwards, the two brothers and Mithrandir found themselves in the citadel, beside the White Tree, tying their bags to the saddles of their steeds and fastening their travel cloaks around their necks. Denethor had not come to say goodbye, but they knew he was watching them through his Palantir, locked away in his dark room. Mithrandir shook his head, but he could not do much about that and at least he was to take the boys safely through Gondor. He looked around, and sighed.
“We shall be off in a few minutes, but let us wait for Aendulas first.”
Boromir heaved the biggest sigh and Faramir let out a small chuckle. Aendulas had been their childhood friend, the daughter of their father’s second in command. She had always been slightly rough but lately, in her teenage years, she had become a true noblewoman. It had also been difficult for Boromir to accept that, for she now preferred the company of maidens her age before engaging in swordfights with him, but he would never confess that to anyone. Only Faramir knew that he actually missed her, and didn’t hate her for her sharp tongue and twisted words, like he wanted him to believe.
She appeared a few moments later, on her chocolate coloured stallion, a silver cloak wrapped around her shoulders. Her dark brown hair, let lose at one part and braided at the other, contrasted with her pale skin. Her face was long and sharp, every feature strong and elegant and her heavy lidded eyelashes partially hid her dark brown eyes, making her look slightly superior. Her nose was just a little bit hooked and her lips were thin, yet stern. She had the typical face of the olden Gondor nobility and was considered quite beautiful and exotic whenever she travelled to another realm. She was staring at them now with certain cinism, but bowed graciously to Mithrandir.
“My father sends his regards…” She said, to acknowledge him. “And he thanks thee for your kind request of taking me on the journey lying yonder.”
Boromir burst out laughing and Faramir looked away, trying to contain a guffaw. Aendulas had a very archaeic way of speaking, done purposely to reinforce her culture and ancestry. A big part of the Gondor youth spoke that way now, and they were know as the White Tree Cult; they cherished Gondor’s history and wished to keep it pure. It had branched out in another group called the Loyalists, who supported the will of Denethor to expand the country and sign the free trading treaty with Rohan. Boromir and Faramir stayed out of those groups, but most of Boromir’s friends were in them and he couldn’t but help going along with most ideas. Faramir did not have the time to care enough and wasn’t sure what those groups were even about.
Aendulas stared at them, haughtily, as Mithrandir chuckled, shaking his head.
“Come now, Lady Aendulas, for we must be off before the sun is completely up. This will be a long journey and we need to reach Edoras before two days have passed.”
She nodded and turned her horse’s reigns around, casting an offended look at her childhood friends. Boromir was grinning but Faramir was staring towards the Eastern Doors, his attention caught in something very different. The banners were fluttering in the wind bearing the crest of their hall, and Boromir, following his gaze, smiled vaguely.
“Edoras…” He muttered. “A mighty hall with a mighty banner… yet none is as magnificent as ours, is it, little brother?”
Faramir turned away from the Doors and stared at Boromir.
“I do not know, for I have not yet visited Rohan…” He said, as solemnly as he could, knowing in his heart that this would provoke a loud discussion. And loud it was indeed as Boromir and Aendulas both started explaining at once why Gondor was all so mightier than Rohan, expressing their patriotic thoughts whilst echoing each other. Mithrandir started riding away, with a smile, and winked at Faramir, who was also smiling. The four of them rode quietly downhill, slowly descending the great city built by their forefathers. Before their eyes, the Gates opened and the trumpets announced their departing, their echo rumbling through the White Mountains as they horned. The three youngsters looked back once as they crossed the gates, admiring their great city for the last time in a long while, and then followed Mithrandir, who was heading for the White Mountains in a speedy canter, his horse Shadowfax leaving no more than a trail of dust behind.
* * *
After what would be the last Rohirric breakfast for a long time, Éomer, Éowyn and Háma were solemnly saddling their horses in the Golden Hall’s stables. They shared a special bond with those creatures, one unseen anywhere but in Rohan. For their kin had been born and raised on horseback since the beginning of times and their steeds shared one half of their heart and more than a quarter of their military power. They whinnied softly as their masters tied their bags to them, as if they knew they were going to go on a long journey with something near to a heavy heart. But maybe they were sensing also just a little bit of excitement, as Éowyn and Háma were asking Éomer all about the school.
“There is nothing more to tell! You will see when we get there!” Éomer sighed, as they bombarded him with questions. “Woa, Firefoot!” His horse had thrust his head in anguish at his master’s raised voice. “Really… I am actually nervous for starting my second year, stop asking me as if I were a fourth year or something…”
“Alright, brother, we will.” Éowyn smiled, as she tied her food-sack to the saddle. “But tell me, though… Are we leaving before noon today? It seems like we’ve been up forever.”
“Aye, we were supposed to. But Gandalf has been delayed, it seems.” Théoden came walking in, carrying the last provisions he needed for the journey. “That wizard is always late, I do not know why Lord Elrond wanted him to escort us… we could have easily asked Saruman…”
Éomer chuckled.
“Somehow I do not think it was Lord Elrond… The Lady Galadriel, on the other hand, was most likely to demand it…”
Théoden frowned as Éomer went into fits of laughter by himself, and Éowyn stared at Háma, with a comical look of bewilderment.
“And why…?” She asked.
“Shut up, Éomer… Do not hint such atrocities…” Théoden muttered, as Éomer wiped the tears out of his eyes. “The Lady Galadriel is wed to Lord Celeborn, your Sindarin teacher, and she does not share her matrimony with Gandalf… How many times do I have to tell you that.”
Just as Éowyn and Háma started asking eager questions, the horns sounded and everyone looked up. Éomer beamed with excitement.
“Gandalf! Gandalf and Boromir are here!” And with those words, he ran out of the stables and up the slope, followed closely by his friend and sister, and a slower, chuckling Théoden. They clambered up the steps of the Golden Hall and stared at the gates, where four riders were visible between the brown grass surrounding Edoras.
* * *
Faramir caught his breath when he first came in sight of Edoras. It looked so barren, yet so bright, like a little coin covered in dust whilst shining in the sunlight. The brown oak doors looked oddly welcoming after their long ride and his sore backside was demanding a more comfortable seat then his saddle. Faramir had never ridden so long in his life and had wished more than once for a cart when he had felt the blisters coming up. But he had remained silent, as neither Boromir nor Aendulas seemed to be complaining. He couldn’t help wondering what Aendulas was wearing under her long dark dress in order to keep comfortable on a saddle… it should be at least thicker than his breeches…
“Edoras, and the Golden Hall of Meduseld.” Mithrandir said gravely, trying to cause an impression, which indeed he did, until he smiled and cried: “Let us go in and sip their ale!”
Faramir and Aendulas looked rather shocked, but Boromir laughed.
“Let US go in and let US sip their ale?”
Mithrandir laughed.
“No. You are too young for ale… Shut up, Boromir.”
But at that point no one was paying attention at Mithrandir anymore, for the guards at the door were hoisting the banner of Rohan. The white horse was galloping through a field of dark green and Faramir couldn’t help but smile at that sight. His eyes caught attention to the Hall, far up the hill, where his brother’s friend was waiting for them, alongside two other students. As they crossed the gates and rode up the path, Faramir could only wonder why the maiden in the middle was not wearing a dress like Aendulas. Boromir had told him women from Rohan were a little different but he hadn’t imagined having the pure reincarnation of a female warrior in front of his eyes. As they drew closer, he saw a look of fire in her eyes that made her look quite powerful, and the wind lifting her hair only made it more intense. Faramir could not help but stare as he had never seen such a fierce maiden in his life. When the horses finally drew to a halt, he looked away, as King Théoden was descending the steps in order to greet them.
And greet them he did and Faramir was astonished to hear such warmth in his voice and manner of speaking. He smiled at them and welcomed them into his hall as if no feud had ever existed between their countries. Mithrandir had told them many times that King Théoden was not very fond of Gondor but when their need was dire, he would always offer his aid. Boromir never cared much for those history lessons but Faramir had grown to admire the King of Rohan and could see now that Mithrandir had not been wrong. He was a kind and brave man, why else would he raise his niece and nephew as is own and come to aid to people whose lord cared not for Rohan. For Lord Denethor had expressed his dislike for almost all other nations, especially Rohan and the elven dwellings, always leaving his sons wonder why he found them so unbearable. Mithrandir had told Faramir in confidence that he secretly feared what the other nations thought of him and his right of position, thinking that expressing hate made him look more powerful on his throne. Faramir could not help but agree as word had come from the west that Aragorn was the true heir of the Gondor throne. But Boromir laughed away that idea, as his high school friend was the kind of rascal that no one could imagine as a king, even though he had the wisdom of the elves from his mother’s part and the knowledge of men from his father. Aragorn brushed away any names given to him like “Elessar” and wanted only to be called “Strider”, his nickname. He had always been awfully curious, wandering off into the wild before he turned ten and returning days later, covered in mud and barely in one peace. Lord Elrond, his guardian, punished him then by making him sweep the elven dwellings of Rivendell, without any rest, until every bone of his body ached and longed for rest, hoping that he would never go on one of his adventures again. But Aragorn always returned to the forest and just a year ago he had escaped with a one of the Lorien boats alongside the river, while Elrond and his family were on vacation there. He had sailed as far as Mirkwood, and was there captured by Thranduil’s guard. The elven king kept him locked in a cell for days until word arrived from Lord Elrond that his ward had escaped. Thranduil then, with no special hurry, had ordered his guard to take Aragorn to the borders of Mirkwood where he was picked up by the elves of Lorien. He had been grounded for days after that incident.
Faramir smiled while remembering that story; he had never met Aragorn, but he was his brother’s best friend and Boromir rested not telling him all their high school stories. He could not speak of their mischiefs in front of their father but he sought up Faramir and they shared words on top of the white walls, laughing as they spoke. Boromir was laughing now as well, embracing Éomer with one arm and greeting him eagerly.
“Long time no see!” He exclaimed. “Ready for school? Ready for rugby? We are going to reach the top charts this year…”
Éomer laughed as well.
“I sure hope we do. I have been playing all summer in the Rohan league, with my friends and my kin…”
Boromir looked pleased to hear that and beamed at Eowyn and Háma, who were nodding at Éomer’s words.
“My kin?” He asked. He looked at Éowyn. “Do you play, my lady?”
Éowyn grinned broadly and pulled a dark green band from her pocket.
“I play in every internal match of the Rohan league, and I would play in matches all over Middle Earth if women were allowed to do so.”
Boromir laughed out loud, liking Éowyn at once. He ruffled her hair, adopting an older brother look on his face and said:
“It’s quite different in the real world, my lady. If you were allowed to play, you would not like it. Some teams are dangerous and will stop at nothing to beat you up bad… it is no place for a maiden.”
Éowyn narrowed her eyes a little and then smiled.
“I may yet show you my skills as a player.” She remarked. “For I am no weak maiden.”
“That you aren’t indeed.” Boromir smiled as Éomer, annoyed, gave Éowyn a small push.
Faramir, who had only listened to half of the conversation, felt he was now forming a swift first impression of Éowyn. If she was one of those patriotic rugby fanatic maidens, he would stay away from her for the rest of the journey and the upcoming four years. He glanced swiftly at Aendulas, who was staring at her in a somewhat indiscrete manner, not trying to hide it at all. Éowyn then stared back and none of the two dared to look away first. They held their gaze as Éomer introduced Háma to Boromir and Faramir looked at them, amused, not having yet unmounted his horse.
“And this is my little brother…” He heard Boromir say then, and suddenly everyone’s attention was focused on Faramir. He gulped and looked around, annoyed. Even Éowyn and Aendulas had stopped their staring contest to turn their heads towards him. Rather reluctantly, he descended his horse and bowed slightly with his head.
“Faramir.” Éomer said, kindly. “Boromir has spoken a lot about you.” Faramir smiled at Éomer and shot an even more annoyed look at his brother, who was grinning with an amused look on his face and also, Éomer noticed, pride.
“He will be starting Year One, just like you, Éowyn.” Boromir said. “Your brother has spoken a great deal about you too… Aragorn and I wanted to meet you for sometime now, but we spend most of our vacations in Ithilien or Dol Amroth and the distances are rather inconvenient, as you know.”
Éowyn smiled.
“Nevertheless, we were busy with the summer league, so that would not have been the best time for a visit.”
“Alright!” Gandalf interrupted. He knew Éowyn´s fire quite well. “And this is Lady Aendulas, daughter of Beregond, who will be in Year One as well. You can all get to know each other on the road. We are slightly behind schedule.”
Boromir, Faramir and Aendulas all shot him looks of disgust, as did Théoden and his kin. It was well known that Gandalf blamed everyone else for his tardiness.
“I simply cannot let the youngsters leave without a meal and some rest first.” Théoden remarked. “Éowyn, show Aendulas to your quarters and allow her to freshen up. Éomer, take Boromir and Faramir in. We will leave after noon.”
Gandalf sighed but everyone was secretly pleased to not have to get back on the saddle right away. Faramir noticed his sores felt worse now that he was walking and the breeches were brushing against his skin. He cursed internally has he followed the group into the Golden Hall of Meduseld, knowing he was walking like a goblin. He caught a bemused look from his brother and turned red, hoping he wouldn’t say anything.
If there ever were anything so different from the citadel, it was the Golden Hall of Meduseld. Boromir and Faramir stared at the space, bewildered. It was dark, yet completely homely, with roaring fires and tables full of food for the guards whose turn it was to eat. At home, Faramir noticed, the guards ate and slept in the dungeons, where the kitchens were, but this place was completely different. It looked built for comfort more than for grandness and he felt he liked the atmosphere, particularly the wooden horses carved in the pillars above and the warm colours of the hanging banners. Just as back home everything was black and white, here all was made of brown and golden, combining the metal with the wood. It was also a little stuffy, for the hall was kept warm at any hour to increase the guard’s comfort.
Éowyn beckoned Aendulas over and they went into the door at the left side of the Golden Throne whilst Faramir followed Éomer into the right door. Éomer showed the brothers to his room and gave them woollen towels.
“You may bathe if you wish. I am sure you feel like it after the long ride.”
Boromir smiled as Faramir gave a sigh of relief.
“We will be very happy to, Éomer… I think my little brother has a buttock problem.”
The two of them roared with laughter as Faramir, extremely annoyed, tried to strangle his brother with his woollen towel, sending both crashing to the ground. The laughter echoed through the halls, making more than one smile. School was starting.
* * *
Aendulas gazed in awe around Éowyn’s quarters, for not one thing reminded her of her own room. Everything she owned was quite the opposite of what maidens her age would own, except maybe the dresses strewn over the floor. Éowyn, slightly embarrassed for the mess now that she was for the first time in the presence of another maiden her age, tried to pick a few things up without Aendulas noticing. But Aendulas was paying more attention to the wall hangings and the cases full of books.
“I see you also read Hyves and Tides…” She said, slowly. “Or did you not?”
Éowyn was a bit taken aback by the heavy Gondorian accent, but she shook it off and answered.
“I actually did read it. I like reading.”
Aendulas looked a little bit amused.
“Judging by the state of your quarters, I would not have imagined us having common reading interests. But I see now you not only have Hyves and Tides, but the entire collection of the Belfalas Mysteries… how did you manage to acquire the newest in such haste?”
Éowyn smiled smugly, suddenly liking Aendulas somewhat better.
“It seems they arrive in Rivendell before any place else. My brother brought it with him at the end of the last school year.”
Aendulas groaned, letting go of her high and might for a second.
“I could have asked Boromir!” She wailed. “Now I wasted an entire summer ordering my guards to search through the libraries of Dol Amroth…”
Eowyn burst out laughing.
“You will be able to acquire it in Rivendell for sure, but I will bring it with me just in case.” She remarked, feeling generous. “After the last book’s cliff hanger, I could not live with myself if I wouldn’t offer…”
Aendulas looked up, suddenly hopeful.
“Lend me the book and I will marry you in Minas Anor next winter.”
Éowyn took a step backwards, hoping this was a joke.
“There will be no need for that.” She muttered, as Aendulas burst out laughing. “I don’t even know what Minas Anor is.”
Aendulas looked suddenly shocked.
“It is the capital of Gondor.” She said, haughtily. “You may know it as Minas Tirith, but the White Tree Cult shall always maintain tradition.”
“Oh, Minas Tirith…” Éowyn muttered. “I know that.” Then, she held her tongue for she dared not ask what the White Tree Cult was.
There was no time for a large lunch but everyone in the Golden Hall helped themselves to some bread and meat cooked in butter. Faramir had stared at his place in horror alongside Aendulas, but Boromir, who knew somewhat more of the Rohirric cuisine, had gobbled everything up in a frenzy, vowing he had not tasted something as delicious as that since the multicultural fest last year.
As soon as everyone had finished their plates, Gandalf and Théoden walked towards the stables, followed by the youngsters, who were quite excited. Éomer and Boromir were laughing about certain teachers and Háma listened alongside Éowyn, hoping to pick up some survival techniques. Faramir and Aendulas followed quietly, wondering what would be in store for them.
Éomer led his horse Firefoot out first, closely followed by Háma, whilst Boromir hopped on his and Aendulas settled hers behind him. Faramir glanced at Éowyn, waiting for her to mount. She stared back. The others were already outside and it was starting to become late. She stared at Faramir, impatiently.
“My horse kicks if she’s not at the rear.” Éowyn said dryly.
Faramir did not even blink.
“So does mine.”
Éowyn narrowed her eyes.
“Mine really kicks.”
Faramir shrugged.
“Mine kicks harder.”
It was then when an impatient Gandalf entered the stables.
“What kind of problem do you have?” He asked.
“Both our horses kick.” Éowyn explained flatly.
Gandalf heaved a big sigh.
“Oh for pity’s sake! Ride alongside each other then!”
Disgruntled, both of them mounted their horses and came out of the stables together, without uttering a single word. Éowyn felt annoyed at Faramir’s don’t-carish manner and Faramir, on the other hand, disliked Éowyn’s stubbornness. They rode side-by-side silently, behind Boromir and Aendulas, who did not say much either. Eventually the company shifted, leaving Edoras behind and Éowyn rode next to Háma, who offered better company than Faramir. Gandalf, riding alongside Théoden at the front, shot a bemused look at the youngsters.
“This is going to be a fun year, I guarantee that.” He muttered to himself so that Théoden would not be able to hear. “So many possibilities.”
And with that, the company rode alongside the White Mountains towards Isengard, hoping to reach it sometime in the evening of the following day. From there they would follow the river towards Lórien and then head Northwest towards Rivendell, where they would finally have reached their destination. Gandalf sighed. It would be a very long journey indeed.