LOVE! Rohirrim Style

01 - Grumpy Old Men

Love, Rohirrim Style

Chapter 01

Grumpy Old Men

The winter days and nights in Edoras were becoming rather… tedious, Éomer thought to himself morosely. He plopped his chin in the cup of his propped up hand and lifted his almost empty tankard to his mouth. He scowled at his table companion. “You are getting soft, old man.”

“What?” Gamling didn’t even look up. He had his daughter on his lap and she was chewing fiercely on one of her father’s old leather gloves. That tooth she was working on was taking its time and making Léoma fussy beyond belief.

Éomer slammed the tankard down. “You are soft!”

Gamling knew where this was going. He smiled down at the baby in his lap. “Tell that to Aefre,” he muttered between gritted, clenched teeth.

“He most certainly is not!” At the mention of her name, Gamling’s wife swooped down on the table and reached for their daughter. “Béma, Gamling! How old is that glove and when was it last used?”

“Ages, I do not know, I do not care, but it is making her happy.” He kissed Léoma’s checks before handing her up to her mother. “And a happy baby is a quiet, sleeping baby, so the rest of the household can sleep as well!…

And I can get some! 

…Goodnight sweetling.” He turned to his own mug as Aefre moved from the Great Hall, listening to Léoma’s screams escalate until they were suddenly muffled when apparently Aefre gave in and gave her the glove back.

Éomer stared into his now empty mug. “It has snowed for weeks.”

“It is winter.”

“I want to hunt Orcs.”

“It is winter.” Gamling reiterated and took a pull, froth lingering on his moustache. “Besides, the Orcs have gone south.”

Éomer gave a snort. “They are scared of Beornia.”

Élfhelm, Marshall of the Eastenmet, stared morosely into his cup. The sudden early storm snowed many a Rohirrim into differing haunts. That he missed his wife and holdings was no secret. “I am scared of Beornia!”

Gamling smirked at the mention of his sister. She, along with her two sons, had moved to Edoras after the death of her husband in Gondor and taken over the parentless brood of Fyren. With the relocation and fostering of Fyren’s older boys, the household had settled into a healing, nurturing, if not noisy, rambunctious routine. Cynn, the blacksmith, was seen at the home several times during the week, conveniently at dinnertime, along with his young apprentice. Gamling grinned to himself and decided to just not go there. “I am afraid of her, as well.” He raised his tankard, more to cover his smirking facial expression than anything else.

Éomer waited until his tankard was refilled. He watched the swaying skirts of the young maid disappear into the kitchen area. “So am I.” He slowly nursed his ale, reliving battles, Gondor, The Gates, his uncle’s funeral…

As he drank more and more, his thoughts slid to her.

Lothiriel.

Éomer was smitten; he knew he was. He had taken to rereading her letters in the depths of the night, keeping secret the very lustful thoughts he was having of the Princess. He hoped she was as earthy and needy as he was. Éomer was good at reading wenches, but ladies? Princesses? He was not so sure. Her letters seemed to be… they were hot. At least, they made him hot, they seemed to be, well… as lusty as he was, even under the lady-like veneer. For not the first time, he considered asking his sister… or even Aefre if he was getting his signals right or wrong, for that matter, but for the thousandth time, he mentally talked himself out of it. He would hate to embarrass himself.