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The roar of the market in Edoras was like a mountain avalanche: dense, unstoppable, flooding the ears until distinguishing individual shouts seemed impossible at first. Imagine screaming when ten other people are screaming right next to you, each convinced that their goods alone will save the world from famine and despair. In this cacophony, you’d lose not just the price, but your own name.
And yet, you wouldn’t.
The moment you thought of something, your brain snatched the answer like a hawk snatching a mouse from the grass. The thought barely flickered—it’s cold, I need to warm up—and you’d hear: "Hot spiced mead! Thaws the frost from your balls to your feet!" You’d think: I need a new belt—and suddenly, cutting through the noise as if just for you: "Leather tough as rock—a belt that laughs at the shock!" It was astonishing, but the market seemed to speak to people in their own thoughts.
But the main feature of a Rohirric bazaar wasn’t how loud they shouted, but the words they used.
Almost every cry was seasoned with a sharp word—the kind not meant to be dropped on the embroidered carpets of Meduseld, but here they fit perfectly, like coarse salt on a slice of black bread. Without this bitterness, the conversation would taste bland. Someone cursed a stubborn gelding in their hearts, another spoke ill of a lucky neighbor, while an old groom, squinting and spitting into the straw, uttered an ancient truth. Looking at his obstinate stallion, which he had unsuccessfully tried to sell for the second fair in a row, he grumbled:
"In skilled hands, even a prick plays like a harp."
And in this crude comparison, one heard not boasting, but a weary acknowledgement of the mastery a future owner ought to possess.
In short, most wove something so rude into their calls that listeners either guffawed or turned away, hiding a smirk in their collars. But everyone remembered. And they returned—because forgetting such things was impossible.
It was into this cacophony of sound that Théodred was immersed. He had been circling the market for a solid hour. Not that he couldn't find what he needed—everything he had come for was already resting in his bag.
For Éomer, he had chosen a new leather belt—wide, with a solid buckle—and a small knife in a carved sheath. Not a toy, but not a war blade either—just the thing a boy could wear with pride. Accompanying the knife was a bundle of dried fish, which his brother loved to gnaw on by the stables. Théodred could easily imagine Éomer rushing about in the snowdrifts right now, disheveled and happy, looking nothing like a king's nephew.
For his sisters, Éowyn and Éodred, he had bought pendants on cords shaped like horse tails. Éowyn, he knew, would appreciate the simplicity, while for Éodred, a clay whistle shaped like a little bird lay in the bag. And also—a warm wool shawl for each. The weather was turning harsh, and the girls were getting colder—something Théodred disliked intensely. As if the cold were a personal enemy he couldn't yet defeat, but could at least outwit.
So it turned out that, having parted with his father and sisters, he kept walking only because he needed to keep warm somehow—his feet were already going numb. Stopping by a tent with hot mead, he took a mug—more to warm his palms than to drink—when his gaze snagged on a figure that stood out too sharply from the rest.
"Who wants a crate of lemons?" asked the man, clearly imitating the merchants, and with a smile, tossed a strange, bumpy yellow fruit in his hand.
Théodred blinked, grinned, and closed the distance in two strides, pulling the traveler into a hug.
"Boromir!" Théodred exclaimed, letting him go and immediately stepping back to get a better look. "When did you manage this? I was expecting a squad in shining armor, at the very least."
"Moving at the speed of a squad, I would have delivered only blocks of ice, not gifts," the Gondorian chuckled.
"So, really? A crate?" Théodred nodded at the fruit.
"Of lemons? No, of course not. Who could eat that many? You can't bite into them like apples."
"Well, that depends on who's eating," Théodred said thoughtfully, taking the bundle of fruit. He immediately caught himself thinking it would be unfair to give the treat only to his older sister. He had an unspoken rule—bring gifts equally to all siblings so no one felt slighted. But feeling his thoughts drifting into the weeds of family logistics, he hastened to return to the conversation: "And your brother, is he riding with the squad?"
"Faramir is warming himself in the stone halls of Minas Tirith," Boromir sighed. "He fell a bit ill. I had to ride alone. He shoved these lemons at me, said you urgently asked for them."
"We were exchanging curiosities, and he mentioned this fruit," Théodred nodded. "And I have a lover of sour things here—I think she'll appreciate it."
Boromir adjusted his bag:
"Well, I hope so. I expected to find you in the warmth, not in this racket."
"Tree-winter," Théodred shrugged. "Everyone is on their feet. No one stays home. Éomer is running around somewhere with the boys, the sisters are at the river... and I've been walking in circles for an hour so as not to completely freeze my... feet off. Waiting for you."
"Well, turns out you waited long enough," Boromir grinned. "Let me relieve you: I'll do the waiting for my people now, and you go warm up and make your kids happy. Here, by the way."
He dove into his travel bag and pulled out several leather pouches adorned with the stern seals of Gondor.
"Dates, figs, candied orange peels," he listed, handing them to Théodred. "Everything that doesn't grow here. Faramir told me to pass this on: it's for everyone. And he also ordered me to say, word for word: 'If Éowyn eats it all in one sitting again—she better not complain later.' He seems to still be impressed by how quickly his last gifts vanished."
Théodred cursed silently. 'I should have been more restrained,' flashed through his mind. He really had been overly candid in his letters to the Steward's younger son, vividly describing how the foreign sweets had pleased Éowyn. The girl had eaten so much that day that, barely managing her nausea, she had solemnly sworn never to look at them again for the rest of her days. The latter part, however, the Prince had wisely omitted from his letters.
"She didn't complain," Théodred snorted, hiding the pouches in his bag and hoping Boromir hadn't noticed his momentary hesitation. "Rather, we were terrified she'd make herself sick."
He looked back at the noisy square. The city was still buzzing like a disturbed hive. At that moment, Théodred spotted two girls pushing through the crowd: Éowyn’s fair head and dark-haired Éodred were rushing toward him, barely suppressing laughter.
"Alright, I'll go deliver the joy—there come my heavy cavalry," Théodred pointed to his sisters and shifted the bundle of 'bumpy' fruit for a better grip. "I'll come right back to you."
"Good."
"And if you meet my little brother," Théodred threw over his shoulder, "make sure he doesn't end up looking like a snowman."
"Will do."
He had already taken a couple of steps, but stopped, turned around, and asked as if making an excuse:
"Are you sure it's okay if I leave? I won't be long."
"I'm sure. Go on," Boromir waved him off. "And I might just stay here and... trade a bit."
Théodred froze, blinked—and laughed.
"Well then. If you want to trade, you'll have to come up with an ending for your... whatever that was."
Boromir narrowed his eyes, tossed the lemon in his hand again, and nodded at the square:
"Why can't I just shout 'Who wants a crate of lemons'? In this cacophony, no one will understand anything anyway."
"That's exactly the point," said Théodred, already backing away. "Just listen."
They fell silent.
At first, Boromir just stood there like a man politely pretending to listen. Then his face showed that he was truly listening: his brows drew together, his gaze sharpened, his lips parted slightly—as if he were trying to catch the meaning on the fly.
A second passed—and he grunted: something had snagged his attention in the noise. Another second—and the corners of his lips twitched: he began to understand the rhythm, realized these weren't just shouts, but almost verses. And then—it hit him: he recognized the choice profanity, inserted so deftly and confidently that it simultaneously embarrassed and amused him.
His face looked as if someone had just told him a dirty joke in a temple.
And he couldn't hold it in.
He laughed out loud, broadly, a deep man's laugh, so that the nearest merchant even turned around: unsure whether to be offended or proudly decide his cry had finally been appreciated.
"Well?" asked Théodred, already almost running to catch up with his sisters, but still close enough to see the reaction.
Boromir wiped the corner of his eye with the back of his hand, still laughing, and shook his head:
"And you really call this trade?"
"Of course," Théodred said innocently. "So go on. Practice. Here's an ending for you."
He winked—and threw over his shoulder on the move, like a command and a joke all at once:
"Who wants a lemon crate? And who wants a prick on a plate!"
And while Boromir was still trying to comprehend how he had ended up in a world where food was sold like this, Théodred had already dashed off to catch up with his sisters—and the fair closed behind him in a noisy, warm wave.