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Of All the Pretty Little Horses

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"She's very beautiful," Éomer sighed deeply.

"She is indeed. The prettiest of Dol Amroth. Very good bloodline," Faramir answered.

Strange answer, Éomer thought. But, true. Aside from the king himself, few in Gondor could boast of a better one, dating back to the first Prince of Dol Amroth, Imrazôr the Númenórean, and if legends are true, like the king, has Elven blood as well. I can believe it. She sits, despite the saddle, with Elven grace. It is hard to guess the age of those in whom the Númenórean strain runs so true.

"How old is she?" Éomer asked mildly, trying not to reveal his rising level of interest.

"I'm not sure. Nearly grown I would think."

Éomer turned and studied Faramir, whose profile revealed nothing. Odd that he doesn't know. I had heard the sons of the Steward were nearly as close as siblings to their cousins in Dol Amroth.

"She's elegant and proud, but not insensitive. Intelligent and strong too. Although not as heavily built as one bred in Rohan, I have no doubt that fully grown she could take on any but the stoutest of warriors," Faramir continued, glancing at Éomer, whose face had shadowed with a dark, truly puzzled frown. Suddenly, Faramir, usually so solemn, burst out with a deep hearty laugh.

Hearing his laughter, Lothíriel turned her elegant and spirited mount with effortless skill and waving rode toward the wall where Faramir and Éomer sat.

Éomer, ever good-natured, smiled at Faramir, "I was speaking of your cousin and you thought I meant the filly?"