“Rohan bids two.”

Another hand went up in the small crowd.

“Rivendell bids two and a half.”

The auctioneer looked around as there was some small amount of discussion. This was no mere horse being sold, this fine stallion was the prize of the entire auction. There were many horses in Rohan, but this one, it was said, had the speed and temperament of the Mearas and the determination of Nahar himself.

“Rohan bids three,” was followed by “Rohan bids three and one-quarter.”

“Rivendell bids four,” called out a tall figure with dark hair when it seemed the auctioneer was going to pass him by. He stood by another Elf, with golden tresses and a curious look.

“That Elf really wants this horse,” whispered Theodred to his cousin.

“So do I,” whispered Eomer back. He was waiting for the bids to slow, not wanting to seem too impatient. He had the means to pay nearly any price for the steed, but there was something to be said about getting a good deal.

It was clear that this horse was not going to be purchased cheaply.

“Isengard bids five,” spoke a deep voice, and the Elf flinched and turned his head, narrowing his eyes at the robed figure in the crowd.

“Rivendell bids five and one-half,” came the challenge.

The robed and cloaked figure tilted his head. “Isengard bids five.”

The auctioneer scratched his head. “Sirs, the current bid is five and one-half, and if you do not mind, I get to do the calling!”

Theodred frowned and watched as the Elf began to argue with the mysterious man. “Best to wrap this up, cousin, if you really want this horse. I think now is the time to act.”

Eomer nodded. He and his cousin had remained astride their horses to watch the happenings. The horse that Eomer rode now was getting on in years, and he had to ensure that he would have a strong steed to carry him through the brewing war. “Rohan bids ten,” he shouted out, and the crowd silenced immediately.

“Ten, and ten it is! Firefoot, sold to the gentleman soldier in the back for ten!” The auctioneer hit the rock he used as a gavel down upon the wooden podium hard, and two stable hands walked the horse across the field to collect the money and give Eomer his prize.

“That man is staring at you, I think,” whispered Theodred after Eomer’s squire hurried to move the blanket and saddle to the new stallion.

“So is the Elf,” he whispered back. “Let them glare -- what harm can old men do?”