Characters: Boromir, Éomer
Disclaimer: Not mine, merely borrowed
Perhaps it was the heat: a hundred whirling, stomping bodies in a low-roofed hall. Frenzied music of fiddle, tambour, and pipes; peatsmoke; the strangely mouth-watering aroma of roasted goat. Too much mead; too little air: all Boromir knew was that he was dizzy, but he must not mortify himself by staggering. What would the Rohirrim think?
A hand on his forearm; an arm around his waist. Théodred’s young cousins, eyes wide with concern, catching him before he fell. “Lift your head up, and smile," the boy muttered into his ear. “It will look like the three of us are dancing.”