Long long ago, EdorasLass asked for a drabble about the Rohirrim, iirc.
"Escaped, have you?" Éomer started guiltily, tearing his eyes from the spectacle to glance up at his cousin, who spoke reprovingly over the drums' beat and fire's roar.
Éomer had crept from Meduseld to watch the boys' sport. He'd seen them during Harvest celebrations, vaulting horses in the square, but his nurse wouldn't pause.
"Reckless young fools," she'd grumbled.
Théodred was frowning now and Éomer pleaded, "I only wanted to see—"
"Do, you mean," Théodred corrected. Éomer hung his head. But suddenly, his cousin laughed, clapped his shoulder, and said, "Nothing closer to flying. Tomorrow, cousin. Now—to bed!"