Part 1 - A Horseman's Welcome
He awoke to soft light, glimmering through the wooden rafters far above him. Around, piles of straw and hay were stocked, their smell pleasant and comforting though unfamiliar. His hand reached drowsily to the side of his head, his finger brushing across the dried blood that had seeped across his cheek from his temple. Hurriedly and in panic he moved his hand to his side hoping, with the dreamlike memory of the night before, that he had retained his sword...but he found nothing but his side and another dull pain. He struggled to his feet, his hand clutching his side as agony seared beneath his ribs, and took a slow pace across the straw-laden floor. He was in a barn of some sort, hardly a prison but the thick wood seemed strong enough to prevent his exit. On the far end there was a heavy door, the only entrance, but it would not move even an inch despite his push.
Crouching slightly, he placed his eye to a joint in the wooden wall. At first, light blinded him, a stream of watery drops covering his cheek, but after some time he looked again, this time squinting slightly against the light. He could make out a few people in the narrow field of vision, all of them seemingly going about their business; tending flocks, feeding horses...playing with children. Few of them had the dark hair of the men he had encountered the night before, in fact they seemed to be of wholly different stock. His eye turned to the horses, curiosity directing his gaze, and lingered upon the strong beasts. They were sturdy and muscular creatures, well fed and well tended by their masters. Their manes were thick and flowing, their eyes light and sparkling with, what he would say of men, nobility. He frowned slightly before falling back into the straw, his mind retracing the events of the night before but coming only to a dead end.
His eyes opened once more, disturbed by the oncoming footsteps beyond the door. Slowly, he sat up, too weary to attempt an escape. The heavy door opened, sunlight flooding the room in a warm bath of yellow warmth, punctuated by the long shadows of three tall men. Two wore sturdy armour, long polearms at their side, bearing the emblem of a blue stallion beneath a golden sun. Helms covered their heads, but golden and bronzed hair could just be made out beneath them. The other man, wore merely a robe and a belt that glimmered in the sunlight. A sword hung by his side, a jewelled sheath, hiding all but the hilt. His beard, a faded blonde, matched his hair and his eyes too seemed faded with age. He waved a hand, and the guards stepped back to the door.
“Do not be afraid” The stranger spoke, sitting on the straw casually, opposite Arathrandir “ I am Aethrid, I have been sent by the Thain to converse with you in the common tongue, for he has not spoken it for many long years”
Arathrandir remainded silent, though he was beginning to place himself in the world. He had not made the connection earlier, too weary and too angered to think, but now he could see that these men were not his enemies.
“You are of Gondor” The elder man continued “A man of high regard if your sword is anything to go by, unless of course you are a petty thief and found this on the road”
It was a subtle question, and Arathrandir knew that he would have to provide answers. But not yet, for while he knew of the Rohirrim, he did not trust them. They would have killed him had he trespassed on their lands, Gondorian or not, and he was not convinced that they would not do so now.
“Well, if you do not care to speak” Aethrid continued after a pause “Perhaps you would care to eat instead”
He waved a hand to the guard, who in turn beckoned to the outside. Footsteps approached once more, this time lighter, softer on the earth. A vision of pale beauty entered the room, her chesnut hair, tied behind, reflecting the sunlight in ochre tinged light. Her gleaming blue eyes met his, holding them for a moment, before turning shyly away towards Aethrid. He nodded his head, taking the plate and pitcher from her shaking hands. She left hurriedly, but each step light as elven footwork, and ever followed by the greyish eyes of Arathrandir.
Aethrid stood slowly, approaching with caution and placing the platter before the prisoner. His own eyes watching for any hint of motion. Arathrandir nodded with reluctance, bound by honour to show his thanks and gratitude for the meal, but still careful not to reveal himself to his captors. He ate slowly, the sweetened bread filling and nourishing.
“They were Dunlanders” Aethrid spoke as he watched the captain eat “They have been approaching our borders more aggresively the last few weeks but they have not yet had the nerve to cross into our lands. Our riders saw your fire two nights ago and thought it was they. Luckily they came upon you just as the Dunlanders were preparing to attack. Thankfully they did not take you for one of them”
He smiled slightly, evidently glad of the caution of the Riders. His eyes stared at the empty platter with curiousity. His study of the prisoner more worthwhile than Arathrandir could realise.
“You have travelled far then” He laughed “On a hungry stomach. A soldier then, no other would have eaten food in captivity. Ever seeing each meal as the last...I dare say an officer, perhaps even a Captain”
“Of the Second Watch, Third Company” Arathrandir spoke before cursing himself. Pride, he had spoken out of pride and Aethrid had spurred it, found his weakness. He sighed slightly, pulling himself up to full height and meeting the eyes of his captor. There was little he could keep secret now. He was not broken, but he knew he would speak openly without caution if prompted accurately.
“I have travelled far” Arathrandir nodded “from Minas Tirith, across the western lands of Gondor and north amid the emptiness of the Enedwaith, I was not intending to set foot in Rohan and would ask that you let me continue my travels”
“Where is it you are headed for” Aethrid smiled, glad of the conversation yet showing no sign of empowerment over the prisoner.
“Bree, a friend directed me to head for the town of Bree”
“Ah, then you are in luck” Aethrid laughed as he stood
“We will speak again later, but for now I shall allow you to leave this barn, so long as you do not leave the village”
“I shall not be leaving without my sword” Arathrandir's eyes glared slightly “So do not make my stay lengthly or I shall be forced to find my leave another way”
Aethrid nodded in acceptance of the threat, yet showed no smile of mockery. The village was guarded, after all, but the Rohirrim were not mustered and their finest warriors were still patrolling the distant borders. If there came a fight, there would be much bloodshed, and many would fall, but they could not prevent him from leaving if they had to. He stood slowly, nodding to the guards, and leaving in silence, the doors remaining open behind him.
Part 2 - The Village of the Rohirrim [Wathemnet])
Arathrandir lingered within the barn long into the afternoon, the golden sunlight soon becoming but a trace of its former glory through the rafters. He had slept and been well fed, yet still he felt some grievance had been done. His sword, the last remnant of the life he had left behind, was taken and he knew not how the horsemen would treat it. He had heard tales of the Rohirrim, uncouth and low men, soldiers with pitch-forks, yet he truthfully knew little more of them. The older tales of Eorl and Helm had reached Gondor but much distorted by time and distance and now little remembered by even the most knowledgeable scholars of Minas Tirith. Yet he could sense a bond between himself and they, unpoken but within a trace of memory, of friendship and of glory.
He stetched wearily as he stood, his eyes closing with a great sigh. With a touch of reluctance his heavy boots paced across the straw towards the sunlight filled entrance. As he stepped from the barn he felt eyes upon him from every direction, fearful, curious, doubting eyes...some challenging him, some terrified. He glanced at the assorted folk, his eyes meeting theirs before they turned, each one, away from the Gondorian's shimmering black, silver eyes. The village was little more than ten or a score of low buildings, each thatched with golden yellow straw but for one, the Blacksmith's which had a slated roof. The villagers themselves had a similar lack of difference, golden or reddened hair, freckled skin and deep blue eyes. Generations of close kinship and isolation had ensured these people had remained largely unchanged. Yet the girl he had seen earlier had been different, had been more like the Dunlanders he had seen two nights before than these fair headed folk of Rohan.
His eyes turned this way and that, no longer meeting the strangers, hoping to find the girl, yet she was nowhere to be seen. Curiousity drove him onward, along the muddy pathway between the houses, that seemed to be the main route through the village, and uphill towards the largest and last house. As he reached it, he turned, gazing down at the hamlet in careful study. A short wall ran around the houses, no defence, but enough to keep the grazing animals outside the village. Beyond towards the dimming sun, the two rivers flowed together. Northward the mountains had grown nearer, the lands beyond the village sloped upwards in rocky incline until earth and rock were indistinguishable as mountain. The land seemed at peace, though there were signs of war, barely noticeable to the untrained eye, on the landscape and among the people. Silence in the woods, and carrion calls in the wilderness, smoke on the horizon, burning not of wood or reed but of flesh, and fear within the eyes of the village-folk that spoke of threats unseen. He could feel the weight the people carried with them as though the burden of their loss had become part of his own. His empathy had been a great quality as a Captain, he had understood the fire and sadness within the hearts of his men, and of his peers, yet now it drained his mood to melancholy. Strangers and imprisoners held his heart to sympathy, for he pained at the fear in their eyes. Slowly, surely, the realisation crept upon him. He may have left the city of Minas Tirith far behind, but there were still many who needed leading, who needed directing against the dangers that beset Middle Earth from these low lands of Rohan, to the majesty and might of Gondor.
“You see, what most try not to see” the familiar voice of Aethrid came from behind him “Pain, loss, grief....yet you seem remote from it”
Arathrandir turned slowly, his unwavering eyes meeting those of his captor, holding them for a moment before blinking “You think I have not suffered?” he asked, his voice full of inquiry but lacking accusation
“No” Aethrid turned his lip in a crescent smile “Your eyes alone speak of terrors that none here have ever known, of countless loss, but those things are lesser to you I fear, there is something greater on your mind”
“You speak as an Elf, Aethrid, as though you know my mind greater than I” Arathrandir turned with a sullen sigh “But you are right, I fear not my own suffering if I can lead men to glory, and to victory”
For a moment his eyes flashed, darkness and silver light merging into a portrait of dark glory.
Gleaming spires atop white towers, the cheers of men, loud and prescient in the stonework of the city. Sword upon shield, the chant of heroic oath and deed, victory...glory, beneath the blossoming white tree. Yet the vision fades, clouds of dark black ash emerge amid the ruins of once tall spires, fallen friends, their swords and shields rusting in the dust, no cheers but those of crows and foul creatures in the air....
“Arathrandir” Aethrid had moved closer, and now stood beside the Captain, the crescent smile diminished to a careful pout. For a moment, the vision lingered in Arathrandir's eyes, but the voice recalled him from the shadowed visions, bringing him back to the sunlit village of Rohan.
“I..” He paused, unsure of his words, unsure of his sights “I think I need to rest some more”
Aethrid nodded slowly as the Captain turned swiftly and set off towards the barn. He watched closely, his own eyes aware of the visions that the Gondorian had seen, but showed no sign of fear or doubt.
They had marched unerring along the borders of Rohan at the East Emnet, their heavy boots leaving deep prints in the soft earth. Yet they no longer cared if they were followed, for their prints would soon be lost among the rocky lands to the North. As night settled in, still they marched, their prize clutched tight, their purpose unwavering.
“Always the long way round” The leader spoke, his deep pounding voice echoing the footsteps
“Not for long” The second grunted harshly “Soon the lands of the horse lovers will be ours to march across as we will”
“Maybe, If we get this back before he's found out...maybe”
The dark treeline of Fangorn loomed in the distance, great and ancient trees more lofty than many of the greatest spires, and as old as the stone of which they were uilt. Silence hung over the forest, as though a veil masking some hidden danger and untold secret. The Uruk's did not fear the dark woodlands, like their lesser kin, but still they did not care to pass between bough and trunk into the shadows. Their march turned east as they began to skirt the borders on the Wold, their pace lessened, but their purpose still driving them. Yet, though hardier than men or dwarf, still they had to rest. As the moon reached its xenith in the sky, they took pause beneath the stars. Silence still echoed around them, unnatural yet so inate to the earth. Their eyes, ever careful, ever watchful, ever cautious, glimmering in the pale moonlight.
But even in the silence, dangers oft lurk. Swift and straight the arrows flew, unheard or smelled by the Uruks until too late. Fallen prey to unseen foes. The arrows slender, white feathered and embittered, struck deep and silent their quarry. Their cold dead hands releasing, and unfurling, the prize that they had sought to keep for their Master.
“Quiet” a soft, feminine voice drifted over the wind, just as she stood from the shadows. Her face was covered by a deep black cloth, her eyes, light blue in the moonlight, all that marked her in the night. Her slender hand held an ashen bow, its craftwork exquisite and enchanting, yet her fingers remained drawn on the string, arrow at the ready. Her eyes glanced left and right, with caution yet without experience, before settling upon the fallen with a glare.
“Orc kind” She spoke louder now, stepping into the moonlight and raising her hand in signal. Five others, unseen and unknown, came to her side, each wearing a familiar dark cloth about their features. As they circled their kill, her eyes noticed the emblem upon the cloth that lay spread upon the ground. Blood spattered, torn, and near ruin, yet still it was recognisable to her. The White Tree, once proud, once strong, now lost and far from Gondor. She could not restrain the smirk upon her face as she raised it
“This will fetch us a hefty price in ransom, I'll wager” She laughed to her men
“Who'd buy that tattered rubbish” One of the men spoke, casting derision at the cloth before spitting, uncouthly, to the ground.
She shook her head in disapproval as she rolled the cloth “Fool, if you knew what this was then you would see that it might pay for a lifetime of luxury, if we approach it in the right way”
Without another word, the group remasked and sprinted into the edges of the forest. Yet they did not go deeper into the woods, and always the open land was kept in sight as they sprinted northwards.
Part 3 - A Stranger to Comfort
The dusk lingered upon the village, cool, orange light bathing the comforting, earthly, tones of mud and straw beneath. The last shouts of homecoming shepherds, weary yet cheerful, were all that could be heard in the peaceful coming of the night as the folk retreated to their fires and supper beneath the reddening sky. Plumes of grey smoke drifted casually upon the gentle breeze, leaving trails upon the sky, drifting East in serpentine forms which dissipated and mingled with the distant clouds at the edge of sight. The mud tracks and and narrow pathways emptied, the stable doors closed with but the softest whisper from the horses, and tranquility and calm settled with familiarity around its home for the eve.
Only one figure disturbed the peaceful idyll, the stern gaze of his dark eyes and the countenance of nobility exaggerating his unnatural presence in the scene. He sat alone, his arms folded across his knees as though a shield to the world around him, his intense eyes gazing solemnly, remotely, to the West. He had rested, eaten and been welcomed among the men of the village, yet still he felt an outsider. The vision, so clear, so vivid, had not returned and yet it could not be so easily removed from his heart. He had spoken to no one since then, the solitude and thought only hastening and encouraging the doubts and fears that played upon his nerves, yet restrained and showed little upon his face. An outsider. The weight of isolation had come upon him over the passage of the day for he had seen much that was alien and unnatural to him. There was a peace in these lands that he had not known since childhood, running through the fields of Lemedon without a care or caution, and he yearned to accept it, to bask in it, to succumb to its pull and end his journey. Yet he could not. A greater hold, a stronger pull twisted and stroked his mind, the pull of glory, of honour, of duty. A soldier in a village without war, a warrior without a sword at his side, or an enemy to repel. There was no peace for him here, only the torment and solitude of a world so enamouring yet so against his nature.
As sunlight dimmed to its last trace, the light of Lune replaced it. Cold, distant, ghostly light so different from that which it chased. With it the breeze hastened, it's chill winds forcing the serpent trails of the sky into long, thin whispers beneath the starred backdrop. The icy fingers of the wind crept across his cheek, their tips caressing his skin to bitter cold, as he rose with a weary sigh, wrapping his cloak about his leather hauberk yet not averting his eyes from the distant wilderness, now little seen beyond the veil of night. Even the night was strange to him here, without the shout of the guard, without the toll of bells and the creak of great oak bound doors, silence seemed more real, more sinister. It surrounded him as though in mockery of his isolation, an island in silence and darkness beneath the stars and far from home. His eyes closed wearily, his hand clenching together before him, and inhaled deeply of the frostbitten air, praying that at least this night he might sleep yet as he did so a familiar, friendly voice spoke softly from beside him.
“You should rest” Aethrid approached with less noise than a cat, his steps as one with the silence, his presence so in tune, so natural to the world around him “The night is cold, and there is no need for a watch, least of all by you, Arathrandir”
The Captain opened his eyes slowly, relaxing his hands to his sides with a gentle incline of his head. His greyed eyebrow raising slightly with a glance towards the man of Rohan
“I have tried” He spoke slowly, his voice gentle yet gravelled by both weariness and the chilled air “Yet I find no respite from my weariness here, despite such gracious hospitality. I watch, because it is my duty and without that, I fear I would have nothing left”
“Nothing?” Aethrid smiled lightly, yet nodded his head as though in perfect understanding of the words spoken, the emotions felt, by the Gondorian. With his right hand, he raised a dark black scabbard, straight and emblazoned with silver lining, the hilt of a steel sword glistening in the moonlight at the head “Perhaps a little more than nothing, Captain”
Arathrandir's eyes widened in the moonlight, the chill of his hands disappearing with the grip of the hilt. His firm hand swept gracefully along the length of the scabbard, as though in caress of a long absent friend. The sword, the only relic that marked his once noble rank in Minas Tirith, accepted his fingers at the hilt, the sword and his hand fitting as a perfect match, a match born of long years of use and struggle. Ever had the sword been at his side, and ever had he tended it and cared for it as though it were dearer to him than any other. In many ways the sword was his companion on the road, his only companion and reminder of the home which he had departed. A simple metal sword, without magic, without any great tale of age, yet his hand and his mind had imbued it with life, with love. He had never had any disfavour to other blades, to weapons taken up out of need, yet when the sword was in hand, hope ever filled him, as it had the men that followed. As his eyes stared, tracing the silver lining of the scabbard, and renewing their familiarity with the blade, Aethrid's voice came once more.
“I understand now” Aethrid nodded slowly, draping the long fur cloak over his shoulder and running a gentle hand through his beard “I was unsure how much this meant to you, but now I can see that it is of greater worth than the metal of which it is made alone. Yet I caution you, Arathrandir..”
The Captain's eyes glanced from the blade, his hands still enclosed about it as though reluctant to allow any to take it again.
“You have returned a thing more dear to me than any other, for that I am grateful” Arathrandir bowed his head gently, yet did not remove his eyes from the man of Rohan “I will hear your caution”
Aethrid's hand dropped sharply from his beard to his side, the movement swifter than the wind, yet silent, as ever had been the footsteps of the man. Blue eyes met the darkened grey of the Captain's, not avoiding the stare of the nobleman but meeting it with a countenance of authority. He remained silent, the moment passing, the two locked in careful study of one another, before parting his lips with a whisper
“There is a shadow on your heart that cannot be dimmed with the sword. I have seen it as you have been standing here, or sat alone within the village. Though you may be eager to leave, I would urge you to stay. There is a place for you here, if you choose it, a place of simple toil, of life without need for the sword, a life...”
“I am obliged at your offer, Aethrid” Arathrandir interrupted, his hands buckling the scabbard back to his belt, his face resuming its calm, featureless, bearing with ease “Yet you know I cannot accept, else you would not have returned the sword. No, Aethrid, I cannot toil and sweat in labour awaiting the enemy to burn my fields, I must leave and ensure that the enemy does not reach the fields of those who cannot raise a sword”
Aethrid sighed heavily, his eyes closing with a burden beyond his age “Arathrandir, your field is not one of crops, but of battle. I wish it were not so, for upon such a path, there is but one outcome”
“The outcome is the same for all, whether we weary and die among parchments or beneath the hoe upon the field, or by the sword of our foe...” Arathrandir glanced back towards the village, his eyes surveying the peaceful homes in distant recognition, the sword at his side now rendering him more an outsider, more isolated than before. Yet without discomfort, without woe, now there was but an acceptance of the path that led before him “You know which outcome, I would rather, Aethrid"
There were no words to meet his own, nor ears to hear them, for even as his eyes turned back, the figure had gone, again without footsteps heard or the slightest disturbance of the silent night. The Captain ran his hand across his eyes, the other at the hilt of his blade almost without thought, and watched, ever at duty, across the wilderness for the light of dawn.
Part 4 - A Simpler Departure
The whole village appeared to have come to watch his departure, as though it were an event of considerable importance between the daily toils and routines. Young and old alike stood upon either side of the path, offering parcels of bread and meats, wrapped in cloth, as he passed, their kindness touching him with each offer. His departure from Minas Tirith had been unseen, there had been no ceremony, no crowds on that day. His arrival and departure may have been swift, but in those passing days these people had shown him more generosity and hospitality than he had ever received in a lifetime of service to Minas Tirith. Perhaps it was simply that they revered his stature, his countenance of distant lordship, but he felt that even if he had been but a peasant seeking refuge these people of Rohan would have treated him much the same. He had always thought the Rohirrim uncouth, little more than savage dogs, yet having now met and spoken among them, he could see only a reflection of the men of Gondor; Proud, strong, stubborn men yet unlike those men of Gondor, these men feared death less, and feared old age and infirmity more. He was gladdened to have relieved himself of the burden of rumour, glad to have met with his own dark eyes the peoples that would, were it to come to it, ride before the walls of Minas Tirith as allies.
As he came to the end of the crowd the familiar face of Aethrid came into view, a shallow smile marking the face behind the golden grey beard. Behind him, a tan brown horse, saddled and burdened with baggage, neighed at the approach of the Captain.
“Arathrandir” Aethrid stepped forward, bowing his head for the final time to the man that had been at first prisoner and now a friend “It has been our honour to have welcomed you, it is our honour to see you depart, for your presence here has given many to speak of for countless months”
Arathrandir laughed softly, tossing his cloak across his shoulder with a deft and graceful motion of his arm “My thanks to you, Aethrid, and to your people. I have found some comfort in your lands, though not comfort enough to keep me. Ever shall I remember your people and the truth within the hearts of Men of Rohan”
Aethrid nodded slowly, his hand tightening about the reins of the the tan horse behind, the civility and courtesy of departure met by both host and guest. The people beyond began to drift away, their interest waning now the goodbyes had been said, they would gossip and chatter about the stranger for many days to come, there was no need to await the final departure, for they would hear that from those who stayed.
“Your horse, Aethrid, are you riding with me?” The Gondorian smiled, yet the smile was a well practised deception, a mask to his thoughts, a mask oft used on the battlefield to show his men fearlessness and humour in the face of death and defeat. He was as a shadow of himself upon the field, a featureless emotionless portrayal of himself, at least in the eyes of those watching him. In his heart still beat the fear and concern of any other man, he had but become accustomed and skilled at controlling such emotion on his face.
“No, my friend” Aethrid returned the smile, unaware of the insincerity of the Gondorians “I ride East for Edoras. The approach of the Dunlanders has unsettled many of the villages along the Swanfleet, it may not be long before they seek to take back their lands of old. The King must be warned of this threat”
“Of course. Then I wish you good speed, my friend, and perhaps we may someday meet again” Arathrandir pulled himself atop his steed, releasing the sword at his belt and strapping it tightly, hilt to fore, upon the pack at the side of his horse. His dark eyes, now without the weariness that had marked him on arrival, stared north beyond the river, toward the mountains, surveying and studying the path before him.
“Ride well this day, Arathrandir. Do not go North alone, that will take you to Dunland” Aethrid climbed atop his tan stallion with ease and familiarity that made the Gondorian's attempt look clumsy “Ride North-West, there is a crossing to the Isen before the meeting of the rivers. Keep on that heading until you reach the Greyflood River. When you reach the river, follow it North-East to Tharbad, from there you will be able to cross in ease and the road North is without much concern”
With those final words, and a flourish of his hand, Aethrid's steed turned and galloped to the East, the motion of the horse and man as one, a bond between them that matched Arathrandir's companionship with his sword, yet greater still. He watched as the distant rider disappeared over the rolling hills, a smile on his lip, this time sincere, to see such a sight. With a kick of his heels, his own horse began its steady pace North. His head not turning back to the village behind despite the urging in his heart to return a gaze to the place of solitude, of freedom, of comfort.
