Orthaldir sighed as he stepped from blaring sun into merciful shade. His head throbbed still, despite the medicine he had drunk. Orthochron stood waiting for him, and regarded him with silent judgment.
"Yes, I know," Orthaldir grimaced. "A hungover man makes a poor leader. But we do not choose each other, do we?'' He patted Orthochron's shoulder. ''Let us take a restful day, and I will make it up to you on the morrow."
Orthochron blew air through his nose, but suffered himself to be led to the tack-room. Orthaldir chose his light saddle, with its matching green blanket, rather than the heavy war-saddle. As he arranged the tack, Orthochron turned, poking and fumbling at a bag hanging from Orthaldir's belt.
Orthaldir laughed, and gently pushed Orthocron's head away. ''No. The treats are for later. For training, if we ever get to it."
Orthochron swung his head back around, butting his nose into Orthaldir's side.
"Hmph." Orthaldir untied the bag and drew out an oatcake studded with chunks of apple. He broke it in half and held one half out, palm flat. "Beggar."
Orthochron took it, and chewed as Orthaldir fixed the remaining tack into place. After a final check (and when the treat was entirely gone), Orthaldir stepped up onto the mounting block and swung his leg over Orthochron's back. Orthochron stamped, and both took a moment to settle and steady to the other. Then Orthochron huffed, ready.
Orthaldir took up the reins. Orthochron stepped forth, walking with little instruction the familiar route to the practice field. Orthaldir was glad for that, as he shied from the sun and the reminder of his aching head. He mumbled reproach to himself for it, and laid hand to the reins, directing Orthochron past the training field, out into the city, and out through the great new gates of green Erebor stone, now almost finished.
New grass, green and tender, coated the Pelennor. Orthaldir swung from the saddle a little ways from the gates, as they reached the edge of a stretch beneath the wall that had once grown half-wild. He patted the side of his leg and held out his hand, commanding Orthochron to follow. Though spring's first wildflowers peeped through the grass, black husks of trees stood in place of copses. Orthaldir halted by one of the few trees that still gave cooling shade. He turned, and removed the bit from Orthochron's mouth. "Do not go far."
Orthochron shook his head, jangling the bride and halter. He lowered his head to sample a few leaves from a nearby bush.
Orthaldir stepped into the shade, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. The headache was at last beginning to fade. He regretted the wine he had drunk last night - and then again, he did not. Not truly. The burden of the unmentionable weighed lighter in his chest.
He had no secrets - but some things simply were not to be discussed.
He sat at the base of the tree, legs sprawled, and gazed out across the field. He could see the scars of war everywhere - destroyed buildings, barren fields, great scorch marks where entire trees had been set alight to burn the foul bodies of the enemy dead. But some fields were green, and some houses patched, and the sun shone in the blue sky. Golden Orthochron trotted a circle. Orthaldir smiled for the sight of a great destrier prancing for spring's joy. Yes, Minas Tirith would be rebuilt, and her people returned to her. Like the woman he drank with.
His smile waned into thoughtfulness. A strange woman. A woman fallen in so many ways - into shame, into scandal, from favor, into melancholy, into illness. He pitied her, of course, and worried for her, as was only natural. She wanted neither. She had once been proud. But more, she was intriguing. The shifting layers of emotion in her eyes echoed the outlines of her past. He could guess at their shape. That should have been enough. She was hardly appropriate company for a noble son, reformed or not! Yet…
He stood, restless, and strode out to catch up with Orthochron. He called out to the horse, who stopped where he was. Orthaldir halted also. "Come!" he called, voice pleasant, encouraging, "Return to me. Come, come!" Slowly, Orthochron turned and plodded towards him. "Good, good. Good lad." Orthaldir offered another treat, and felt his warm breath and brushing whiskers as Orthochron took it. Orthaldir rubbed Orthochron's neck, praising as he led the horse to a stone to mount from. He replaced the bit in Orthochron's mouth, and mounted.
The exercises were rote by now. Each command reiterated and reinforced. Going into a charge and pulling out of it (useless on a battlefield, but the skill was important). Riding increasingly complex patterns across the fields at speed. And all through, the constant focus, I know the way, I am the leader, you will follow me. He pressed his will upon it, held calm and confident and precise.
She remained in the back of his mind. Her discomfiting discernment and probing questions. Her shocking admissions bewildered him. Her wilting fragility and fear he loathed and pitied. Her core of strength, long dulled, was evident still. And her quiet listening. Her acceptance.
He commanded Orthochron to return, directing him towards the green stone gate again as the sun began to dip from its height.
He had called her friend. He did not regret that.
