Hello! I understand the growing concern with the large number of Lord of the Rings fanfiction becoming slightly AU. I don't think Tolkien wanted his novels to become pulp fiction, but to embrace the spirit of adventure in an entirely new realm of imagination. Also, I was just a little concerned with Legolas being cocerced into many LegolasxOC stories (OC being the author/friend/devious fangirl), so I decided to write something a little different.
Another thing is we don't see much of Théodred, except for his dead body in the movie. So let's bring that to life!
Middle Earth and everything LoTR belongs to J. R. R. Tolkien. The characters and plot are mine. I don't believe in plagarism. Tolkien deserves more than that.
The Outcasts
Prologue
I could hardly feel the whip of the wind fiercely bite my face and uncomfortably wedge its way to my extremities and underneath the coarse fabric of my riding cloak.
At last, I slowed down marginally to cross the shallow Fords of Isen to reach the Gap of Rohan. Pebbles crumbled under my mare Stonefoot and the narrow muddy stream gurgled quietly. The River Isen could be crossed only at the Fords, greatly hindering the progress of my journey. I wondered if Cedric had already passed this crossing point.
The fog held close to the damp ground and the greyness of the Fords mingled with the stream. While my mare continued his slower pace, I felt a sinister presence laughing in the stream, perhaps Saruman himself, as if only fate would rule the night.
Why did I lack courage when it mattered the most anyway? Even though I was no rider, the Mark would surely curse me if they saw the cowardice thoughts that ran through my head.
I set that thought aside. Matters of heart were so dreadfully depressing.
I saw the orcs overtaking me crushing me with their crude weapons leaving me, a bloody corpse, floating limply in the Fords. They were laughing in their cruel manner at my fallen efforts as the Fords would soon be filled with the blood of men. Our riders, brave men of the Mark sent ahead only to be brutally murdered.
But Rohan did not have a choice in this time of war. The red sun was still high in the sky. Peace would not arrive for quite a while.
Ceorl had sent two of his swiftest messengers to deliver instructions regarding reinforcement from the Westfold. We were sent to deliver a change of plans for the Second Marshall of the Mark and the Westfold. In reality, Cedric, Ædelfrid, and I were just merely messengers, not nearly as trained as riders of Riddermark.
You may be wondering how a noble-borne lady got mixed into the menace that was war. The circumstances are very peculiar if I do say so myself. It began when my mother, Lady Ailessa, wife of Lord Feyworth, took it upon herself to send me off to Gondor for reasons that to this day I do not know. The only hardship I initially encountered was stumbling through Westron and the prim and proper etiquette of the nobles who were caught in vicious diplomatic games. I could bore you with the details, but there is little I enjoy discussing about my past besides my dwelling in Dol Amroth and my duty as a messenger and my service to Princess Lothiriel who remained herself in spite of the changing world about herself.
We were his last choice, his only choice, since the other six messengers had been situated in the Eastfold, more than six days of hard riding away. They had their own tasks with the other Marshals for reinforcements or simply maintaining correspondence as scouts.
There was a sudden noise that broke the tranquility of the night. A horn distinctive of the start of an orc raid. Howling sounds of bloodlust came from a less than an hour away. The ominous feeling of the Fords of Isen at night became all too real when I heard that abhorrent sound.
That would mean only one thing—that I had been too late.
If I were venture farther, I might find myself crushed between two forces. There was a frightening possibility that I could not avoid the impact zone, but I could at least attempt to deliver the message.
Hordes of orcs were rising in the distant hills over the Fords and some forces would be along both banks in hardly any time at all.
I wished that the swift currents of the River Isen would flood the Fords and burst open the wicked Gate of Isengard. That it would wipe away Isengard and its orc armies for good. In doing so, cleanse Middle Earth of evil and restore it to greater peace and prosperity. An impossible and simplistic thought. No force of nature could change the path of the current, unless the dam was broken.
Instinctively, I gripped the reins of my mare harder and leaned in as Stonefoot and I hurtled in the direction of the Westfold. The iron-clad hooves of Stonefoot beat loudly on the rocky path. She was never meant to be a warhorse and did not enjoy metal attached to her hooves, but it was an ill thing to bear and grow used to when in the service of a messenger. A tree branch whipped the air scarcely above my head. In fair sunlight, avoiding branches was hardly a concern for one who had spent so much time with a mare.
The presence of riders was evident along a brief grassy knoll. Almost there.
A line of riders appeared at the top of the hill as I slowed my pace considerably. Movement of riders from the other side of the hill distracted me from the riders that surrounded me in an abrupt formation. The éored looked like they were in the process of leaving.
One rider with distinctive armor approached me. His flowing blond hair contrasted with his severe expression. The weathered features of his face revealed he had experienced the wartime horrors too many times.
"I am Grimbold of Grimslade," he greeted. "Who are you? And what brings you here in the Mark?"
Slightly offended by his brusque manner, I realized he was probably facing worse problems than I was. Retaining a tactful politeness that I offered my superiors, I responded accordingly.
"Hail Captain Grimbold. I am Airelyn of Edoras, in the service of Ceorl. I bear urgent news from Erkenbrand," I informed him.
"What reports do you bring?" he enquired. "I have little time for this. It is an ill time to bear news."
All eyes were on me. Based on how laden my satchel had become, there was much work left for me in the Westfold. Were it not for the interesting sorts of people that I meet in the Mark, transporting domestic correspondence within the Mark would be a task both tedious and mundane. Presently, it was too dangerous for me to move between the Riddermark and Gondor so I was confined to tasks throughout Rohan exclusively. Retrieving a bunch of letters tied together with a piece of twine, I quickly identified the correct parchment and handed him the paper.
"It is better if you read it yourself," I stated.
"Very well. This is the handwriting of Ceorl," he observed. His eyes scanned the letter and his mouth was set in a firm line.
To my relief, the attention shifted back to Grimbold. His riders awaited his reaction.
"Thank you for the news," he responded with a frown. "It simply reiterates that I cannot linger any longer. My éored must ride out to meet with the Second Marshall about the change in plans."
Carefully, he folded the letter and placed it somewhere on his saddle.
He gave me a strange expression, probably that I did not appear to look like any rider he had ever seen. Perhaps it was because I never removed my hood. Or the fact that most messengers were scouts who were in turn riders. A broad generalization that I unfortunately did not fit in.
It is strange actually. Despite the acceptance of women as shieldmaiden for self-defence in the Riddermark unlike most kingdoms, it would be better for me to be a man in my profession. In that regard, none would question my validity upon meeting me for the first time in the middle of my duties as a messenger.
"Well, if you have no further news, I suggest you head back to Erkenbrand for your safety. A woman should not bear the burdens of the riders. You have no further business here," he commanded.
Having never been at odds with the éoreds, I was surprised how he dealt with me compared to the first time I had met them. It was evident that I just needed to spend more time in the Mark rather than Gondor. After all, I had only spent two summers here in the Westfold since I was back from Gondor.
Still, Grimbold served an important purpose for the good of the Riddermark so I duly added, "Béma be with you and with the Second Marshall," ere shifting a short distance away to watch.
Nodding in my direction, he acknowledged my farewell. However, he seemed more preoccupied with his éored.
"Riders of the Mark," he called out instructions to his men. "Let us be on our way. Théodred son of Théoden-King needs us at this very moment. We are to hold the Fords against the darkness of Saruman until reinforcements from Elfheim arrive.
The authority by which Grimbold spoke captured the attention of all. I was deeply impressed. The faces of the riders, young and old, varying in their experience in war, all focused on their Captain.
Though not losing his commanding tone, his voice grew solemn as he continued, "Do not fear the darkness that lies ahead. We are the Eorlinglas. Let this ride be for the families and for the Mark. May the Armies of Saruman be crushed under our feet. Tonight, we ride for the Mark."
His voice rose sharply throughout his short speech, eventually reaching an angry shout. In hopes of fighting to protect their families, Prince Theodred, and the Riddermark, they all shouted in response. Agony, pain, and revenge were evident on the riders' faces. The civilization of the Mark would make their final stand against the barbarian forces of Saruman.
It brought me renewed hope to see them off and extinguished some of my fears. Riding off to the side, I watched them leave.
There was a thundering of hooves and a billowing of dust. Then, they were fading in the distance.
A future in the hands of young, a family to attend to for the middle-aged, and posterity for the faces of the old. They all had a family, a home, and a kingdom to look after. Secretly, I envied how welcome they would be upon return because my cousin Warren might be the only one that would receive me warmly. We used to be very close as children, writing frequently when I was away in Gondor, but with age and distance, we had grown apart.
Yet now, I could not compare my meager deeds as a messenger to the acts of bravery by the riders I reminded myself.
Sincerely, I prayed for their safe return. Wartime brought casualties and often slaughtered the most valiant of men.
As I started back to the Mark, I gingerly soothed Stonefoot by rubbing gentle strokes on rigid muscles of her neck. At the same time, I wondered if they had a house of healing. Surely, they must where they established their fort. But what if it was a great distance away? The wounded traveling a journey that could mean a certain death without timely treatment.
Reaching under my cloak, I patted my medicine bag. The Princess of Dol Amroth had given it to me as a parting gift for my service and companionship. The familiar worn leather skins sewn neatly together had saved the lives of many in Gondor by the hands of Lothiriel. Alongside other healers, she aided the Gondorian men with remarkable compassion when they returned from battle, restoring their spirits and their morale. She had taught me the techniques of salves and balms, allowing me to offer my aid as well. Fragrant herbs of sage, thyme, rosemary, and various others drifted to my nose as I opened it. Throughout my diverse travels and acquaintances, the variety of exotic herbs and plants grew. Fortunately, it was rare that I ever needed to use them on my journeys.
My decision was made. Ceorl could wait. Even the consequences of directly disobeying Grimbold's orders could wait. It was time to save the lives of my countrymen.
Turning Stonefoot around, I set off towards the deep violet of the dusk after Grimbold. By maintaining a decent pace, I could reach the éoreds soon enough. Preferably, after the orcs had left. It would not be long ere I could battle the evil forces of Saruman in my own way.
Hope you like. :)
At times, I became pretty bored with writing in olden terms. So there are occasional deviations (laziness of my part) in the language.
If you ever looked up the history of the First Battle of the Fords of Isen, I know the time scale does not quite coordinate with the story. So you'll have to overlook that for the moment. All the geography for the battle should be right though (I hope).
I'll admit I'm pretty ignorant of the languages and history of Middle Earth in extensive detail. A lot of research went into this. So if you see any errors, feel free to tell me about them before I embarrass myself further.
Leave a review if you have a question or comment.