1: Four Feet in the Morning
He progresses from crawling to horseback with almost no break in-between; so goes the old joke, that 'these Rohirrim are more comfortable on four legs than two!'
Can he deny it? He was at ease from his first ride, his father's voice for once level with his, teaching, reassuring.
"We men are clumsy creatures. Did you see your brother trip over yesterday and spill the good wine? Yes, I know it was amusing, but it proves a point. Two legs, son, that's the problem. Lencten here will not stumble. You will always be safe with her."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
2: Two Feet at Noon
There is no room for comfort or promises in war. He watches men and horses stumble, never to get up again. Their mounts seem almost bipedal, rearing on hind legs to dodge an attack, to intimidate, to crush a skull.
There is no room also for the joy of the ride: fields stretching, untouched, how is the wind today? The steady build from walk to trot to rushing gallop.
And, of course, sometimes the horses rear and scream simply out of panic. Out of the horror of the ride. They are only horses, after all – and we are only men.
3: Three Feet in the Evening
His horse is lame. What would this matter to so many others? My sword is notched, my boots are worn through. My water-skin has split.
He knows that in Gondor, at least – how far I have ridden, Father! – a horse is lame or it is not. It is usable or it is not. Not here. He has done his best, his utmost.
His horse is still lame.
An orc-blade wound to the right foreleg. A Rohirric sword across the throat. Cause and effect. He is walking her one last time through the fields, and these thoughts are both unthinkable and unavoidable.
"I am still not afraid." He says quietly, but out loud; as if he is giving an answer.