Chapter Twenty-One: Consequences

Edoras, elven years prior…

"Today, gentlemen, is a monumental day. For today is the day when your training reaches its most critical point. For you, failure today is not an option. For if you do fail today, your training will cease. Meaning you will have wasted the past five years of your lives. Do not fail the last five years of your lives, gentlemen!" The stable master turned on his heel as he reached the end of the line of young men, all standing silently to attention before him. "The most spectacular thing about today, gentlemen, is…"

Birshen shivered and stopped hearing the diatribe. The sun did not yet touch the stable yard, the bulk of the Meduseld blocking its warming rays. High above them, the bare crests of the mountains caught the early summer sunrise and flamed in its glory. It was beautiful, and he could not stop his gaze drifting upwards to watch it, blocking out the continued speech.

"Why are we even still here?" A hushed whisper from over his shoulder he knew to be Théodred, excitement making his voice jitter to the brink of too loud.

"No idea." Éomer this time, directly behind Birshen and beside his cousin. "By the time this idiot's finished his raving, the light will be gone and all anyone will have caught is colds."

"And by his reckoning, it'd be our faults, too."

The stable master still patrolled the front of the rows of boys, all standing to attention but with vacant eyes. Behind him, even the tacked horses in their stalls began to nicker with impatience.

The other two boys murmured their agreement to Théodred's remark.

"Anyway," Éomer whispered, a mark in his tone indicating a change of subject. "Have you seen what's latched on?"

Birshen frowned in confusion. "What do you mean, 'latched on'?"

Théodred made a sound of disgust at the back of his throat. "You mean that leech Gríma."

Really? Birshen had always known Gríma to be sickly – something about soft bones and poor health – and so far as he was aware, he was holed up in old Tildan's healing quarters, and he said as much to his companions.

"Well for some reason, they've let him out," Éomer returned. "He's coming on the ride, I heard. Look left to the end of your line, Birshen. See him?"

Birshen could not see without turning his head and craning it back. A chance glance when Hallen was facing the other way, and sure enough, there he was…

At the very end of the line stood a meek looking boy with sour skin and oily black hair, standing out amongst the rows of boys with the straw-coloured hair of the Rohirrim. His mother was of Rohan, but there was speak that she had lain with a traveller from Gondor, producing his odd colouring. Although, it was also said his sickly health and weak demeanour were marks of his being a bastard, that his mother was being punished for her open ways. As for Birshen, he did not know what to think: he rarely consorted with him himself. Gríma was not the kind of boy to be associated with, an outcast who was not tolerated by any of his own generation. He was renowned as a snitch, and too many otherwise harmless misadventures had been ruined by his need to please their elders. It always seemed to surprise him that no-one wanted him around. Perhaps if he stopped his snivelling ways, he would-

"BIRSHEN!"

The stable master was right in front of him, pinning him with a glare that could melt the deepest mountain snows. Seeing the glare darken, Birshen realised he was returning the look, and quickly snapped his stare forward. "Yes, Stable Master Hallen?"

"What did I just say?"

"That today is a monumental day, Stable Master Hallen. But – you were saying - whilst it is a monumental day, we must still be vigilant, because Wildmen have been sighted in the March, Stable Master Hallen."

Hallen's brow smoothed with marked disappointment. "Yes," he grudgingly ceded, tone clipped. "It would be pleasant if you could do me the honour of keeping your clearly strained attention on me when I am speaking." Something nasty flickered in his eyes. "Surely even one as low born as you can span to that."

Birshen felt colour prick hot at his cheeks. Don't rise to it. "Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, Stable Master Hallen."

Even though the only real show of his anger was a tint of red on Birshen's face, the smirk Hallen gave the boy showed he had still gleaned some satisfaction from his insult. The man walked on and finally shouted his permission for the group to mount their horses. Birshen released a heavy breath through his nose, clenching his fists at his sides as he moved off with the rest of the boys to the stables. Éomer and Théodred were quick to join him.

"Don't worry about him," Théodred consoled.

"The man's a hinny's arse," Éomer added. The group of boys filtered into the east wing of the stables, where all the schooling horses were stalled. The stables were immense, housing over two hundred animals all in individual stalls. The scents of warm hay and healthy animal mixed with the dust to form the smells of home. Birshen loved being in the stables, relishing the contact with the horses and the good, solid sense of having worked that came from stable duties. It was a passion that spanned to him from his father, and he dreamed of having his own war horse stalled in this magnificent structure. These school horses were their animals for now, but, as of – hopefully – their return home, they would be passed on to the next new recruits.

"Hey, listen," Éomer's voice dropped to a conspiring whisper. "Did you know his toenails have all fallen off?"

Birshen almost snorted. "How do you know that?"

"I have my sources," he said with a grin as he tightened his horse's girth strap. "Too long riding in the same pair of rotten boots, apparently. Sticks wood shavings on when he's courting."

"That's not true!"

"How d'you know?" Éomer challenged Théodred back, uncoupling the rope of his horse's stall and leading him out. "Three silver pieces to the one who finds out."

"You don't have three silver pieces."

"Not right now, no. But I can get them. I've got-" Éomer stopped dead when he almost collided with Gríma, stood right in the path of the way out, his own animal in hand. His stick-like body looked completely lost in the solid leather training armour, a snail with a too-large shell. Théodred and Birshen stopped what they were doing, staring at the weed of a boy whose eyes darted between them all, excitement raising his hairless brow as he listened to what they said. A thin trail of snot was slowly creeping for his mouth, and his tongue darted out in anticipation of receiving it.

"What do you want?" Théodred demanded, bringing his own horse out to stand beside his cousin.

"Who are you talking about?" Gríma's insipid eyes were wide for a throw of gossip, clearly desperate to become a part of whatever it was the other three boys were doing.

"No-one you know," Éomer fired back, his usually warm tone icy. "Get out of our faces."

"Oh, I can't do that," Gríma replied with a smile. "Stable Master Hallen says I am to ride with you three today. For talking in the ranks."

Éomer rolled his eyes at his cousin. Because of their high birth and the stable master's warped regard of status, he would not reprimand Éomer and Théodred in front of the other training warriors. Birshen was a comfortable vent for him, upon whose shoulders he gladly shed his ire with the other two … but this was his way ofmaking them pay, and they knew it. The thing was, having Gríma with them – who was unpractised in almost every field – meant that they ran the risk of not catching their horses today. There lay the real punishment, and all three found a new sense of hatred for the man.

Éomer and Théodred did not contest what Gríma told them. Instead, they gestured the sickly boy to guide his animal to the yard, following themselves when Birshen was ready. But as Gríma led his horse to the mounting block, Théodred made the other two hang back…

"He can't become a Rider of the Mark. Just look at him-"

They did, just in time to see Gríma struggling to make his horse stand still long enough to mount – only for the saddle to nearly flip him into the steps because he had not tightened the girth. He proceeded to fight with the buckle, a queue of impatient riders flinging glares at him, irritated that they were being forced to wait for something that should have been done in the stables.

"Do you want him to be in your éored?"

Éomer shook his head. "I don't want him in anyone's éored."

Something in the way the conversation was going did not sit too well with Birshen, tolls of caution ringing in his head. He did not know why, and he never would, but he kept his tongue still, even when Théodred continued: "Let's make sure he doesn't."

-(())-

"Gríma! Will you keep up!"

Éomer rolled his eyes at Théodred's repeated order, ignoring the fretting expression on Gríma's face as he spurred his horse with more force than was really called for. The brilliant early morning sunlight washed his dour skin of all colour, save for the high flush the exertion of riding brought out in his cheeks. They were doing their level best to make him reflect on his decision to join them as a poor one. If he could not keep up with them out here, they had said, how did he expect to keep up with an éored? The two young lords of Rohan spoke loudly of fighting and past battles with a vigour that even excluded Birshen. Every word was carefully selected to wring every last drop of confidence from the unpopular boy, and it was all Birshen could do to not allow that small slither of pity writhing in his gut to become more substantial.

Birshen did not partake in his friends' forceful badgering of their unwanted companion. His attention was elsewhere, focused on the reason they were out in the untamed lands in the first place…

Somewhere out here, under the endless blue sky, their future mounts roamed wild and free. In true Rohirric tradition, the budding young warriors rode out into the wilds of their lands to catch their new horses, specially-bred animals that had been allowed to mature away from the hand of man. Each rider trained their horse themselves and eventually they would serve together in defence of the realm. The bond between rider and mount was what gave the Rohirrim their strength: there were tales of horses who guarded their mortally wounded masters, even horses who braved the horrors of the battlefield to search for their fallen riders. The men likewise loved their horses as they did their brothers-at-arms, and there was little that could stop them defending their beasts to the death. Such bonds were legendary, and every aspiring horseman dreamed of forming such an unbreakable tie and joining the ranks of the remembered. For the small company of Birshen and his friends, even for their unwanted companion, this was the beginning of manhood…

But first, they had to find them…

The sun climbed, peaked, began its decent, its arcing passage highlighting their lack of success as it started dragging their shadows out before them. Their necks tingled with heat under the thickness of their warrior tails, and they had stopped chastising their horses long ago for their depleting enthusiasm. Even badgering Gríma had fallen beyond their interest. All tracks they had come across were from shod horses, each imprint bringing the tracking lads a high and instant low. The likelihood of finding their future mounts was waning with the coming setting of the day: as Birshen threw a look to the sky, he judged they had another four hours of good sunlight left. Not long at all in such an open landscape.

The old track their horses followed descended between two shoulders of buckled land, high enough to enclose the riders momentarily. Despite being closed off from the direct sun, the funnel of stone was hot even in the shade, channelling the scant breeze that pushed heated air against their backs. Ahead, they knew the path would twist east and open into a deep bole with a stream at the far side. The sides were not sheer – a horse could easily climb them – but the world beyond was not visible. It was a place where horses were known to shelter in rough weather … it might be a scorching hot day with the kind of heat that could not be escaped, but it was worth a look. The hooves of Éomer's horse clacked against loose stone as he navigated the blind bend, leading the way. At least they could water their mounts at-

"Hold!"

Birshen and Théodred stopped, enclosed by the walls of the path with no view of what Éomer could see. Gríma had not caught up yet, still some way back.

"What? What is it?"

"Horses!" Éomer whispered back excitedly. "We've found them! Come out behind me, slowly!"

He pushed his horse through the opening, the other two following and fitting their animals beside him when he came to a halt. The three of them felt the excitement of the hunt filling them again, their bodies awakening in anticipation of the chase at the sight of the herd not one hundred yards from them. This was perfect, they could never hope for a better setup-

Théodred huffed, physically slumping in his saddle. "You're such an idiot, Éomer."

Éomer threw him a dark scowl. "No I'm not! …Why?"

"Because that's a wild herd," said the prince, throwing a dismissive hand at the suddenly obvious foal that emerged from behind its mother. The horses they hunted were captive-bred and in small herds of their own age and sex. Here was a stallion with five mares and a foal, the very lifeblood of their lands and their culture, but very much not what they had come for.

While the herd was seemingly at rest grazing, the stallion's ever-watchful eye surveyed all around him, the wind whipping his mane against the thick muscles of his neck. Sunlight skimmed over his rich bay hide as it might over water as he moved between his mares, graceful yet mighty. He lifted his head high, catching the scent of the intruders on the air and turning to pin them unerringly with an unblinking stare. Ears flicked from curiously forward to lying back in threat in a breath. That magnificent head lowered, accenting the promised speed and dangerous power in his sleek form. If the boys were close enough to read the signs of his disquiet, then they were close enough for him to do something about it, and that was a very dangerous situation to be in.

They should leave, and quickly.

"Come on," Birshen sighed, beginning to turn his horse's head back whence they had come. "Let's go-"

"No, wait a moment," Théodred's voice was suddenly hushed and conspiring, snagging on the curiosity of the other two. "We can use this…"

Éomer rolled his eyes at his cousin's dramatic and mysterious words, keen to be leaving and resuming their ill-fated quest. "What are you talking about, Théodred? I'm hot, I'm tired, and I'm bloody fed up."

"We can use this to get rid of Worm! Use the stallion, scare him off."

Dread settled fast and heavy in Birshen's gut. "Whatever you're thinking, Théodred, it's a bad idea…"

"You don't want him around just as much as us," Théodred said with impatience. "We'll scare him off, nothing more. No-one'll get hurt, he'll slither back down into his hole, and we won't have to deal with him anymore."

The last horse was coming up on their group, he was nearly with them-

Birshen leaned over in his saddle, trying to pin his most serious stare on his friend. "You'll get us all dismissed!" he hissed. "It's a stupid idea. What if-?"

"I did it weeks ago," Théodred suddenly declared loudly, flinging Birshen's worry aside and plunging all three of them into his plan with no warning. "Being the king's son, it was only right that I go first."

"What?" That voice, that grating sound they all so abhorred, piqued with interest at the story he thought he was coming in late on. "What have you done?" Gríma lined his horse at the end of their row, slightly forward so that he could look in all of their faces. Birshen carefully averted his gaze, knowing well how readable his expression was at that time.

Théodred sat back in the saddle, lifting his head with false pride at whatever it was he was about to claim he had done. "Completed the challenge of Léod."

"And I did it just after him," Éomer backed suddenly, an easy and utterly convincing grin on his face. "Birshen was last to do it because he was scared, but he did it in the end."

The challenge of Léod? Birshen struggled to recall who Léod was … his lessons came back to him, and he knew who Léod was: the legendary leader of the Éothéod. He was a character who fell far, far beyond living memory. There was something about Léod that he could not remember, something that had happened to him… But the challenge of Léod? Birshen flung him a glare at implicating him in their tale. To say he desired no part in this, he could see his friends taking him with them every step of the way, and he felt blinded as he strained to remember why Léod was significant to their story.

"But what did you do?" Those insipid eyes flitted over each face, naked brows reaching for his thin grease-slicked curtains. Even above the warm scent of horse, Birshen caught wafts of dirty hair coming to him, enhanced in potency every time the other boy moved his head fast enough to shift the lank sheets surrounding his face. Despite the well of pity in his heart, Birshen found it impossible to not feel repulsed.

Gríma was oblivious to Birshen's dislike, and was so desperate for information, he allowed the thin trail descending from his nose to continue down his face unchecked. Birshen suppressed a shudder and averted his gaze. No. He did not want to ride with Gríma.

The prince and the king's nephew pretended not to notice, lavishing Gríma with their full attention, attention Gríma was clearly relishing, by the brightness of his eyes. Théodred raised a brow in mock disbelief. "You don't know about the challenge of Léod?" He threw a derisive snort at the wind, a sound that rebuffed Gríma's happiness at being included and putting him back below them. "Every rider of Rohan has completed it. It's the true mark of a horseman." Théodred looked sharply into Gríma's eyes. "You can't truly belong with an éored if you don't do it."

Doubt swam in the meek boy's eyes, the keenness of his desire to be accepted faltering. "But … I've never heard-"

"Of course you haven't heard of it," Éomer interjected testily, as though Gríma's lack of comprehension irritated him. "It's a rite of passage of men, not something your wet nurse tells you about when she's wiping your backside."

"But what is it?"

Yes, Birshen silently asked. What is it?

A look – fleeting, subtle – between the two boys, then: "You have to ride a wild stallion."

The blood drained from Birshen's face. The challenge of Léod … now he remembered. Léod had been killed by a wild stallion he had tried to tame. His son, Eorl, had later tamed the horse, and the stallion had fathered the line of the Mearas. So the legend said, anyway…

The real stallion before them threw his head again, pawing the grass with ill-tempered intent.

Had hordes of the enemy swarmed over the ridge, Gríma could not look more afraid. Clearly, he knew of the legend as well. What scant colour there was to his face drained. His entire body bowed, shrinking into himself, as though the very thought of such an act could hurt him. "And you've … done … you've done that?"

Théodred was right: Gríma would never attempt the imaginary task they had just detailed to him, and Birshen suddenly found that he had no issue with nodding his head with the other two. This plan that had seemed so dark a minute earlier was suddenly unthreatening. Just a tale, a tale to get rid of an unwanted pest…

"Don't worry, Gríma," Éomer consoled lightly. "You shouldn't feel shamed by it. Not everyone's good enough to- NO!"

It could only have taken a handful of moments, but they were enough to scar Birshen's conscience for the rest of his life. He was enveloped in a trap of disbelief and horror, hearing Éomer and Théodred's panicked shouts whilst able to say nothing himself, forgetting to draw breath and powerless to even blink:

Gríma charged his horse at the herd with the reckless abandon of desperation. The mares bolted, kicking dust clouds at the gangly foal running after them with frightened squeals-

And from the depths of the dust, surging forward with a bellow like a herald of death to protect his herd, the dark bay of the stallion, driving at their attacker with all his power. Gríma's horse balked, spooked by the threat imposed by the bigger animal but not fast enough to escape the stallion's anger. He reared, lashing out violently as the smaller horse spun right in his path, trying to get away from his hooves…

Birshen found his voice again when Gríma's cries of terror warped into a shredding scream of pain. He saw the hooves smash into Gríma's back with awful power, saw the other boy fall from the saddle and face down into the dust…

There Gríma stayed. Silent, and very, very still.

-(())-

The three friends waited in silence. Evening was starting to clutch a little more jealously at the light, throwing deepening shadows about the room. Through the open window behind the littered desk, the sun began its glorious and showy farewell. But the boys could not spare a thought for the spectacle of the fading day, their minds too trapped by the immense scale of trouble they were in.

King Théoden listened intently to the healer's quietly-spoken words. Old Tildan had come straight from the healing wing to offer the king a detailed report of Gríma's condition. That was all they had heard about his visit to the king's quarters, for he spoke with the king and only the king, keeping his voice low. The healer talked at length and the king said little, his head bowed and fingers absently fondling his beard as he listened intently to the report. Standing at ease a respectful distance from his lord, was Gamling. The man was a mountain of muscle and strength, and he kept the three boys fixed with an unblinking iron stare that could make a mountain troll turn tail.

At last, the king lifted his head, giving the healer thanks as Tildan bowed and excused himself, raising his voice for their benefit to say he must tarry no longer, as his patient needed him.

Théoden passed them an unreadable looked as he reached his desk, filling an empty goblet with a healthy measure from the bottle beside it. A waft of brandy reached Birshen's senses, hot and strong. He wished for some himself, yearning for anything that might calm the clamouring panic in his head.

"I am lead to believe," said the king in his quiet and authoritative tone, "that young Master Gríma may never walk again." The king turned to face them, leaning into the table behind him, gently swilling the contents about the goblet. None of the boys could look at him. "What I wish to know is how such a thing could come to pass." He took a sip of his drink, looking between each of them with a weighted stare. "Seeing as there are three of you before me, I live in the hope that a truthful account will be relayed to me. Birshen-" Birshen felt a hot flush sweep over his features as his eyes lifted to meet the king's, nausea wrestling with his gut "-I am told you have excellent powers of recall. I trust you have been taught to report?"

Yes, he had, and his mouth admitted as much, even as his head flew into wild panic. He felt the sideways glances of his friends, and knew beyond doubt that he was about to sink them into an impossible depth of trouble, and that there was absolutely nothing he could do to save them.

"The report of the soldier is a vital tool for a king," King Théoden said. Another mouthful of spirit… "The soldier acts as his eyes and ears where he cannot either reach or be. A king relies on honesty and integrity from his soldiers, and an exact and unabridged account of events. A king expects nothing but the truth from his men. Can I expect such things from you, Birshen?"

"Yes, my King."

"Good." The king gave a wave of his hand as an invitation to speak. "Report."

His tongue felt like a clod of wool, his eyes dipping to somewhere beyond the king as he started to speak. "We … erm-"

"Stand to attention when you address your king!" Gamling barked, iron eyes branding Birshen with anger at his impertinence.

A bolt of rigidity shot down Birshen's spine, his eyes snapping forward at the reprimand. He might be about to betray his friends, but he could not lie to his king, and so Birshen reported with exacting detail. Every action, every word, every step poured from him with perfect precision. As the account progressed, King Théoden's expression grew graver, his eyes turned down and unseeing as he listened, fingers idly swirling the short stuff of his beard again. He broached no interruption, letting Birshen's tale reach its eventual conclusion.

Silence took hold of the room following the end of Birshen's account, until: "Well, I believe congratulations are in order," declared the king, turning to Gamling for approval of his decision. Gamling offered no more than a buck of a laugh from the pit of his stomach before resuming his stony silence.

The three boys shifted with unease and confusion. Surely-

"It seems we have been getting the selection process wrong all these years," King Théoden continued, the jovial mark in his tone distinctly false. "How much council and marshal time we've wasted, selecting the defenders of the realm based on their individual merits. How foolish I see we were now, when the wisdom of three boys of fifteen summers so clearly outstrips our own-" The goblet slammed into the table, amber liquid seemingly fleeing his rage as it splashed wide across the surface. "HOW COMPLETELY STUPID WE ARE!"

All three flinched with the true face of their king's ire.

"Who are you, to decide so damningly on a man's fate? Who do you think you are? Do you know, I left his mother sobbing at his bedside to come and see to you three?"

"We did not think him strong enough to ride as part of an éored, Sire," Éomer said quietly, his usually confident voice meek and subdued in the face of his uncle's anger. "We thought-"

"You thought you could play a cruel trick on a boy you disliked, so you could ensure yourselves free of him," King Théodred snapped. "Well, you have certainly achieved your goal, gentlemen. I have to applaud your methods, they are most effective. Perhaps I should break the back of every man who displeases me in the future and whittle my forces to an elite few!"

Birshen flinched, feeling the other two do likewise. Really? Had Gríma's back really been broken? He recalled his father's words to him once: "The back end of a horse can hurt you, Birshen, but the front end has the power to kill you." Gríma was not dead … but the power of those forefeet, if his back was broken, had effectively done as much. In their moment of foolishness, they had forgotten the wild might of the animal they used so stupidly. What had they done…?

"Every man has a worth," the king continued. "Every man. True leaders see the qualities in their men and adapt them into their fold. Tyrants behave as you have today, and it disgusts me that my own blood show such capabilities."

Théodred and Éomer shifted, their heads raising from their shamed submission. Birshen felt heightened shame radiating from them, washing through the room. "Sire…"

"Be quiet, Éomer." King Théodred sighed, his anger dissipated and replaced with heavy disappointment in what he had to do. "Théodred, Éomer. You are not ready for command training. You both lack the wisdom of true leadership, and the frankly dangerous kinship you share clouds your judgement. You are suspended from training for two years. Upon resuming your lessons, you will train separately. Upon completion of your studies, you will not ride in an éored together."

Not ride together? Birshen felt a stab of upset for his friends … they might be cousins, but they were closer than brothers. All they had ever spoken of was the day when they rode together in their éored. But Birshen had to think of himself when the king's green stare came to him…

"Birshen, your part in this shameful affair is admittedly less than theirs. However, to keep your silence and stand aside in the presence of wrongdoing is just as shameful as being a participant. I care little for such observers, and have no interest in having them serve me…"

Birshen's heart skipped. No, no, please…

"-however, your skills in the healing arts are a valuable asset, and it is those skills that save you today. You will no longer train with Éomer or Théodred."

To Birshen's surprise, the king stepped before him. The scents of brandy and pipe smoke mingled with the fainter aroma of horse and cedar. "Birshen…" Birshen's eyes flitted away, unnerved that his lord should stand so close … but the pull of the king's power drew his reluctant stare back to face the man before him. The anger that had possessed the man mere moments ago was gone. His expression was stern, but not unkind. "I know Théodred and Éomer see you as their equal, and that you are friends. But today, they used their assumed authority and status to ignore you, and you allowed them to do so. Know this: no man is above what is right, and sometimes, it is only through the voice of his subordinates that he hears reason. Do not hold your tongue again."

King Théoden stepped away to his desk, turning his back on them and pouring himself a fresh measure. "Dismissed. Get out of my sight."

-(())-

There were many who loathed the healing wing of the Meduseld. It was chiefly an incorrect fear that told their sense of self-preservation that it was a place of disease, a place where infection was rife and death sat in the shadows. For others, it was the smell. It reminded those less attuned of death and sickness, and it was a place of dread and fear, and so the smells that went with it were repulsive.

To Birshen's more educated senses, he found a walk through the corridors fascinating. He enjoyed catching the varying scents as he passed numerous doors and finding himself mentally identifying the herbs in use, and in turn applying his knowledge to work out what the ailment of the patient was likely to be.

But tonight, his mind was too distracted to pay attention to the herbal aromas. Though his heart quaked at what he would potentially find, he had to see, he had to find out exactly what they had caused…

He had to say he was sorry.

The healing wing of the Meduseld was divided into two, splitting away from a central corridor. To the left, the rooms for the sick. To the right, the rooms for the wounded. He knew that Gríma would be in one of the latter rooms. As it was, that section of the wing was largely unoccupied. The corridor sconces pooled their light into the open doorways of empty chambers, meeting with nothing more than darkness. There were only two closed doors, their own light spilling under the doors. With a light knock, he listened for a response. When he received none, Birshen pushed gently on the door, only to find a badly wounded soldier asleep in his bed, his torso a mess of bandages. A hound on the floor beside the bed lifted its head at his intrusion and gave a low warning growl. He closed the door quietly and moved to the next room…

There could only be one person behind it. Now that he was there, Birshen's blood rushed by his ears with a pulsing roar, his heart hammering hard enough to make his head spin. His hand shook as he took the handle, suddenly unable to turn it. He did not want to go in. He did not want to go in. He-

Birshen opened the door without knocking, forcing his feet to carry him through the doorway.

The chamber was a trap of silence. Sconces burned on every wall, a practice that kept as much light in the place as possible, lest the healer should need to work on a patient at night. While it might be good for a healer's eyes, it was not particularly relaxing for the resident of the bed, and Gríma, it seemed, had fallen prey to the lesser comforts of being an occupant. The hour was late, and yet Gríma lay there, flat on his back with padded wood blocks immobilising him on either side, wide awake. He did not turn at the sudden intrusion, did not offer even a flit of interest at who should be visiting him when everyone else slept. He merely stared at the ceiling, unblinking and unresponsive, dried tear tracks running for his hair and catching in the guttering light.

Birshen approached the bed cautiously, mentally clocking the strong and heavy scents of pain herbs in use and inwardly cowering from the fact that such medicines were needed. There was a chair at Gríma's bedside. Birshen seated himself, knotting his hands together and avoiding looking at the one he had come to see.

Silence pulled at the tension in his chest, pulled it so tight he thought his heart might rip with it, until: "Gríma…" His mouth was dry. Birshen worked his tongue in an attempt to relieve it. "We just wanted to… We were trying to put you off… This was – this was never what anyone wanted."

Silence.

Birshen took a breath, steadying himself. "Gríma, I just want to say-"

"What? That you apologise?" The voice that came from the bed dripped acid. "Save your words. I don't want your apology."

"Gríma-"

"All I ever wanted was to be accepted by you. I wanted to be part of what you have with Éomer and Théodred and the others. When they offered me the chance to be a rider, I was overjoyed, because finally, finally, I had a chance to prove myself to everyone."

Birshen kept his silence, feeling the hard twist of consequence ripping into him. What had they done?

"And now," Gríma continued, his voice cracking with emotion, "they tell me I will probably never move again. I feel my arms, but everything below my shoulders is lost to me. And they also tell me, there is no such thing as the challenge of Léod…" His voice trailed into the silence, punctuated only by his jagged breathing. "And I hate you for it."

That word, said with such hot vehemence … Birshen was shocked at its power. His eyes fixed to Gríma's face-

"I hate you. I hate you!" For the first time, Gríma turned his head to look Birshen in the eye. His lipless mouth twisted into a vicious and frightening snarl. "I HATE YOU!"

The screech shot through to his core and fired him to his feet, the chair tipping over and Birshen was running, fleeing the room and the screams that chased him through the corridors and beyond into his own rooms, hearing them as he fought to sleep with his own tears tracking his face.

-(())-

The plains of Rohan, eleven years later…

"…which is how my great great grandfather got the name. Except, when he tried to pass it to my great grandfather in the dwarvish tradition, it was rejected by the council, because the name was "not dwarven enough". Not dwarven enough! Well, you can imagine old Peach Beard had a thing or two to say about that … although, I don't think I can really disagree with the council…" Gimli paused, taking a moment to assess both their position and himself. So far as their position was concerned, they were somewhere in a grassy plain, heading east. Save for the occasional cluster of lost boulders, the landscape was largely featureless. As for himself, Gimli was far less certain. His backside ached abominably in places he never knew could hurt, and he had given up trying to find a comfortable position long ago. And for someone who could walk atop the newest crust of snow leaving barely a mark, Legolas was surprisingly heavy against Gimli's back. He had an ache between his shoulders that be believed to be entirely elf-inflicted.

Of course, there was also the small matter of him talking to the horse… "So in an effort to win the council round to his son's intended title, Peachy-"

The weight against his back shifted again. Not the natural movement a sleeping man might make, but the jarring flinch of someone shying from pain, and, sure enough, a snatched exclamation of hurt bit out next to his ear.

"Easy, laddie." Gimli let the words roll through his chest, hoping Legolas might pick up on their comforting intent through their rumble if not their sound. He debated exactly how coherent the archer was, as he reacted little – if at all – to speech. These tremors he endured were an aftermath of the awful fit he had suffered earlier. It had been short, but intense, and it had scared the living breath out of his dwarven escort. "Steady, now…"

Thankfully, the tension against his back lessened, slowly abating to nothing. These were the moments Gimli really worried: until he heard that whisper of breath in his ear, his senses tended to scream at him that his ward had to be dead-

There it was, that ghost of air. Gimli relaxed, sagging in the saddle and releasing a heartfelt sigh of relief. "He'll do for a while yet," he told the bobbing ears before him. Gimli shook his head to himself, letting a grumble of disapproval grind through his clamped jaw. "I'm talking to a damned horse." This was not a new realisation: he had been accounting his family history to Arod since Legolas' fit, and that had easily been two hours. The truth was, he was so shaken by what had happened, he needed to expend the nervous energy shaking through his system. The horse was a conveniently mute listener, and the constant talking helped him immensely.

"I hope you know where you're going, matey."

Gimli could not ride to save his life, and the horse was fully aware of this fact. It was Arod who controlled both their speed and direction, the rider in his saddle little more than a passenger. The dwarf had found himself immeasurably grateful when Arod stopped at the start of Legolas' fit, responding to the elf's plight before Gimli was even aware there was a problem. He had proceeded with a loping canter that dropped to a well-paced walk according to Legolas' condition ever since, following the swells of the land in a steady easterly direction.

The sun was stretching fire across the horizon by the time the grey stallion crested a particularly steep rise in the land, his ears flicking with heightened interest. He tossed his head – making Gimli start – and emitted a high-pitched squeal. When the dwarf had recovered his heart, he looked out over the land himself…

It was certainly no longer featureless. The Misty Mountains were not a faraway tail of distant dragon spines as they had been last time Gimli sighted them, but stood proud and close enough to reach by nightfall, their crowns adorned with white and their flanks patchworks of wild greys and browns, indomitable and imposing. And before them, nestled in their shadow, a city of wood blanketed a lone foothill, no more than a short canter away. Smoke plumed from the distant chimneys of simple dwellings to dissipate in the relentless wind. It had something of a sparse look to it, each house not built for grandeur and status, but for the essentials of living: that was, a roof, four walls, and a fire. It was a wild place, seemingly of bare luxuries, yet to Gimli, who had seen so little of civilisation recently, it looked the pinnacle of comfort.

"Is that Edoras?"

Gimli nearly died. Again. "Awake now, are you?" he bit out, irritated that he had been caught unawares. Legolas had said not a word since that morning; even his fit had not succeeded in rousing him to consciousness. Gimli looked over his shoulder at his friend, seeing him stare with barely focused eyes over the landscape at their promised salvation. He looked terrible, but Gimli decided to keep that information to himself. "Aye, laddie. That's the place."

"I hope they have enough…" Legolas' voice drifted into nothing, leaving Gimli hanging on the mystery of his thoughts.

"What are you gibbering about? Enough what?"

"…Food. Your dwarvish appetite might decimate their winter stock." He heard Legolas swallow before he added: "Think of the children."

Gimli managed to turn enough to give his mocker an incredulous glare. "Of all the-!" He brought his attention back to their destination and away from Legolas' tired yet playful grin, grumbling unintelligibly into his beard, because it was expected in such a game. "Sleeps all day, then has the gall to make bad jokes! Just because you damned tree faeries live on star dust and dreams-"

Arod fired into a canter, throwing Gimli's griping from the dwarf as he was forced to concentrate on more important things, like not falling from the saddle. Arod cared little for the names he was being called: he had sighted home, and that was enough to push the fatigue from his muscles. His legs ate the distance as they had not done before, conquering the swells of the earth as though they were nothing more than molehills. At last … somewhere where the elf could get what he needed, and where Gimli could find some rest himself. And all that talk of food stores made his gut twist with a painful reminder that he had not eaten a proper meal for far too long…

The horse drew himself up just outside the wall, approaching the city gates at a gentler pace. It was a barely contained walk, and every inch of him clearly itched to break it, but whoever had trained him had trained him well, and Arod walked steadily up the dirt track to the gatehouse…

If three men stood on each other's shoulders, they would barely reach the top of the fortress wall, a boundary set in stone and mounted with great sharpened wood posts, angling for the sky as a sentry of immovable spears. It enveloped the township within, offering it decent protection from the dangers of the outside, seemingly unbroken save for the gateway Arod headed for. The thud of his hooves became more solid as his feet found the well-beaten track, compounded by countless years of traffic.

Now was the time for caution.

Gimli cast his eyes about the gate from under his helm. It was an imposing structure, far taller than the wall. Arrowslits pitted the wall either side of the recessed gate, giving Gimli's questing eyes a view of only darkness within. The guardhouse sat stark and forbidding at the top, carved horse heads providing additional pairs of watchful eyes. Even here at the gateway, it was easy to see why these people were known as the Horse Lords. Horse heads were carved into the very gate itself, high and proud, and even adorned the helms of the guards. Banners snapped and bucked in the wind, faded green and tattered edges oddly fitting to the surroundings, the white horse of Rohan riding the wind in swaths of material.

But it was not the ornate design of the gate that had Gimli's eye: he was far more concerned by the guards stationed along the parapet walk, looking down on them over the wall with a predatory interest.

"A watcher has run for his master," Legolas reported quietly in Gimli's ear. "Not garbed as a guard, inside the archer hold."

How Legolas could see such a thing in pitch darkness was beyond him, but Gimli was grateful for all the information he could glean. "I'll do the talking."

Arod reached a point before the gate and stopped, well in view of the guards. His head tossed with impatience for the gate to open, twitching and chewing on his bit.

"Hold where you are!" a guard called down, leaning over the battlement to glare at the two newcomers. All Gimli could see of his face was the lower half, his head adorned with a heavy and ornate helm. A tail of horse hair blended with his own, just like Éomer's. A captain, perhaps? "What business have you in Edoras?" he challenged, no hint of welcome in his tone.

"Hail, friend!" Gimli called back, raising a hand in greeting and forcing his voice to brim with confidence he certainly did not feel. "Trader Gimli, at your service! My companion is hurt, and we seek shelter in your city. Will you admit us?"

The guard considered them, his mouth nothing friendlier than a thin and unimpressed line. Eventually he disappeared behind the battlement without a word. Just as Gimli was starting to feel his plea may have been rejected, the gate groaned open, revealing the world inside. This time, he was ready for Arod's movement, and found himself moving with the horse when he set off at a brisk walk.

-(())-

Gríma watched his man cross the hall with interest. There was a tinge of excitement to his checked walk, a sharpness to his eyes, and he was more than a little intrigued as to the meaning of it. He paused in feeding the king, allowing a slop of porridge to fall into the knots of his beard. Gríma cocked his head at the sight in vague interest for a moment, watching it seep deeper into the tangle to join other such deposits. The old man really was starting to smell…

"What have you seen?" he enquired softly, twisting his head to regard his man keenly. "Clearly it is of urgency."

His man grinned. "Strangers, m'Lord: a dwarf and an elf, on a horse."

A hairless brow raised in interest. "Oh?"

"There's more, m'Lord," his man pushed, knowing his master had not yet heard the best part of his report. "They head for the Meduseld on a horse of Rohan. I believe it was of Éomer's éored."

Now, that really was interesting. Associates of his hated foe, and freakish creatures at that. "Then we must extend our warmest hospitality to them," he announced, rising from his stool at the king's side. Théoden did not stir at his leaving, continuing to stare blankly at some point in the floor. "Get the others."

His man flashed a dangerous grin to his master, and disappeared into the shadows.

-(())-

As soon as they were through the gates, they were immediately surrounded by modest dwellings, peppered over the slopes of the earth like a herd of mountain goats. Every house was of wood and thatch, simple but doubtless homely to those who lived in them. The fires of a forge burned somewhere nearby by the heavy scent of smoke and metal, the lonely singing of a hammer telling Gimli someone worked at their craft even as the light wavered. Tussocks of grass ruptured the earth everywhere, unchecked save for where countless hooves and wheels had churned the track to bare dirt. To their far right, a naked face of rock looked out over the plains, a hundred or so feet high with the hint of the king's house showing at the crest.

The track entwined the side of the foothill, winding through the settlements to the elevated house above. And everywhere Gimli looked, he saw guarded eyes watching them, no hint of welcome, no gesture of acknowledgement or glint of a smile. Many turned back to their houses and shut their doors against the peculiar strangers, whilst others simply stood and stared. It made Gimli's neck itch, and he quickly dropped the smile he had pinned under his beard. At his back, he could feel his companion tight with tension. Legolas' body might be a mess, but his warrior's instinct was untouched, and it mirrored Gimli's heightened unease all too perfectly.

The houses thinned the higher they climbed, the dwellings they did pass becoming larger and more ornate, the wealthier homes of councillors and lords, most likely, ready at the king's hand should he require their services. The gradient of the earth became less severe, levelling out and forming a great platform for the Meduseld, tamed into a great slabbed courtyard.

The Meduseld itself was grand and beautiful: like the gate, horses adorned the heavy doors, incorporated into gold patterns of remarkable workmanship. It was a vast building, far larger than could be appreciated from the road, sitting low against the wind with great wings extending either side of what Gimli guessed to be the king's hall. Two guards in a finer livery than those at the gate stood either side of the door, watching the approaching horse but staying as they were.

The door opened, and a stoop-backed man emerged, bird-like in his movement. He was different to the straw-coloured men they had seen before, dark haired and pale. There was nothing of the outdoors to his composure, no mark of the sun and wind to his beardless face. The cloth on his back was of good quality, but neglected and unclean. He looked a slippery type to Gimli, a man to watch, but he reserved his judgement from crossing his face just yet, and wondered what kind of authority such a creature could possibly hold in such a mighty kingdom. The man started to descend the broad steps leading down to the courtyard…

Gimli pulled back on the reins, and was surprised when Arod actually stopped.

More eyes surrounded them, curious and silent: young maids dallied in their work to see the newcomers, baskets of goods balanced on their hips like they carried young children. Huddled men in richer cuts of cloth than the peasants below paused in their conversation, their eyes passing between the strange pair and the man from the house. A pair of wittering young noble ladies stared at them openly, whispering to each other behind their hands…

But it was the other men who snagged Gimli's attention: five of them that he could see, leaking from the shadows of the buildings like black ghosts. They did not look on with intent curiosity, but rather a predatory hunger, their movements mirroring the actions of stalking wolves-

Gimli could feel the thrum of Legolas' unease against his back. "They hunt us," he warned. A low note of certainty sat at the edge of his words and sent a thrill of disquiet through Gimli's bones. "Gimli, turn the horse-"

"You are most peculiar guests to our humble city," the oily man called out to them, grappling their attention and coming to a halt a couple of steps from the bottom. There he stayed, his hands slicking over each other like a nest of sun-starved worms. Colourless eyes darted between the pair of them, resting the longest on Legolas. Gimli knew Legolas stared back over his shoulder by the way the speaker's eyes eventually shrank away, preferring Gimli's less intense stare. He also knew he need not ask the elf if he heard the distinct lick of danger to the stranger's voice.

"Gimli son of Gloin, at your service," Gimli hailed with his most winning smile, bowing his torso in the dwarven fashion. "And my friend here is Legolas-" Gloin was obscure enough to declare as his father, but King Thranduil was something of a notorious and well-known figure, and Gimli deemed it deeply unwise to label his son to these strangers. "I wonder, is the Lady Éowyn at home, good sir? We met a man on the road who says he foaled her horse, and he wished us to give her news of him."

The man on the steps gave Gimli a watery smile in response. "Oh, I think not."

Gimli's own smile faded. "Beg your pardon?"

"We do not need to trouble the Lady with this matter," he drawled. "Tell me: where did you come by the horse?"

The horse? Of course … the horse, bedecked in tack synonymous with the very culture of these people. Gimli's surprise betrayed them with a moment's pause, standing in the way of his answer like a towering wall. "I traded good weapons for this horse," he replied, keeping his tone strong and sure. "My companion was wounded in an orc attack, and-"

"I call you thieves," the man on the steps slurred, taking a lazy step closer, but careful to remain well away, using his words as his weapon. His accusation silenced the gossiping girls, their eyes wide at the allegation. "Liars and murderers-"

Gimli could see three of the dark men hanging at the edge of his vision, dogs awaiting their master's command to attack-

"Murderers-?"

"Here is what I think happened-" another step closer, a bright and vicious light dawning in washed-out eyes. "I think you attacked my countryman on the road. I believe you fought him and killed him, and he-" a finger jabbed condemningly at Legolas "-got what he deserved in the fight. And you have the audacity to come to me and ask for help? I think not."

Here was one of Éomer's snakes.

Outrage blasted fire through Gimli's temper. He was tired, so damned tired … they had travelled so far, they had been through so much- "We have done nothing! Your accusations are as false as your assumed authority, and I'll be damned if I'll take such lies said of me!"

"Gimli!" Legolas' hair lashed his shoulder as the elf whipped his head round. From his pause before turning back, Gimli guessed he sighted another adversary coming up behind them. Legolas was too weak to face so many, and Gimli would be hindered by both being mounted and having Legolas at his back. It was a losing situation, and the strain in the archer's voice said so as frustration pitted his plea: "Turn the horse!"

The snake on the steps smirked. "Horse thieves are always welcome to stay."

The trap closed.

They came in, fast. A hand snatched for Arod's bridle. The horse flung his head high with an alarmed bellow, the reins whipping uselessly in his panic. They were too long for Gimli to regain control – the animal tried spinning, finding himself surrounded by men with grabbing hands-

The first face Gimli encountered was stupidly close to his foot. He kicked out, his boot still in the iron and found immense satisfaction in the loud crunch. The man fell away, landing hard on the paving and thwacking his head, not to move again. One of his companions tried to get behind the dwarf's range, but misread his elven companion … even hurt and sick as he was, Legolas was lethally fast: a flash of white blade and the thug stumbled back, screaming and clutching at his left ear with blood running freely through his fingers-

But neither of them factored the stave, and by the time Legolas cried out his warning, it was too late.

The thing seemed to swing from nowhere, wielded be a man far bigger than his cohorts. Gimli heard Legolas' horrified exclamation a split second before the sickening thud as the end smashed into the elf's wounded side. The sound of pain the impact ripped from his friend was beyond anything Gimli imagined he would ever hear, and the suddenly comforting weight of the archer at his back was gone. Gimli heard him fall hard on the stone - shouted his name in panic as three men set on him – but his words were useless…

The reins snapped out of his hands as someone finally managed to grab them from him. The slack was taken up with a violent jerk to Arod's head and the horse ceased his spinning-

Gimli felt his centre of gravity shift alarmingly to a point beyond the saddle and somewhere in the empty air, dropping his efforts at attack and straining to keep himself upright-

The stave.

White pain smashed the breath right out of him. He heard the harsh bark of hurt fire from his mouth and saw the grey of stone rushing for his face and then impact. His helm bouncing jarringly but at least stopped him knocking himself senseless. Gimli gasped but no air came, a bellows with its sides slashed, and hands were on him immediately, cruel and rough. Someone pushed ruthlessly into the back of his head, crushing his face into the rock and dirt and filling his mouth with dust and grit…

A pair of feet in light shoes came to inches before his eyes, slanting nauseatingly with the sudden change of perspective of the earth's angle. Black and brown robes dragged through the dust, a musty and unpleasant odour reaching out to him through stone and horse muck. Beyond, all he could see of Legolas was a spill of pale hair, the rest of him pinned with unnecessary force to the stone. There was no fight to him, no sound, no movement.

The engineer of their capture bent into Gimli's view, offering him a sneering smile with a flash of yellowed teeth, only daring to venture so close now they were both incapacitated. Those cave fish eyes latched themselves to Gimli's own, prying with a cold and detached kind of curiosity, as some vile creature of the darkness might approach a corpse. Gimli recoiled from their violating stare, feeling his pride stripped back to reveal the humiliation of defeat. Seeing the reaction he was rising in his captive, the rat turned his stare to the prone elf, stepping out of the way enough for Gimli to see him as well. It seized Gimli's heart to see his friend facing him, likewise with his face pressed into the ground, a boot at the base of his skull. The large man with the stave had his broken wrist in a vice grip, twisting his arm up his back to breaking point. Two others had his legs, detaining him as though he was healthy and a real threat to them. None of his captors gave any care to Legolas' hurts, instead using them as a way to curb whatever defiance he might have left…

But the only thing in those dark blue eyes as they looked to Gimli was defeat. His teeth were bared in a tight grimace, rapid waves of dust detailing the fight he endured to contain his pain. Legolas refused to let them hear how much they hurt him, but that was the sum of his resistance. With a visible sag, the archer turned his gaze away and shut his eyes. He was accepting that they had lost, that there was nothing more they could do. He was giving up.

Gimli found it crippling, and the degenerate of a man standing before him knew as much. He turned back to the dwarf, a knowing smirk firmly in place. One day, one day soon, Gimli swore to himself, he would see that smirk ripped from the ingrate's face and shown to him.

"You may enjoy our hospitality, but I feel it will not be as comfortable as you imagined. But no matter," he drawled, straightening as far as his bent back would allow. With a sharp jerk of his chin, the men detaining Legolas hauled him upright with a callous lack of regard for his state. Legolas did cry out then, a betraying sound that brought only cruel mirth from his captors. "You won't be with us for long: horse thieves enjoy a fairly short visit."

Gimli heard the promise in those words, and did not need the backing of the dark look he was given to confirm. His blood turned to ice at their implication, and he laid all the curses he knew on the wretch's head, his fury making his voice echo through the entire city as he was dragged in Legolas' wake.

A/N: Well, so much for shorter chapters ... it's only seven thousand words longer than it was meant to be. That's not too bad... I can only hope that you enjoyed it. If so, kindly drop me a line or two! A very big thank you to all who took the time to give me their thoughts: this story has been going for nearly four years now (I know: ouch), and it really has been something of a labour of love. Reviews really do make my world go round, so please let me know what you honestly think. Hate it? Great: let me know why! I am particularly interested to hear any thoughts on the Rohan peeps ... I'm sure you can tell from this chapter that we're going to be seeing quite a lot of them.

I really hope you enjoyed it. Good night all!