"Thorongil?"
Aragorn started slightly, hand slipping from where it was polishing his sword; the blade jolted, slicing the thin polishing cloth nearly in half. Losing a horse in Rohan, it seemed, made one distinctly notorious, but Aragorn rather missed the relative quietude of anonymity. "Yes?"
The man before him bowed slightly, and Aragorn vaguely recognized him from dress and face as one of the doorwardens at Meduseld. "My lord Thengel would have you come to him in the Golden Hall."
A moment's hesitation, and Aragorn stood, pocketing the halved polishing cloth and sheathing his sword in one fluid movement. "I will go."
The walk from the rider barracks to the Golden Hall was slow, silent - more than once, Aragorn caught the doorwarden sending a curious glance his way, only to return his gaze to the ground when he found out he had been noticed. Aragorn would have welcomed conversation to take his mind off the laborious uphill walk and the ache it caused in his ribs, but he was unsure of what the topic might turn to, and held his silence instead. The doorwarden left him at the steps mounting Meduseld, departing with another quick bow, and Aragorn trudged up the stairs with a faint sigh.
He was allowed in with a quick nod from the guard standing outside the doors. The interior of the Hall proper was not as bustling as it had been when he had last been within, only a few men and women crossing through briskly with nods of greeting to him, which he returned. Nevertheless, high-set windows still streamed in banners of the noon sun, rays nearly opaque in their gold-brightness, and the old wood and stone seemed to glow in the light with antiquated luster. Thengel King was standing at one of the tables tucked into the dimmer corners of the hall, head low in inaudible conversation with the table's occupants, though when he noticed Aragorn's entrance he broke away courteously.
"Thorongil," he said. "We meet again."
"At your request, my lord." Aragorn bowed quickly, meeting Thengel's eyes as he straightened. "What is your will?"
"First - I'd like to ask if you had reconsidered my offer of a horse. I know that you've only just lost yours-- No?" Aragorn shook his head. Thengel looked rather taken aback for a few seconds before continuing. "Well. No doubt you've also heard that there were several other men injured from the fourth eored. A rather unsuccessful scout party..." he trailed off, thumb tapping his chin thoughtfully. Aragorn waited a moment in silence, and cleared his throat slightly. "Ah, yes. You, I fear, were one of the least wounded of that particular group. Several of the others are still with the healers, even more from the third and sixth eored, and a few of my training masters have volunteered themselves into service with the Riders. Unfortunately, this leaves me short of men to train the younger recruits."
"Yes, my lord?"
Thengel hemmed and hawed for another moment while Aragorn stood, silent. "Ah. Hm. Yes, I was wondering if you were well enough to take on some of the younger recruits - not permanently, of course."
"Take on some of the recruits?" Aragorn repeated dubiously. "My lord, are there not enough of the training masters' assistants to perform that duty?"
"Right now, no," the King said, rather regretfully. "More of the men have joined the Riders, as of late - less would like to teach our sons the skills that they might do the same. I will not press you for an answer if your wounds still pain you."
"No, my lord, I will do it," Aragorn put in after a second's thought. "What would you have me do?"
"It is only temporary, yes... you would be taking on the last group of recruits - getting mounts for those who don't have any, basic weaponry," Thengel waved one arm in a generally all-encompassing gesture, "the sort." Aragorn nodded. "It starts tomorrow, then - at sunrise they will be in the stables. Thank you, Thorongil."
Aragorn knew a dismissal when he heard one; he bowed with a murmured "My lord" and turned to leave. For the first time since his last hunt, he headed for the stables again, stopping outside the building in the waxing shadows beside it. The sounds and smells that drifted from within were familiar but now tugged at his heart, telling him to go back to Thengel and apologize, take on some other station at least for now...
He blinked once, and stepped into the stable.
His feet automatically took him to Lhach's stall - no, not Lhach's stall, it was now the residence of a lanky bay mare. She whickered low in her throat when he stopped in front of the stall, and he instinctively reached up to stroke the velveteen nose thrust in his face as she poked her head over the stall door. After a moment, he tore himself away with a frown, leaving the stall with a last pat to the horse within and striding to the end of the stable and the door that led to the second wing.
Here were the horses that had only recently been brought in from the plains of Rohan - all had already been trained to accept bridle and saddle and obeyed the most rudimentary commands, but had yet to be conditioned to the close confines of Rohirrim eored formation or any of the battle training the warhorses were taught. Aragorn went down to every stall, noting what bits of personality he could pick up from a quick overview: this horse had only blown a snort in his direction, that horse had gone so far as to nip lightly at his sleeve during a pat. To his surprise, there were few chestnuts, but one had looked so like Lhach that he had been tempted to believe that it was. Instead, he had patted the horse only once and hurriedly moved on to the next stall.
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Thengel, it turned out, had been rather generous in his detailing of Aragorn's duties - particularly in procuring horses for the new recruits who had none. Out of the nineteen boys who had shown up in the stables the next dawn, sleepy-eyed and silent, only two had told him that they already had mounts. Of the others, Aragorn placed a half-dozen on horses he thought would suit their riding abilities and personalities - and then was left with nine boys who were either too tired, too cold, or too apathetic to display any defining characteristics. He wasn't entirely sure how to assign horses to those.
"All right - you, Hodleth? You're tall enough. Take out Stormskimmer, the grey down there. And you, go get that roan, his name's Winterlight. He's probably short enough for you.."
It took nearly two hours to go through the laborious process of pairing boys with horses, getting each horse's tack, and getting each horse tacked up as well. By the time Aragorn had finished readjustinging the last horse's girth, his hands were stiff and half-numb with cold; the boys, ten- and eleven-year olds for the most part, were chilly and bored with standing around. He led them all down to the empty practice courts, and set them to work riding while carrying spears. After an hour and a half, when three of the boys had managed to drop their spears at least twice, he dismissed the whole group with orders to return the next day at dawn.
Two months later, spring warmth was beginning to creep over Rohan, and Aragorn thought he might lose his sanity to the labors that training young boys to riderhood entailed. Out of his original group of nineteen, all but four had already been promoted into the higher levels. He was beginning to think that those four were severely incapacitated in some way that he couldn't see, or they were actually trying not to be promoted.
"For the love of Rohan, Afinolas, lift your spear!" he shouted across the court. The head of the boy's spear was still, after the month of everyday training, wobbling closer and closer to his horse's head with every cantering stride. Wobble. Wobble.
Thud! Aragorn wasn't sure if Afinolas had actually dropped his spear or not, but the weapon had fallen to smack the poor horse square between the ears. The horse, startled, reared and tossed his head with a sharp squeal - Afinolas toppled out of the saddle with all the grace of a rock. The boy and horse behind him reined in to a sharp halt, sending a spray of dirt and loose gravel from the court ground at Afinolas from behind.
Aragorn cursed and hurried over toward the fallen boy, slowing slightly at the reminding twince of discomfort in his still-knitting ribs. When he reached him, Afinolas was already sitting up but not moving. "Afinolas? Are you all right?"
"Fine, just fine," the thirteen-year old snapped, refusing to crane his head upward to meet Aragorn's eyes. "Just the worst rider in all the Riddermark, that's me." His horse, a dainty brown mare, wandered over to nose at his back.
"Up on your feet and back in the saddle if you're all right," Aragorn said, offering a hand to the boy. Not a move, still. "You're not the worst rider in Rohan, Afinolas. I've seen worse. I used to be worse."
"I can believe that," Afinolas retorted sharply. The other riders had approached, stopping their horses in a loose semicircle around Afinolas and Aragorn. "Not like you can be worse than me right now, right? You used to be such a bad rider, you killed your own horse."
A murmur of uneasy dissent came from the boys behind him, but Aragorn paid them no heed. His fists clenched involuntarily at his sides, and he struggled to keep his face expressionless, to keep his suddenly formed ire from spilling out into words. Afinolas was bitter that he was one of the oldest riders still in the last recruit group; Aragorn would give him no further reason to be so jaded. "I have no answer for that," he said evenly, at length. "Take your horses back to the stables - Hodleth, your horse is to be turned out in the second paddock tonight. We continue tomorrow."
He turned and strode away before his control could break, leaving the group behind in the slanting midafternoon sun.
A hand caught his shoulder as he passed through one of the winding corridors that led through the barracks, heading for the open terrace behind the building. "Thorongil? Something wrong?"
"Nothing."
Selinethas let him go, but followed him out to the terrace. "That expression on your face will mean 'nothing' the day my horse turns into an Orc."
"It's not of your concern."
The bigger man backed off the subject at the clipped tone of Aragorn's voice. "Right, it's not. You may want to make it your concern to calm down, though. There is a visitor asking for you in the Hall."
Aragorn blinked, frustration and turmoil dropped aside for a few seconds. "A visitor?"
"Aye - he knew you well enough by all but name. He and the king are waiting."
A hand rubbed tiredly over his face, and Aragorn nodded with a sigh. "I'll go, then. Thank you, Selinethas."
It was shorter going back to the Golden Hall. He took the route outside, around the barracks, andbroke into a slight jog as he neared the steps mounting Meduseld. A visitor? He didn't doubt that he could have been tracked, but there was no one he knew who would come to Rohan to find him after so long. He sighed again, and stepped into the hall in relief at its relative warmth.
Thengel was seated at his throne; beside him, a man with grey hair and greyer robes had pulled up a chair, conversing quietly. Aragorn stopped before he could hear what they were saying, bowing slightly. The stranger rose from his chair, and Aragorn was rather surprised to be looking up at him. For a brief moment, he only blinked up at the knowledge he could all but see, tangible, in the man's light eyes - and then he remembered that Thengel was also sitting there, looking expectant.
He broke away with another short bow, clearing his throat. "My lord."
"Thorongil, I assume you already know--" Thengel gestured toward the stranger, who had not yet made a move to sit back down. "Gandalf Greyhame."
"You may recall me as Mithrandir," the man said, finally settling back down into his chair. Aragorn blinked - Mithrandir? The Mithrandir? The grey wizard from elflore? "Or you might not - I only visited your home recently, and you were not there."
"I've heard your name spoken often."
Those eyes twinkled with some inner amusement. "Your brothers ask when you will return."
"You know my brothers?"
"Indeed, and many others beside."
Thengel interrupted with a cough. "Thorongil, Gandalf has come offering to go with you back to your home. Er-- wherever that may be." He paused for a few seconds, clearly expecting one of the two to supply an exact location, but neither did. "I would be willing to let you go, if you wish to."
Aragorn took a step back, blinked. "But - the recruits--"
"I told you that was a temporary position." Thengel shifted on the throne. "You've done your job already, Thorongil. I'm giving you a leave of duty."
Aragorn's hands flexed impulsively, and he stilled them on the hilt of his sword. "For how long?"
"Indeterminately."
Gandalf watched, amused, as Aragorn gaped. The expression didn't look to fit on the young man's face. "My lord--"
"Provisions are being readied as we speak, for Gandalf has said that he goes in some haste, and I have other matters too that press on my time. Will you go with him?"
"Ah--" Aragorn shot a sidelong glance at the Istar, swallowing hard. "Yes, I will, but--"
"Good, then. Go and inform any that you might need to. Theoden, come here." For the first time, Aragorn noticed the little boy sitting at a nearby table, feet dangling off the floor. Now the king's son slid down to the ground, trotting over obediently. "Theoden, go and tell the cooks to send Thorongil's and Gandalf's packs to the central gate.""Yes, father." And off Theoden scampered, leaving a rather bemused Aragorn with Gandalf and Thengel.
"I--" Aragorn stopped himself, trying to sort through his thoughts. He had known of Thengel's ability to make quick decisions, but.. well, he had thought that would be on the battlefield, not within Edoras. And most especially not about sending off one of his Riders to lands unknown. "Thank you, my king." But he wasn't entirely sure if he was thanking the king of the Mark for his sudden freedom, or a sudden demotion.
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Dusky eve crept over the sky, dark clouds drifting to eclipse the overbright moon like nameless shadows that had lost their owners. The air was blessedly still, only the occasional gentle spring wind wisping at the pair's backs as they trekked onward.
"Well, I suspect he also wanted you out of Edoras since some boy's father was becoming rather angry that his son had been 'mistreated' in one of your training sessions--"
"Afinolas," Aragorn sighed, hefting his pack again.
"It all worked out."
They walked in companionable silence for a time, until the last vestiges of gold that had tinged the horizon had faded altogether. Aragorn found his fingers idly tracing over the star-shaped gem that lay pinned at his collar - a keepsake from Selinethas, when he had told the older Rider, that had come with a reminder to come back sometime soon. Aragorn had promised to.
"We're not really going back to Imladris, are we." It was a statement, not a question; Gandalf sent him a shrewd look before breaking into a low chuckle.
"No, we're not. It is not often that I go to follow the Bruinen. We go to Mirkwood - I must speak with Thranduil. You're free to go back to Imladris, if you wish."
"That's all right. I will go with you."
Gandalf smiled, readjusted his hat - they walked on, leaving behind the flickering lights of dim lanterns in Edoras's windows.