A/N: *Warlady*: How silly of me! Of course it is Haradrim. I guess I just
didn't really think about it. Thanks for the heads-up! (Oh, and you wrote
the lovely fic "Redemption of the Dark Ones." It is one of my all-time
favorites, and inspired me to write this fic.)
Grima placed his old clothing into the satchel. Maenor stomped a hoof in anticipation, as if he were anxious to get to the village as well. After loading the satchels and mounting the horse, the pair set off again down the narrow path. The day was cool, some puffy white clouds hung low in the sky. The trees began to grow more thickly; he knew he was nearing the edge of Rohan. Nestled amidst the dense forest growth was Aramil, the small village he sought.
Children were playing in the street, and Grima took care not to trample them. The homes that surrounded him were crude, with thatched roofs and holes that spat smoke. Stopping Maenor at a nearby inn, he carefully led the horse into a stable. After paying the stableboy a coin, he ventured into the darkened tavern. Men with thick, straw-colored beards sat at the bar, sipping their ale and telling stories. A few serving wenches bustled to and fro, filling mugs with frothing liquids.
A warm ale might do me quite nicely, Grima imagined. He took a seat at a table near the back of the poorly-lit room, taking care to position his belongings on the seat next to him. Perhaps he could hear some news.
A buxom blonde woman came to his table, a flirtatious smile on her fleshy face. He politely asked for an ale. She nodded and returned with a mug that was overflowing with the amber drink. Concentrating on the ale, he tried to relax.
What would become of him? He had no home, no means of income. Grima didn't belong anywhere. All he had was a troubled past, oratory skills matched by no other, and a heavy heart. Before he could sink deeper into contemplation, a man's cheery gossip caught his attention.
"I'm thinking about riding out to join them," the man boomed, his voice reaching every corner of the tavern.
"The Riders of Rohan? I'd like to see you try," another man jested.
The first man, not the least offended, continued on. "And why not? They need all the men they can get. There's to be a war. . .A war between we men, and those forces of darkness that have swept over us."
"We have fought. . .Rohan has lost many a man to the armies of Mordor. Helm's Deep was enough for me," the man who replied rolled back his sleeve to reveal a long, jagged wound. "This scar is all I need."
Several men grunted in agreement with the wounded man. Grima listened intently to the conversation, hoping for some details on where the Riders were to meet.
"Well, I, for one, am not going to sit about drinking ale while the men of my country ride off to war. And when the Riders of the Riddermark meet at the camp outside of Edoras, I am sure to be there with them," and with that, the man set down his mug, tossed a few coins to the barkeep, and stormed off, apparently to war. The other men merely laughed.
Grima had abandoned his country once, but he was not about to do it again. Since his freedom from Saruman, he'd had time to reflect on what it was that he was meant to do. His purpose was to redeem himself. There was no asking for forgiveness. No, he would have to forgive himself first.
He paid the blonde wench, then rushed out to where Maenor was penned. The other fellow, the valiant one, stood in a nearby pen, loading his simple brown horse with some packs. Grima studied the man. He was big and lumbering, with a thick golden beard, and tosseled blond hair. He looked used to hard labor and riding. Grima approached him with a polite nod.
"Good sir, I couldn't help but overhear you in the tavern. I see that you are off to war, then? May I accompany you on your journey? For I, too, am joining in the battle."
The large man nodded gruffly at Grima, "You have a way with words. I would be honored to travel with you, but before I do, what is your name, sir?"
Grima hesitated. He dare not reveal his true identity; there was much he had done to stain his name. "Eothem. And you?"
"Forneth," he grinned, his full beard pulled aside, unveiling a gaping mouth with but a few teeth. The men finished readying their animals, and mounted. "That's a beautiful creature you got there, Eothem. I should be so lucky to own a horse like that in my lifetime."
The men rode out of Aramil, taking the same dirt path Grima had traveled only hours before. It seemed strange to be heading back to Edoras; he had just arrived in Aramil, and already his destiny was leading him back to the land of the horse-lords. Not only was he riding beside a man he had just met, but he was being guided to almost certain doom.
Grima placed his old clothing into the satchel. Maenor stomped a hoof in anticipation, as if he were anxious to get to the village as well. After loading the satchels and mounting the horse, the pair set off again down the narrow path. The day was cool, some puffy white clouds hung low in the sky. The trees began to grow more thickly; he knew he was nearing the edge of Rohan. Nestled amidst the dense forest growth was Aramil, the small village he sought.
Children were playing in the street, and Grima took care not to trample them. The homes that surrounded him were crude, with thatched roofs and holes that spat smoke. Stopping Maenor at a nearby inn, he carefully led the horse into a stable. After paying the stableboy a coin, he ventured into the darkened tavern. Men with thick, straw-colored beards sat at the bar, sipping their ale and telling stories. A few serving wenches bustled to and fro, filling mugs with frothing liquids.
A warm ale might do me quite nicely, Grima imagined. He took a seat at a table near the back of the poorly-lit room, taking care to position his belongings on the seat next to him. Perhaps he could hear some news.
A buxom blonde woman came to his table, a flirtatious smile on her fleshy face. He politely asked for an ale. She nodded and returned with a mug that was overflowing with the amber drink. Concentrating on the ale, he tried to relax.
What would become of him? He had no home, no means of income. Grima didn't belong anywhere. All he had was a troubled past, oratory skills matched by no other, and a heavy heart. Before he could sink deeper into contemplation, a man's cheery gossip caught his attention.
"I'm thinking about riding out to join them," the man boomed, his voice reaching every corner of the tavern.
"The Riders of Rohan? I'd like to see you try," another man jested.
The first man, not the least offended, continued on. "And why not? They need all the men they can get. There's to be a war. . .A war between we men, and those forces of darkness that have swept over us."
"We have fought. . .Rohan has lost many a man to the armies of Mordor. Helm's Deep was enough for me," the man who replied rolled back his sleeve to reveal a long, jagged wound. "This scar is all I need."
Several men grunted in agreement with the wounded man. Grima listened intently to the conversation, hoping for some details on where the Riders were to meet.
"Well, I, for one, am not going to sit about drinking ale while the men of my country ride off to war. And when the Riders of the Riddermark meet at the camp outside of Edoras, I am sure to be there with them," and with that, the man set down his mug, tossed a few coins to the barkeep, and stormed off, apparently to war. The other men merely laughed.
Grima had abandoned his country once, but he was not about to do it again. Since his freedom from Saruman, he'd had time to reflect on what it was that he was meant to do. His purpose was to redeem himself. There was no asking for forgiveness. No, he would have to forgive himself first.
He paid the blonde wench, then rushed out to where Maenor was penned. The other fellow, the valiant one, stood in a nearby pen, loading his simple brown horse with some packs. Grima studied the man. He was big and lumbering, with a thick golden beard, and tosseled blond hair. He looked used to hard labor and riding. Grima approached him with a polite nod.
"Good sir, I couldn't help but overhear you in the tavern. I see that you are off to war, then? May I accompany you on your journey? For I, too, am joining in the battle."
The large man nodded gruffly at Grima, "You have a way with words. I would be honored to travel with you, but before I do, what is your name, sir?"
Grima hesitated. He dare not reveal his true identity; there was much he had done to stain his name. "Eothem. And you?"
"Forneth," he grinned, his full beard pulled aside, unveiling a gaping mouth with but a few teeth. The men finished readying their animals, and mounted. "That's a beautiful creature you got there, Eothem. I should be so lucky to own a horse like that in my lifetime."
The men rode out of Aramil, taking the same dirt path Grima had traveled only hours before. It seemed strange to be heading back to Edoras; he had just arrived in Aramil, and already his destiny was leading him back to the land of the horse-lords. Not only was he riding beside a man he had just met, but he was being guided to almost certain doom.