Rohan, West Emnet, heading South, February 27 (Apprendix B: "Aragorn reaches the west-cliff at sunrise. Eomer against Theoden's orders sets out from Eastfold about midnight to pursue the Orcs.")

Chapter Five: A mother's protection

Dawn broke over the rolling white fields, casting blinding lemon and peach rays over the ground. Fastred was the first to awaken, and he did so with a start. At first he was surprised to still be alive – the birds had not been heard at night, but he thought of them waiting on the roof in his dreams, and he had not slept soundly because of them – and he was also startled by the numbness in his feet. He shook them and banged them against the ground as hard as he could, and felt the ground tremor slightly when he hit them hard. It was a hard enough shaking that he decided it would probably wake Fyren and Brytta if he did it again, and so with aching joints he unbent himself from his corner and walked out the door. The thought of the crows waiting outside churned in his stomach, but he reasoned that if they had not attacked during the night, that they would surely attack them in the daylight, and that going outside would only hasten the process – if they were there, then there would be no escaping them. And so he went outside, hoping that he would not be greeted with the stark black wings and sharp beaks.

He was not. He let out the breath he had not realized he had been holding. Once he began breathing normally again and watching his breath come out in grey puffs of smoke in the brittle air, he stomped his feet again harder, trying to get the feeling back into them. It was hard work, since they were both asleep from being tucked underneath him all night and from the cold that naturally came with the snow. The pain that shot up one foot when he slammed it down through the icy layer through the powdery snow with special vigor confirmed that someday he'd feel them again. Just so long as they were not frostbitten – that was something he did not want to think about.

Wintra stood beneath the small slanted roof on one side of the shed, and Fastred walked towards the mare to place his hands on Wintra's coat. It was warm, despite the cold, although snow had embedded itself in mane and tale. Though his mind wandered, Fastred rubbed Wintra's muzzle and let the gelding push tickling whiskers into his face. It felt good, and reminded the boy of the times when he would sit out in the fields sketching Hwesta, and the mare would come to tousle his hair with her nose.

The thought of Hwesta reminded him of the paper in his pocket, and he drew it out to study in the daylight. Yes, he decided, it was good. Not finished, but good. He rubbed it as his mind wandered. The familiar paper was a comfort to him, one that he did not dare let Fyren or Brytta see – it would make him seem weak, as if he were a child of seven. He was not. He was twelve, and he would carry on looking after his sister, and he would be strong.

Yet he could not do this alone. Not now. Not without a horse and supplies, and at present he could not think of any way of obtaining both. He could steal Wintra, he supposed, but then what would they do? It was wrong, too, to leave horseless the man who had helped them despite the obvious burden they were. No, it simply would not do. At least, he concluded, not yet. That was something required only in desperate times, and these were not that way yet. Fastred feared they would become so, but for now, they had a guide, as it were, and although they were still without blankets and other such luxuries, they would stay with Fyren. They really did not have much of a choice. After all, even if they did take Wintra, they would be no better off, and might even be worse. They could have the freedom to go where they wanted, but that was a large price to pay for losing someone stronger than they were.

Yet where would they go with Fyren, and for how long would they travel? Again this thought plagued Fastred. The man was a young herder – this much was obvious by his attire – and so how much of the land did he know? Would he know of places where Fastred and Brytta could go to? And if he did, would he take them there? Or would he point them in the right direction and let them go there on foot without him? There was Helm's Deep, the place Brytta had scribbled in a sketchy drawing for him to explain where the people might go to at a desperate time, but it was a long way off, and without knowing if anyone would even be there when they arrived, what would be the point in traveling that far? But if it was a desperate enough time, perhaps fæder would be there waiting for them.

So many questions loomed large in Fastred's mind, and none of them were ones he had the faintest answers to.

Deciding to explore the area, Fastred walked around the shed. There were no small imprints from crow feet on the snow, and so either they had not followed that far in the storm or their tracks had been covered up, or they had flown and had not lighted on the ground at all. But whichever was the truth, it remained that none of them could be seen now, and there was no visible evidence that Fastred could find of them being there. While this caused his heart to lift somewhat, he also wondered what had hindered them and if they would be back. If it had been the storm, then he surmised that they would be back in full force to find them. If it had been something else, then Fastred wondered what it could have been. Would there be worse to follow, or had the crows given up on finding their quarry? What had been their purpose in following the three in the first place, if not to kill them? And if that had been their purpose, would they be back to finish the deed?

More questions without answers. Fasted clenched his fist and hit it against the side of the woodshed, not caring of the small splinters of wood that dug into his hand. He barely felt it, for the cold had numbed his body. So many questions, and the one that was the worst was the simple one of 'why?'

Why had it been their hold and Master Leofwine's hold and surely the holds to the north that had been burned to cinders and ash? Why now? Surely this was not some simple, mindless act of a band of reckless orcs. There had to be a reason beyond what Fastred could see. A reason beyond them. It had to do with Rohan as an entire realm. This could not be an isolated act against the holds in the West Emnet, could it?

Still more questions.

And why had it been their mother who had been in the house – yes, he knew she had been, there would be no deceiving of his heart in that matter. Why had their father gone away the week before? Why could he not have gone another time, so that he might have been there to protect them? Fastred swallowed. He feared their father had also been killed, though perhaps in more the fashion of Master Leofwine's fate. He had seen the body in passing as he, Fyren, and Brytta had made their escape from their home the day before. At the time, he had not had the will to think of it, but now the memory of the man's maimed body stung through his mind with bright clarity. The thought made him feel ill, but he only tightened his knuckles once more and let his forehead fall to rest on the damp boards of the woodshed. He clenched his teeth and tried to stop the painful scratching in his throat.

'Why?'

It was simply not a question he could answer, and that infuriated him and set his heart to smoldering. He should not have had to ask it in the first place, of this much he was sure.

He let his fingernails dig into the soft snow-soaked wood while the sun rested warmly on his back as he stood with his forehead pressed against it.

How long he stood thus, Fastred was not entirely sure, nor did he care. How he wished for human voices again. He had only the barest memory of a wisp of a song, something from before he had gotten sick, before he had stopped hearing. He clung to the memory. As he grew older, it had begun to fade. He had only been about four, maybe five, he recalled, and any memories before then were hazy or already gone. He did not even remember getting sick, only the words that were so far away. The echo of a human voice in his ear – it was as if in a dream, but it came rushing back once more with intensity. The memory of words enveloped him, a lullaby he had heard. It had been his mother singing, he knew, but the voice was not one familiar. He just knew abstractly that it must have been his mother.

But now he could not recall the solitary sound at all.

With the memory gone, the lack of words, the utter silence he had lived in for so many years hit him as a hard slap. The memory was replaced with absence. The words were nothing. If they had not been the words of a lullaby, it would not have mattered to him, for they had long since lost their meaning. It was more a memory that reminded him of what he did not have.

And now it would remind him both of hearing, and of his mother.

Again his fingernails dug into the wood. He knew he had to stop before he began to cry, for if Brytta awoke and came to find him thus, he would be ashamed.

He bit his tongue hard, and lifted his head. The sun felt good on the back of his neck, but he walked back towards the woodshed. If he was lucky, the other two would still be asleep and they would never know he had gone outside. He knew there was nothing he could do to improve their situation. Honor dictated that taking Wintra was no longer even to be considered, and he knew in his heart that doing so would surely make things worse. And so they would have to wait to see where the road would take them.

During his introspection, he did not hear the shrill whinnying scream that pierced through the air, nor the clamoring of Fyren and Brytta as both awoke and fumbled and scrambled for the latch to the shed, both wondering where Fastred was, Brytta fearing most and the worst. He did not know anything of Wintra's rolled-back eyes showing all white, and he did not hear Brytta scream out his name, despite her knowledge that he would not hear her.

Only when he felt the trembling of the ground beneath his feet did he turn to see Wintra blurring past him in a fury of pounding hooves, mane and tail whipping in the wind, and close on her heels a dark blur of teeth and shaggy paws.

Now he was fully alert, seeing the forms of Fyren and Brytta by the woodshed door, staring as they watched helplessly the thundering pursuit of warg after horse. He watched in a dazed awe, seeing the sun from the bright snow reflect from the white specks of Wintra's eyes, the snap-second of a gleam of a sharp tooth – it was all color and motion, dark blurs of fright and fur against pure white snow, unmarred until then. He found himself to be sickly entranced.

Fastred heard nothing, but Brytta did, and she wished she didn't – oh how she wished she didn't have to hear the squeals of fright splitting her ears from the horse, and she willed herself not to clench her eyes tightly shut only because she wanted to be sure of what was happening, wanted to be sure the warg wouldn't turn on her older brother. She couldn't let herself look away from the inevitable attack.

Fyren watched with detached eyes, not thinking so much on what was happening at the moment – he feared for his horse but feared more for himself – than what was likely to happen as soon as the warg finished with Wintra. Where there was one warg there were bound to be others, and where there were wargs, so also there were bound to be their masters, orcs. Another band, he wondered – another bunch of them to ravage the land? To kill me – us?

It was Brytta who looked away as the warg gave a final leap to Wintra's back, claws digging into the smooth skin, ripping at the chestnut coat, the snow beneath splattered with a sickly stark crimson. That much was enough for the girl, and she turned her face the other way, covering her ears with clenched fists.

There beyond the shed her eyes landed on a huddled mess of wriggling brown. Her hands no longer on her eyes, she found herself walking with timid steps toward it, as if pulled. If Fyren noticed her move, he did not pay it any heed, his attention fixed on the mound that was once his horse with the warg's claws dug deep in the archaic arched neck on the ground. Fastred's attention was fixed there as well, but more unemotionally, the expression on his face more contemplative than distressed.

Tentatively, Brytta stood several feet away from the bundle of fur and paws and pink tongues – the mess of warg pups. Small noses sniffed the air and pitiful whines were breaking the young girls' heart – more so than the death of the horse she had witnessed moments before, more than the ache in her chest that she had tried to escape all night in fitful dreams. With a slightly shaking finger, she reached to touch the small ear of the nearest pup, only to scream in fright as a shaggy form bounded in front of her, teeth bared, eyes flickering and sparking, flashing. Fyren had not had time to react, and Fastred stared mutely as the warg stood, tongue and teeth showing, between the wispy blond girl and the pups.

Brytta could not stop the small sounds that bubbled in her throat, shaking and choking any words, could not stop the trembling of her fingers.

"Don't touch them."

She started, jerking her head up to the one who had spoken, staring at the massive head, the eyes that, upon looking deeply at them, were a dark yellow, still flashing.

"I, I – I wouldn't, you – you speak!" she blurted out, trying to scramble backwards away from the mother, away from the pile of pups, back to the woodshed. Maybe this was all a bad dream – it had to be. Wargs couldn't talk. She must be dreaming. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if everything bad had been nothing more than a dream, that any minute she would wake in her own bed to the sunlight streaming in through clean windows. That any minute her mother would shake her shoulders and tell her to feed the chickens – any minute now. She grabbed a fistful of grass and twisted it, waiting to wake up, but she didn't, and the warg took a steps towards her with the great paws where blood had caked on the fur, matting it. Brytta swallowed hard – she had to wake up soon, she thought.

Someone tugged at the back of her dress collar, pulling her quickly to her feet, and struggling to back away from the warg's cold eyes, she held onto Fastred's hand as he tried to pull her away.

The warg advanced again. Fyren knelt beside his fallen horse, his head bent, and Fastred wanted nothing more than to rip the man away with the fury rising in his chest, but he did not. The shaggy paws moved closer and the teeth of the warg glittered sharply in the sunlight. With a snap f her jaws, the warg shoved her muzzle towards them.

"You don't touch my pups." A snarl rose in the warg's throat and both Fastred and Brytta stopped shaking to sprint to the woodshed, yet with several leaps the warg met them there again.

"FYREN!" Brytta screamed as the warg backed them up against the woodshed. If the man heard him, he did not respond as he was still bent over Wintra's corpse.

"What were ya going to do with them, eh?" The warg shoved her wet nose into Brytta's face. "Wring their necks or put chains on 'em?" She pushed her teeth close to the girl's nose.

Tears welled in the girl's eyes, and Fastred clenched his fists, then before he could will himself not to, he pushed the warg's nose away from his sister. The warg turned and moved close to him, looking at him eye to eye.

"Whatcha gonna do now? Got a warg in your face, she could make a meal of you in a few bites, and you're goin' around pushing her away. You might make me madder than I am. Whatcha gonna do?" Fastred blinked, trying to understand if the warg was speaking or not. If it was, he could not understand the words, did not know the lip movements, couldn't figure out what it meant.

Fastred felt his heart beating out of his chest, beating into the warg's face that she shoved against his body. He could read actions – and the warg was good at telling with what she did even if he couldn't hear what she said, if she was saying anything at all – he couldn't tell.

"FYREN!" Brytta yelled again.

Finally, the help she screamed for came with knife bared behind the warg.

With a snap of her jaws, the warg whipped around and faced Fyren, eyeing the knife that he held in shaking hands that he tried in vain to still.

"Pulling a knife on a warg mother who's mad – real smart, laddy, real smart. So whatcha gonna do now that surprising me isn't an option?"

Fyren's eyes grew wide in surprise and simultaneous fear.

"Yeah, I talk," she replied to the unspoken question. With a curl of her nostrils, she gazed at him through half-lidded eyes. "Put the knife back. I could tear you to pieces and you know it."

The knife fell to the ground.

"Heh," the warg chuffed. "Won't even stand against a little old warg to save two kid pups. Won't even try, will ya? Just drop the knife, let all of ya die, wouldn't you?" Her grating voice had the wry tinge to it.

The warg continued. "Wouldn't even stand for a second, wouldn't even try to hurt me – I threaten you and you just give up, right like that. You Rohirrim! If ya all are like that, no wonder the orcs're takin' over everything. Ya give 'em your houses too, hand 'em some brands to light the flames?" She bared her teeth again. "You throw your childen to 'em like you just did now, practically?"

Fyren had no answer, only stared at the warg before him with wide eyes and a flush growing over his face. Brytta slid to the ground and wrapped her arms around her knees, covering her ears. She didn't want to hear this warg laugh about killing them – why didn't the beast get it over with?

Fastred grit his teeth and wanted to run at Fyren, he did not care that the warg and the warg was standing there doing nothing, its mouth moving and Fyren just standing there staring. He was angry, furious, that the man had dropped the knife, had not tried to stop the warg, and now was doing nothing. He wanted the warg to attack him, wanted it to tear him apart – he had not come when Brytta had opened her mouth to scream.

"Some guardian if that's what you are," the warg said, the gave a sniff with her nose and abruptly turned back towards her pups. "Lucky thing for you I'm not hungry – your horse tasted good enough."

This time, Fyren vowed to himself that he would get the warg if it was the last thing he did. It had killed – had started to eat, even – his horse, his beloved companion that had been with him through all his herding days and through the long cold nights, had helped them fly from the crows, had been so good about carrying all three. And now the warg had killed it as he might swat a fly away. A rage grew in the pit of my stomach and burned up to his throat, and he did not hear the gutteral sound he made as he flew towards the warg's turned back as she made her way back to her littler of cold pups. With a raging cry, Fyren raced at the warg, the knife clenched in his pale hands tightly, a fey light in his eyes. The warg would pay – he was certain of that.

Brytta and Fastred both shut their eyes as soon as they saw the warg turn at the last moment, meeting Fyren and the knife with an open mouth of spear-sharp teeth, and Fastred was thankful that he did not hear the man's cry as the warg's jaw snapped on flesh.

Staring at the children as Fyren lay at her feet, the knife fallen from his fist, she lowered her nose to the ground. Fyren groaned and cradled the bloody mess of his right arm where the warg's teeth had sunk in. She shoved him with one paw and he attempted to roll away from her, but stopped as the arm touched the snow. His face was contorted and Brytta looked away again after peeking out behind her fingers. The sight made Brytta feel sick to her stomach, and she felt like retching.

The warg lowered her face to meet Fyren's, and with a growl deep in her throat, she rasped, "Now get out. Get on and go. Leave the pups and that'll be the end of the quarrel – how's that for you? Take it or I might get hungry again. Now get on with ya." Her yellow eyes danced darkly in the morning light, and the numbing pain of his arm was starting to shoot through his whole body. Shaking, he attempted to stand, and stumbled his way blindly past the huddled children by the woodshed and past the fallen horse, on to the fields beyond. Brytta made a move to get up and follow him, but Fastred grabbed her arm to hold her back, his teeth still set with angry determination. He would rather die here than go with the man who had not come the moment his sister had called for help – there was no hope in that direction anyway, he knew, for the crows had been that way – surely they would come upon him if he continued in that direction. If they were to die, he would rather die here than with the man who preferred to mourn over his horse than help the children. Brytta squirmed and pulled against her brother's firm hold of her coat until she finally stopped to catch her breath.

The warg stood impassively between them and the pups. Brytta wiped at her eyes, shivering in the cold and not wanting to die, she wanted to wake up. The bad dream had to end soon, she told herself. It had to end.

"He would've let ya die, ya know," the warg said with a shake of her head towards the dark blur of the stumbling Fyren.

"He sang me songs," argued Brytta, angry and afraid at the same time, her voice warbling timidly like a small cold bird addressing a cat. "He helped us get away."

"Well," the warg turned her back. "I won't sing you songs. But I won't let ya die if I can help it, so it's your pick." She looked over one massive shoulder and then lowered her head to nuzzle one whimpering pup. "I don't hurt the little ones."

Fastred looked at his sister and then at the warg that looked like it was talking. Brytta finally met eyes with her brother and wiggled her fingers in the same motion the two had used when they made shadow figures on the walls of home against the firelight. Yes, it was talking, she explained with quick hand gestures, nodding her head at the same time. Fastred frowned and looked to the warg and then in the direction Fyren had fled. He didn't like either of the two possibilities the children had before them. Brytta understood.

"What do you mean, don't hurt the little ones?" Brytta asked, still huddled against the woodshed wall and not ready to move away from it any closer to the warg yet. "You're a warg – you're with them. The orcs." She spit the word out of her mouth. It left a bitter taste on her tongue behind.

The warg flopped down on the ground and the pups nestled into her fur. Without meeting eyes with the girl, the warg replied, "Do I look like I'm with them at the moment?"

"You could be. Where wargs are, the orcs'll be around. Master Leofwine told me that. He said if I saw a warg I was to run inside at once." Brytta didn't know why she was telling the warg this, but she couldn't think of any reason why she shouldn't. Maybe, she thought to herself, I can sound innocent and pitiful enough that she really won't hurt us. The thought came back that they had done nothing wrong before though, and now they were homeless because of it.

"Well, you're right. I could be." The warg did not meet Brytta's eyes and instead placidly licked one of the pups. She stopped. Her grating voice lowered. "I could be."