They crossed the river into Anorien. The Gondorian messenger seemed to relax slightly, knowing he was on home territory. Elfhelm, on the other hand, was slightly on edge. Bringing armed warriors into another country was never a comfortable thing. He quietly gave thanks for the letter from Éomer King in his pack, saying that they were in pursuit of a fugitive, asking for assistance from any soldiers and magistrates of Gondor they might encounter, and undertaking to continue their pursuit in accordance with the laws of King Elessar's realm.
Other than the fording of the stream, there wasn't a lot to give away the fact that they were now in a foreign land. The houses were similar, the landscape was similar, even the rhythms of the Westron the people spoke wasn't much different this far north of the Stone City. Some even spoke a bastardized version of the tongue of the Mark, or at least had incorporated quite a few of its words into their language.
So it was with a certain, depressing sense of deja vu that Elfhelm watched a figure detach itself from another of the two storey farmhouses and stomp through the snow towards them. But this time the voice was cheery.
"Hail, Riders of the Mark. Or should I say, Vestoo Hail?"
"Good day to you, master farmer," Elfhelm replied.
"Come, come, a glass of warmed mead for all of you and some food. The Rohirrim are our friends." He gestured to the house, where a female figure had appeared at the top of the stone steps.
"Wife, here are some of our friend's compatriots. Let us make them welcome, and tell them of their brother's good deed."
Elfhelm dismounted and glanced up at the woman, who, inexplicably was wiping away tears, despite a slightly wobbly smile upon her face. The farmer ushered them up the steps.
"This is our youngest, Halbrand," the farmer said, proudly, putting an arm round a boy of about six, sitting on a bench with a heavily bandaged leg resting on a stool.
"We are so glad to have him back safely," added his wife. "He got lost in the snow yesterday and turned his ankle and tumbled into a dell."
"We spent all day looking for him, and the light was just beginning to fade when your brother rider turned up. He tracked him by spotting the circling carrion crows."
"And him a lad so young he barely has hairs on his chin."
"So all Rohirrim are welcome to a mug or two of mead when they come past our house," finished the farmer, putting a stoppered earthenware jar on the table. His wife bustled up with a collection of horn cups.
"So," said Elfhelm, "Our brother rider. When did he leave?"
"First light this morning," said the woman, returning with a ham and a loaf of bread.
Elfhelm glanced out the tiny window at the fading daylight. Dammit. Making this journey with the full muster had been hard enough work, but in the middle of winter, with thick snow and short days, it seemed to be taking at least twice as long. And there was no way they could turn down the hospitality offered. Still, he reflected, a safe byre to put the horses in and a warm, dry floor to sleep upon would set them up for the next day.
~o~O~o~
AN: Colly versus calling. Most modern versions have "calling" birds (and the assumption seems to be that they are songbirds), but back at the beginning of the twentieth century "colly", short for "coaley", i.e. black, was more common in printed versions of the song. I learnt the song from my mother (born in the late 20s) and "colly" was the version I learned.
A friend at work was reunited with her lost dog recently, after a rambler spotted the crows circling above the hedge where the dog had crawled for shelter with its injured leg. I'm glad to say the dog made a full recovery.