Middle-Earth, The Plains of Rohan: T.A. 3019, February 30th

A week, a whole week of pursuit with little time for rest or nourishment. Calgacus had always thought himself healthy, but now running in the company of such creatures like the Dunedin and the Elf, well he felt quite out-stripped.

He could barely feel his feet anymore, and he dreaded what might become of the hobbits if he were to fall in their pursuit. He would not be the one to slow down his fellow hunters, he would not be the one to fall behind even Gimli.

Just one more hill, he lied to himself, just one more hill and then you'll see the hobbits again. It wasn't an unbelievable lie, after all Aragorn had stopped at the top of the next hill. Yet as the son of the Leomhann neared the current leader of the fellowship, he could begin to make out just what had made the other man stop…and it most certainly was not hobbits.

Calgacus did not have to have seen the Riders of Rohan before to recognize them. His people's dislike of the wretched creatures had been etched into his bones. He imagined his stomach making a nasty flipping motion, as down below them the riders of Rohan thundered past. Aragorn did not seem to have the same trepidation though, for he yelled to their leader as loudly as he could.

'What news from the North, Riders of Rohan?'

Calgacus was quite frozen, as he watched the riders turn their mounts as one, and gallop to meet the approaching hunters.

Calgacus kept a firm grip on his shield as around the four companions, the Rohirrim circled. They finally stopped, though whether out of a realisation that their intimidation tactics had failed or because their horses had grown tired, Calgacus could never be sure. He expected the latter, because Rohanians were all far too inbred to realise anything of import.

One of them rode forward then, a tall man made taller by the height of his steed; he did not dismount to greet or interrogate them but remained sitting in his horse's saddle, as the spear he held extended until it touched Aragon's breast, right over his heart.

Aragorn did not flinch but met the coward's eyes with courage that should have humbled the man, but merely made him laugh. The long horsetail fastened to his helm sweeping back in what might have been a majestic manner in a race with more honour.

'What is the business does a man, an Elf, a Dwarf and …' the rider's lip curled upon proper sight of Calgacus, who suddenly wished he carried some other weapon with his shield. 'And a savage have in the Ridermark?'

Gimli's answer was not altogether wanted. 'Give me your name horse-master, and I shall give you mine.'

The named Horse-master un-mounted and handed his spear to one of his subordinates, before unsheaving his sword and advancing menacingly on the dwarf.

'I would cut off your head dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground.'

Legolas' bow was cocked faster than either dwarf or man could blink, and he growled – well as much as any elf could growl. 'You would be dead before your stroke fell.' Aragorn lowered the Elven prince's arrow with his own hand, and spoke soothing words in that unnerving tongue of the Elves. He then turned and spoke in a voice that he no doubt thought was just dramatic enough for his purpose.

'I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, and am called Elessar, the Elfstone, Dunedin, the heir of Isildur, Erendil's son of Gondor. Here is the sword that was broken and is forged again! Will you aid me or thwart me? Choose swiftly!'

Calgacus couldn't help it, he unconsciously moved himself and his shield closer to Legolas and Gimli. Because Aragorn had clearly lost any sign of sanity he had once held. The term in-bred got tossed around a lot about other men, like the Rohan or the Dunedin, back home - but Aragorn had always seemed so sane and together, so Calgacus had thought that nothing but talk. But what sane man would give his true lineage away to a man who had yet to identify himself as anything but an enemy?

'This is an honour done to my people then,' said the Rohan man. 'But it still doesn't answer my question; why are you, here Aragorn son of Arathorn? And with such strange and barbaric company? Tell me do you know what the Dunlanders have done to us? Are you unaware of the crimes they have committed against my people? The crimes they continue to commit; tell me why I should trust a man who thinks such creatures are safe traveling companions?'

'I am aware of what they are guilty of.' Said Aragorn throwing a rather cool look at Calgacus. 'And I make no excuses for them, but our purpose is not to aid such a vile and despicable people; but to track a party of Uruk-hai heading North. They carry two of our friends with them.'

'More Dunlanders? Then they've done you a favour,' Calgacus' free hand curled into a fist and it was only the sharp pain of the Elf gripping his shoulder, that kept him from swinging at the in-bred hick.

'They were Hobbits of the Shire. Small, they'd be only children to your eyes.'

The man removed his helm then, his straw like hair making a swishing movement as he did so.

'I know of the creatures you speak of, for we have a fair few in the lands of Rohan. But I'm afraid I cannot help you further than that. We slaughtered a party of Uruk-hai in the night, we saw no creatures of child or Holbytla stature, if your friends were still living then… they shan't be anymore.'

'No…' said Gimli, his head hung low in sorrow, but the straw-head did not seem to notice.

'I am Eomer son of Eomund; and the laws of this land state that any stranger must be taken to the king, or in the case of your Dunland companion, killed on sight.'

'I am aware of the laws of this land Eomer son of Eomund, for I rode with your father and your uncle before you were even conceived. For I am a descendent of the men of Numenor, whose lives are greater and longer than those of lesser men such as you and your kin.'

Behind Aragorn's back, Calgacus and Legolas shared a look of combined frustration.

'I am aware of that Aragorn son of Arathorn, and in this dark time our people would be greatly aided by one such as you.'

It was sarcasm, it had to be sarcasm. Though if it was, Aragorn didn't seem to notice.

'I would be overjoyed to lend your uncle my sword, but I'm afraid I cannot help you until we have completed our quest and either found our companions alive and whole, or seen their remains properly buried.'

'Well then, I will lend you a horse if it might speed your search; but I warn you this Aragorn son of Arathorn…' the straw head pointed his sword at Calgacus.

'If I ever see this creature again, I will have him slaughtered like the filth he is.'

'I would expect nothing less of the son of Eomund.' Said Aragorn as he took the bridle of the first of the two rider-less horses. The straw head nodded as he climbed into his own steed's saddle.

'May they carry you to better fates than their last masters…' he sneered down at them, or maybe just at Calgacus. The three other hunters climbed on to the horses, but Aragorn made a sharp stopping movement before Calgacus could do the same.

The straw heads laughed as they turned their mounts as one and galloped away, leaving the four hunters to stand awkwardly in their retreating dust. Aragorn made a jerking movement with his arm and heaved Calgacus onto the horse behind him.

'I am sorry, but it was the only way to get him to trust me.'

Calgacus laughed at that.

'Maybe sae, and ah might forgive aat in time, bit ah'm sure he fair have liked ye better, if ye'd nae used the term 'lesser men'.'*

'But it's true?'

'Ah'm just pointing out, aat it might nae be just ma lineage aat fool takes issue wi now. An despicable? Really? Ah've travelled wi ye for mair than a year, Aragorn son of Arathorn, an ye can't do me the courtesy o thinking up an entertaining lie aboot ma people?'**

'That's what troubles you?'

'Ack, it doesn't help.'

Aragorn snorted, and his lips turned up at the corners in what would have passed for a smile had it been somebody else.

'I will think of better insults by the time our paths cross with him again.'

'It's all ah ask…' and then the boy frowned. 'Aragorn…fit did he mean the crimes ma people continue to commit against his? We've nae had so much as a scuffle in at least seventeen years. We canna, with my Mither's forests parting us so.'

Aragorn's scowl was deeper than his smile.

'I do not know Aon-adharcach, but it cannot be anything good.'

Dunland was gone, that is what the people of the villages closest to that terrible land told themselves anyway. Why would they think anything different? There had been no raids on their livestock, or wives, in over seventeen years…longer if you counted the time before the forest had sprung up.

Such a strange forest it was, the trees sharp, and oddly angler for how tall they grew. Still they'd gotten rid of the Dunlanders, and that was reason enough for the villagers to begin to pray to them. It was no great leap, they had prayed to Gondor's Valar and other older gods all their lives, and anyone who knew the gods at all, could tell you that the trees and plants of the earth were closest to them.

The Gods had heard their people…for the Rohan surely were the Gods' people even more so than the high minded Gondorians…and they had sent their saviours to trap the vicious brutes behind their hollowed bark.

So, aye, they worshiped, and they prayed, and they left sweet breads and treacle sweets as offerings for the free spirts of the forest. For what creature, God or Mortal did not love sweet breads and treacle sweets with their morning meal?

It was exactly that, in fact, that the two children were doing when they saw them. At first the creatures clawing their way out of the trees looked like men. Dirty men, but men all the same. The children were too young to remember the Dunlanders…not as their parents would…but when a strange man crawls his way out of a God blessed forest and begins to stumble towards you, you don't stand around wondering where he came from…you just run.

And run they did, all the way back to what should have been their village…but wasn't anymore.

For you see, the only dead to walk in morning light, are the hungry ones.

Just Outside of Fangorn Forest

Their horses carried them swiftly to the sight of the Uruk-hai massacre. The bodies were piled up high in a messy stack close to the forest. Smoke rose lazily from it, and the smell of burnt orc flesh was sickening, it was almost enough to fell Calgacus before his two feet were even on the ground again. If there were any remains of hobbit in that festering pile, they would not be finding them any time soon.

Gimli and Legolas clutched each other in their shared grief, and Aragorn slammed his foot into an Orc helmet and screamed as it shot across the remains of the encampment. Calgacus wasn't sure what to do, he was used to the feeling of grief but then he suspected the others were as well. People died all the time, people who shouldn't die, people who should have lived a long and happy life. People like Merry and Pippin, but people like that died all the time, and there was nothing you could do about it. Nothing but to move on, and try to live your own life, whatever was left of it.

The Hobbits had been older than him after all, Meriadoc past Counting Age and Pippin only just before it: good long lives, as far as his people were concerned. That was what he told himself now, yet that knowledge did nothing to ease the hollow in his chest that might once have been his heart.

'A hobbit lay here,' Calgacus' mind was drawn from his grief by the sound of the Ranger's voice.

'And another…they crawled, but their hands were bound.'

Calgacus followed the line of the ranger's sight as he picked up the hastily cut rope.

'Their bonds were cut…they fled. But they were followed…the tracks lead here, and over here, until they reach…Fangorn Forest.'

'What Madness drove them in there.' Breathed Gimli, his beard still streaked with newly fallen tears. Legolas and Calgacus shared a look of quite resignation, as the four hunters followed the hobbits' tracks into the ominous forest.

The light from the man was blinding, a white wizard Aragorn had said, some kin of Gandalf's but not half so wise. Saruman aye, he had heard that name before, the Wizard who tried to buy his people's loyalty with the promise of revenge and land that wasn't infested with the walking corpses of the dead. But then the trees had come up, and suddenly his people no longer mattered.

'What spell is this? What have you done to the hobbits?' Legolas and Aragorn seemed to speak as one.

Calgacus' shield, for once did nothing to block out that terrible light and he felt quite dazed and confused when the voice began to speak to them.

'Two hobbits passed here yesterday, and they met someone who they did not expect.'

Around the stranger the light began to fade and Calgacus could finally see enough to lower his shield. An old man in long white robes stood before them, his hair fallen about his shoulders in a comforting manner, and the son of the Leomhann was finally able to recognize the stranger.

'Gandalf!'

The wizard made an 'oof' sound when the man of Dunland dropped his shield and all but flung himself at the old wizard.

'Gandalf…' said Aragorn, just a second slower than the Clansman.

'We…we thought you were Saruman.'

'I am Saruman…' said the wizard as Calgacus, slightly embarrassed, released him. 'But rather Saruman as he should have been.' Gandalf opened his arms and embraced the others in turn and laughed at their tears of joy.

'Weep not my friends, for our time is always too short on this earth and I have been given a second chance…something many deserve but never receive, so if you must weep than weep for the hobbits whose trials, I fear have only just begun. Come, we have much to discuss as we make for the Gap of Rohan. Great Evil has taken hold in that kingdom.'

'Founded on don't you mean.' Grumbled Calgacus, thoughts of angry horsemen already taken root in his mind. If Gandalf had heard, he pretended he hadn't.

Gimli scowled.

'What of the hobbits, we cannot just leave them in this dank tree-infested…' Around them the trees began to groan, and Gimli paled considerably. 'Charming! Completely charming forest.'

'Merry and Pippin are perfectly safe master Dwarf, in fact they're a good deal safer than you are about to be.'

'This new Gandalf's just as grumpy as the old one.'

It would seem that the horses of the Rohirrim rarely grew tired or felt hunger, so their journey was quicker than it really should have been. They seemed to go from riding out of Fangorn to riding into Edoras in the amount of time it took for Calgacus to fall asleep in his saddle, and be jostled awake by Aragorn's elbow.

His dream had been a kind one for once; with the fates of Merry and Pippin confirmed, at least partially, by the wizard, his dreams were able to be joyous again…that was until he remembered where he was willingly riding into. Rohan, Edoras; the city of the people who had centuries ago invaded his people's land and either driven them out, forced them to assimilate or just flat out massacred them until only the Straw-heads were left.

These people had ruined his people's land, and they'd never suffered for it. Sure, he concluded, as they rode up the empty streets of Rohan's main fortress, they appeared to be suffering a bit now… but what was a couple of Orc raids next to the legions of the Dead his people had to fight off daily. Nothing, these people knew nothing of what it was to be truly afraid, after all a sword would stop an orc.

They – Gandalf and the four hunters - dismounted their steeds and climbed the steps to the hall of King Théoden. Gandalf gave Calgacus a hard look over his shoulder, as if he knew every unkind thought that had just passed through the Clanman's head.

'I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself, Calgacus son of Mab; just because you cannot see a people's suffering, does not make it any less than yours.'

Calgacus scowled and felt like snapping something rather ugly at the wizard's retreating back; but the guard was too close now, and whether he liked it or not the Wizard had a point. Oh, not about the suffering, Calgacus was sure he was wrong in that regard, but the keeping silent part…yes, there the old man might have it right. Calgacus' face, and general manner already rubbed these people the wrong way, he didn't need to go opening his gob and make an already potentially fatal meeting…deadlier.

In all honesty he was actually sort of surprised he hadn't been stopped at the fortress' gates, after all he was clearly an outsider and didn't belong. Of course, neither did the others, but Rohan had never been in open war with any of their people. He decided he didn't want to think about it anymore, so turned his full attention to the stone fortress of the King.

Before the Dead had come marching in, his homeland had only really had one fortress, Dunlich Castle; but next to this house of Kings, that ancient fortress of lore would pale in comparison. This was no ancient stronghold of a people long forgotten, the occupants of this fortress properly could still remember all the builders' names. It was quite a sight he had to admit, it didn't mean he considered the people who built it any less despicable or creatures of the dark disguised as men…but he could certainly appreciate fine craftsmanship, even if it was made by such a people. Gandalf gave the man a smirk that deserved the darkest scowl Calgacus could muster. But there was no time, for they were at the door now and the guard was demanding they hand over all their weapons before they could enter the hall. Which would include the wizard's staff…well, thought Calgacus resignedly, this should be fun to watch at least.

Inside the Court of the King

Éowyn's uncle was a greatly sick man; it seemed to her now that it had always been so, even though she still held the distant memory of the proud king he'd once been. But that seemed a great many years ago to her now, and she'd always been a woman who lived in the present, and the present was a dark day indeed.

Court had begun as usual for these times, with very few people in attendance, not even her cousin bothered to slouch from his bed-chamber so early in the morning. Sometimes it seemed like only herself and that creature Wormtongue took the matter seriously anymore, her brother certainly never had, but he was gone now. He had been gone for many months now. It was Wormtoughn's fault she knew, a great many things were Wormtoughn's fault. And as as she strode into the Throne room ready to take court with her uncle, and spied the thin leach of a man refilling her cousin's cup, with a look of twisted glee across his waxy face – she felt the bile of hatred rise in throat again.

Théodred had once been a noble warrior, a man any King would be proud to call son, but that was many moons ago and whatever man he was now, it was not one that was fit to be king.

Spying her lurking near the doorway her cousin tipped his goblet in her direction as a sort of clumsy salute. Red wine splashed out of the cup and onto the tile stones below, and Théodred roared with laughter as if it was the funniest thing in the world.

As gracefully as she could, with her cousin's drunken laughter still bouncing against the walls; Éowyn crossed the room and sat herself in the seat to her uncle's left. Théodred could be so very cruel when as deep in his cups as he was now. So Éowyn wished dearly that her first assumption had been correct, and that her cousin had been suffering too great a hangover to appear at early morning court. Yet, he wasn't, and she was a woman of the present not the might be, and there was work to be done.

Or rather there would have been, if the wide doors of the hall had not been thrown open at that very moment and, five strangers of the most peculiar garb, strolled in. Well, thought the niece of the king resignedly, at least it had not been another one of Théodred's misguided attempts to contribute, that had derailed the court for the day.

Doric Translation:

*'Maybe so, and I might forgive that in time, but I'm sure he would have liked you better had you not used the term 'lesser men'.'

**'I'm just pointing out, that it might not be just my lineage that that fool takes issue with now. And despicable? Really, I've travelled with you for more than a year Aragorn son of Arathorn, and you can't do me the courtesy of thinking up at least an entertaining lie about my people?'