My excuse is real this time. AP tests are looming ever closer, and I have time for almost nothing else. Which means that the next one might not come for a while, either--not until the middle of May, probably, when there won't be any more to do in most of my classes. Thanks for bearing with me.
Thylian awoke with a start.
The darkness around him was impenetrably black, and only his ragged breathing broke the silence. Motionless, muscles taut, he peered around in the obscurity for any movement inside his tent—he could swear that there had been something beside him just moments before. Several long seconds passed, and when nothing happened, he began to relax. He realized that his right hand was grasping hilt of his sword; releasing it, he flexed his fingers and let his head fall back to the ground.
"It was just a dream," he muttered to himself. "You're overreacting."
Slowly, his breathing began to calm and his body ease, but he did not allow his mind to do the same. He was struggling to remember what it was he had been dreaming about, but it was slipping away as quickly as water through his fingers. He told himself it didn't matter, but some dark, inexplicable curiosity within him would not be sated with such an answer.
It returned to him with sudden clarity.
He was a child, sitting on his mother's lap, listening to her soft singing and watching his father, quill in hand, hunched over a stack of parchment. This was not so much a dream as it was a memory: how many times had the three of them sat beside the fire in his father's study before bedtime, undisturbed and content? But it veered abruptly from memory into the wild realm of dreams. Soldiers poured into the room, which was no longer the king's study, but the top of the Tower of Ecthelion—Thylian, now a grown man, was fighting one of them in the chaos—the soldier looked up suddenly—he found himself face to face with Teolir—he, Thylian, wanted with all his heart to stop but found to his horror that he could not—he thrust his sword through his opponent's torso and caught the body as it crumpled—his eyes sought his friend's features, but it was no longer Teolir—his father's lifeless eyes stared up at him from an ashen face—
It was then that he awoke.
He rubbed his eyes tiredly, silently berating himself. Dreams are foolish fantasies. Pull yourself together, Captain.
He had not lain there for long before he decided that sleep would not return to him. He left the tent, shoulders hunched broodingly against the chilly night air. In spite of the heat of the previous day, the earth had not retained its warmth.
The moon was approaching the western horizon; he realized that it was soon time to arise anyway. He took down his tent, woke the first soldier he happened upon, sleeping in the long grasses, and told him to rouse the rest. Slowly, the camp stirred; in half an hour, they were ready to depart.
Thylian felt many hostile stares on his back the entire time they were preparing to leave. He knew that several of them—as many as half, perhaps—distrusted him, a suspicion that had been simmering since the previous night, when they had seen him with his hood down.
He shook off the bitterness welling within him, knowing that it could do no more than make his day miserable. At a signal from him, they mounted their horses and rode off by the fading light of the moon.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
The second day was even hotter than the first. As the sun rose higher, their progress slowed, having to return all too frequently to the Anduin for water. By noon, Thylian had decided to simply remain by the river rather than follow the Great West Road as they were supposed to. He designated two soldiers, relieved every hour, to stay on the road in case a messenger tried to find them.
As darkness approached, Thylian called for a halt. Gratefully, the soldiers clambered off their horses, peeled off their armor, and began setting up camp. As soon as their bedrolls were laid out, they began passing around a meager supper, conversing in quiet voices.
Thylian stood by the edge of the camp, arms folded, pensively gazing at the sky as the brilliant stars emerged overhead. He was trying to gauge how long it would take to reach the border at this rate—they had not made nearly as much progress today has he hoped they would. The more they fell behind, the more advantage Gondor would have.
He tried to thrust Gondor out of his mind, but it stubbornly refused to go. He did not want to think about what might happen when it finally came time to meet them in battle. As hard as he had tried, fifteen years had not been enough to rob him entirely of his heritage. He had sworn to Teolir that he was a man of Rohan, and that, as such, he would fight, die, and even kill for his kingdom, and he was resolved to do so unfailingly. What he was afraid of was that with each man he slaughtered, he would die a little bit within himself.
He was so absorbed in his grim contemplations that he did not notice two large shapes looming out of the night until they were nearly upon him. They seemed to materialize out of the darkness, enormous shadows that resolved themselves into mounted riders as they neared—they were the sentries that Thylian had ordered to continue along the road.
One of them leapt off his horse and approached the camp, pulling his helmet off of his head. The other turned to lead their mounts towards the other horses, and it was only then that Thylian realized that there were more than two: four other horses were being led behind the soldiers' mounts.
The first soldier walked towards the ring of men and inclined his head towards Thylian. "Sir, we came across these horses heading back to Edoras along the Great West Road. We thought it best to bring them here. They obviously belong to men of the Mark—one of their saddles is marked with a livery stamp from Edoras, and another one is from Snowborne."
Thylian watched the second soldier approach them, having left all six horses with the others. He was concerned; the only place the stray beasts could have come from was from the éored that had gone before them, and they would only have abandoned their mounts if they were in serious trouble.
"You did well, soldiers," he said after a moment, nodding his assent to them. "Help yourself to some food."
They thanked him and joined their comrades, and Thylian continued to gaze broodingly out into the darkness. This time, however, his thoughts were focused on something entirely different. They were with Teolir, the prince of Rohan, the captain of the first éored—a friend so close to him that they were like brothers.
He turned abruptly to face his men. "Soldiers," he commanded, "I need a patrol of scouts to come with me—right now. I'm afraid that something has happened to the éored that departed before us, and the sooner we find out, the better."
There was a murmur of mixed emotions, exasperation and concern coming from different men and conflicting with each other for dominance. He designated four soldiers at random, beckoning them to follow him. Striding towards the horses, he found his own and waited for those he had picked to come. One of them had leapt up at his command, but the other three took their time, grudgingly standing and walking slowly after him. His impatience building, he called sharply to them to hurry up and pulled himself into his saddle.
The five of them struck off towards the Great West Road, but they stayed far enough away from it that they would be hard to see from a distance. Thylian led the way in silence, closely followed by one soldier; the other three hung further behind. He regretted choosing men to accompany him instead of allowing them to volunteer; he knew that those who do things willingly generally do them better.
He was not sure what they were looking for—some sign, perhaps, that the last éored had passed here safely or that they had been attacked. Whatever it was, he was half-convinced that they would miss it in the dark. His eyes scanned the road to his right, hardly even glancing ahead of him as his horse moved forward. He could hear the three men murmuring to each other behind him, but he paid them no heed, knowing that nothing he did could force them to be more attentive.
As the moon rose, reached its apex, and began its descent, still no sign of Teolir's éored had been seen. They were drawing near to a line of trees against the mountains: since they could not have yet reached the Druadan, he knew it must be the Firien Wood.
As they came to the trees, one of the three men who lagged behind spurred his horse forward and drew level with Thylian.
"Captain," he said with a trace of disdain that put Thylian on his guard, "I don't think we're going to find anything."
"What's your name?"
"Savihn."
"We'll keep searching until we do, Savihn," he answered firmly, not taking his eyes off the road."
"If we keep going, we won't get any sleep tonight."
Thylian warily noted the lack of a respectful term such as 'sir' or 'captain.' He was not foolish enough to insist upon a recognition of his authority with every sentence, but he felt that this stemmed not from forgetfulness or a feeling equality, but from condescension and derision. This man was one who despised his captain and scorned his authority because he was Gondorian.
"We will keep going," he answered calmly, but there was a hint of a warning in his voice. "You can sleep on your horses tomorrow."
Savihn's eyes flashed, but he fell back with his companions. The fourth soldier, the one who rode neither ahead with the captain or behind with the others, had watched the exchange mutely, an unreadable expression in his eyes. With a glance at him, Thylian continued on, plunging into the trees and ignoring the angry glares he received from the other men.
It was nigh impossible to see anything; he knew that even if there were some indication of what had befallen the other éored, they hardly had a chance of finding it. Still, as long as that possibility existed, he had to try. He told himself it was for the good of the éored, but in his heart he knew it was because he could not bring himself to abandon Teolir.
He tried not to let himself worry, trying to convince his nerves that what would come would come and there was no stopping it when it did. He could not, however, help but feel a deep sense of foreboding every time his mind was drawn back to Teolir. His horse, Mena, an old but sturdy mare who had been his companion since arriving in Rohan, seemed to sense his anxiety; she whinnied softly and pawed the ground nervously every time he shifted.
Now she halted abruptly and let out an angry-sounding snort. Thylian, suddenly stirred from his diligent, almost trance-like observation of the road, jerked his head up. Savihn had reigned his mount in front of the captain, blocking his path. Thylian felt open aggression radiating from his posture and demeanor—his face was hard-set, his back rigid.
"Captain, this is a fruitless endeavor."
Thylian's hand slipped subconsciously towards the hilt of his sword. Keeping his face calm, he answered, "We will keep going. We are not done yet."
"I am done," Savihn spat forcefully, "and so are Bargail and Huthan."
The other two soldiers had come up from behind him to join their companion. Bargail, a belligerent look on his face that did not quite fit his lanky body, added, "We wouldn't have come in the first place, but we didn't want to make a scene in front of the rest of the éored."
Thylian smiled humorlessly. "So instead you make a scene in the middle of a thick forest, with no one for miles around to stop you. I applaud your courage, soldiers." He tried to steer Mena around the men, but Huthan blocked his path. Instead he reined his horse back a few feet, glancing behind him. He was momentarily startled—there was a man on a horse waiting, silent, some fifty feet away from them. As he turned to face the other three men, he realized that it must be the fourth soldier that had come with them.
"You think you can patronize us," he growled, "so high and powerful, shielded by your title of captain—but you're not even from the Mark. You have no right to talk like that to us, not when you're a scum-eating Gondorian who would like to feed on the blood of our wives and babes."
"That's ridiculous," Thylian said curtly. "I am every bit as loyal to Rohan as you are. More so, probably, judging by your willingness to turn on your captain as soon as you are faced by a minor difficulty."
"You are no captain of mine," Huthan said coldly. "I cannot honor the commands of traitorous filth like you."
"Traitorous?" Thylian repeated mildly. "I see three traitors here, aye, but I am not one of them."
Savihn laughed callously. "You cannot be a man of Gondor serving as a captain of Rohan without being traitorous to one or the other."
"I do not agree with that conjecture, but if that must be the case, then I am a traitor to Gondor."
"Then you do not deny that you are not from Rohan?"
Thylian laughed bitterly. "What good would it do? It is evident, is it not?"
"Why then did you keep your hood on so long, instead of revealing yourself immediately?" Bargail demanded. "I see a two-faced snake emerging in your words, captain." He hissed the last word mockingly, spitting on the ground as he did so.
"I thought it would be best that you learn of it when there was another captain nearby who could restore order and vouch for my loyalty, so I was going to wait until we were reunited with Prince Teolir's éored." He glanced over his shoulder once more. The soldier was still standing there, unmoving, but Thylian thought he could read his expression by the faint light of the moon: it was a look of mingled fear, indecision, and guilt. As their gazes met, the soldier shifted uncomfortably and averted his eyes.
"Was it a careless blunder, then, that led you to show it early?"
"I decided to trust to the integrity and fair, honest judgment that was once innate in the men of Rohan. They were once smart enough not to judge good and evil by what they saw on the outside. I see now that I was wrong to believe that this capacity still existed."
Thylian knew that he should not goad them, but his own anger was rising within him. Had not General Moran instructed them to obey their captain no matter what they thought of him? Was the trust of the captain of the guard—what was more, the king—not enough for them?
"What's this?" Savihn hissed. "A Gondorian dares to challenge our intelligence?"
"Intelligence?" Thylian raised his eyebrows. "No, I was merely challenging your character."
Huthan's sword was out of his sheath in the blink of an eye, but Thylian's was faster. A blow that would have taken his arm off landed instead with a ringing clash against his blade. Thylian's eyes flashed as their hilts locked. "What do you think to do?" he asked softly. "Will you kill me, Huthan?"
"A traitorous Gondorian is the captain of an éored—the honor of the men of Rohan calls for justice. If killing you is what it takes…"
"There is no justice in murder."
He disengaged his blade barely in time to turn towards Bargail and deflect another blow. He had given up hope of the fourth soldier intervening on his behalf, but he knew he could not win this fight alone, not with three opponents to fight. The other two lunged at him, and once more he had to spin around in his saddle to block their swords. He tried to pull Mena back, tugging on the reigns, but she seemed unwilling to budge, letting out a nervous, high-pitched whinny. A heavy blow glanced off his armor; it did not pierce it, but the force left his right arm half-numb.
It was all Thylian could do to protect himself: Bargail's sword swung towards his leg, and, though it missed, it nicked Mena in the side. She snorted loudly and reared onto her hind legs, flinging her rider into the air. Thylian thudded to the ground several feet away, rolling as he hit to minimize the impact. Spasms of pain shot through his body, and the air was knocked out of his lungs. His limbs were on fire, and a momentary paralysis seemed to have struck him, but he turned his eyes towards his opponents.
A feeling of horror seeped through him as he saw what was happening. Mena's hooves were still kicking the air, and Savihn was facing her, blade in hand. Even a simpleton could not miss an opening like that. His sword plunged deep into the horse's chest, blood spurting out onto his hand and sleeve. There was an unearthly scream, and as he withdrew his blade, now stained red, the animal's hooves hit the ground, her legs collapsed, and then she lay still.
Thylian bellowed in rage and anguish, pushing away the pain and forcing himself to stand. Bargail, however, had dismounted and come up behind him; a dizzying blow from the hilt of his sword brought him to his knees. He barely held on to consciousness as he tried to stand again, only to be forced to his hands and knees, where this time, he stayed.
He drew in long, painful breaths, trying to calm his heart rate and stifle the adrenaline in his veins and the grief in his heart. His horse had been almost as close a friend as Teolir was, and one foolish soldier's sword had ended her life.
Finally raising his head, he looked harshly at Savihn, who, with Huthan and Bargail, was standing above him. "You didn't have to kill her," he whispered. "She had already thrown me off." He tried once more to stand, but Huthan's hand on his shoulder forced him back down and rested a blade against his throat.
"Are you ready to die, captain?" he demanded scornfully. "You didn't think you wouldn't even make it to the first battle, did you?"
There was a moment of silence that seemed to span several eternities.
"Stop it."
The voice was young, unfamiliar, though it seemed somehow as if he had heard it before. Huthan dropped the sword, and Thylian sprang to his feet, stepping quickly away from his attackers.
The fourth soldier was standing there, his own dagger at Huthan's neck. A gray light that had emerged in the east made his face visible, and the emotion etched onto it was a mixture of anger, determination, and indignation—barely a trace of the earlier fear. Thylian saw his hand shaking and knew immediately that the blade threatening to kill Huthan was no more than that: a mere threat. This soldier was not a killer.
Thylian picked up his own sword, unhindered by Bargail or Savihn, whose eyes were fixed warily on the knife at their companion's throat.
"You call yourselves men of Rohan," the soldier said quietly. "If you are, I would be ashamed to be the same."
Savihn laughed uneasily, his bloody hand still clutching his sword rising slightly. "You're just a lad. Let Huthan go, and we'll do the same for you."
Thylian, however, had stolen up behind him. He seized Savihn's wrist and wrested the blade away. Bargail, who had sheathed his own sword before dismounting, grasped the hilt, but Thylian, now armed with two blades, tapped one against his chest and the other against hand that was unsheathing the sword. Cursing, Bargail let it fall back in.
Thylian removed the blade himself and tossed it to the ground. He jerked his head in the direction of their horses. "Go," he said hoarsely. "The army of Rohan has no need of you anymore." He nodded to the soldier, who dropped the dagger from Huthan's throat and put it rather awkwardly into his belt.
The three men glanced at each other.
"Get out of here," Thylian spat. "All three of you, go home. Savihn, you can leave your horse as repayment for mine."
Savihn made a noise in his throat, but the captain snarled, "Or if you prefer, I can kill you so that you'll have no need of it anymore."
The man did not protest.
Thylian watched as they left, throwing furtive looks at him every few seconds as though they could not believe he was letting them go. Huthan and Bargail mounted their horses and rode away immediately. Savihn, throwing a scathing glare at Thylian and the soldier, slunk off in the opposite direction, disappearing into the rising dawn.
The captain turned wearily to the soldier. "I believe," he said quietly, studying the man's features, "that I owe you my life. I am in your debt."
The soldier inclined his head respectfully. "You are mistaken, Captain—I have simply repaid mine."
Thylian's brow creased: he had no idea what he was referring to. "What do you mean?"
"Before we left Edoras, sir, you pulled a soldier out from beneath the hooves of a bucking horse. I am he—Radathil, son of Dilvraen."
Thylian extended his hand, and the soldier took it rather hesitantly. "I am glad, then, that a lack of horsemanship skills does not necessarily translate to a lack of valor or good sense. You have my thanks, soldier."
Radathil cleared his throat. "Your—your horse, Captain—" He glanced at the dark mass on the ground a few feet away, and he seemed for a moment at a loss for words. "I am truly sorry," he said at last. "Savihn was a bloodthirsty traitor who deserved, by mandate of the law, to die."
Thylian drew a long breath, and then he shook his head. "No man has the right to take another's life in the name of justice."
"He would have taken yours."
"And had I not spared his, I would be no better than he."
Radathil had no reply for this, and he fell silent; Thylian turned towards the horse that Savihn had left. The soldier mounted his own and maneuvered to face his captain. "Are we to continue the search, sir?"
Thylian glanced at the rising sun, exhaled slowly, and put his foot in the stirrup. "No."
"Do you think that the prince's éored has met with any harm?"
He shook his head, but he was sure that Radathil could sense his true emotions—yes, indeed, he did think something had happened to Teolir and his soldiers. But he, Thylian, had a responsibility to fulfill towards his own men: he had to rejoin them and lead them on, regardless of what had befallen his friend.
As he swung himself into the saddle, a jarring pain tore through his bruised body: he realized that he must have badly injured his back in his fall. Trying to suppress a grimace of pain, he grunted and kicked the horse forward, unwilling to let Radathil see that he was hurt. The lad, however, was more perceptive than his captain gave him credit for. He expressed his concern, and although Thylian waved it off unconcernedly, the soldier continued to look at him in such a way that convinced him that he was not fooling anyone.
They rode in silence most of the way, but, when there was not half a league between them and the rest of the soldiers, Radathil spoke.
"Sir—Captain," he began rather haltingly, "I owe you an apology."
"Whatever for?"
"For waiting so long before—before I decided to help you."
"You saved my life: I don't much care how you managed it."
"Indeed, but your horse might have been saved as well, and the others might not have gotten so angry."
When Thylian did not offer a reply to this, he continued. "I was… afraid, sir. I am no use with a blade, and three against two in their favor seemed like awfully risky odds. And I—" he flushed guiltily, "I had not entirely reconciled myself towards having a Gondorian captain. I meant to, I really did—my brother is not so foolish as to judge you by the color of your hair, and he had convinced my mind of the same—but something of prejudice still lingered in my heart. I—I am sorry, Captain."
Thylian gazed at him piercingly. "Few are the men who will reveal their feelings with such unaffected candor and no cunning designs to further ambition."
A sort of half smile flitted across Radathil's face as he scanned the horizon for the first sight of the éored they had left. "Few indeed," he said softly. "Few indeed."