Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings. I am only playing with the fandom for the enjoyment of myself as well as others.

Author's note: Take care that a spew warning might apply and be cautious when handling food and liquids while reading this.

Chapter 64

The grooms who tended the horses in the Royal stable of Edoras all were well used to caring for the horses. Such value as the horses in the stable was of, only the best would be allowed to tend them. Yet even as skilled and knowledgeable as they were, one of them had not been able to avoid the snapping teeth of the grey stallion. Younger than many of his peers he lacked in experience and had carelessly taken his eyes of the great war horse as he tended to him.

Watching him scramble from the stall, Firefoot reared up on his hind legs, an angry neigh escaping him as he once more landed on all four. Snorting a hot breath while one of the older and more experienced men approached. "Settle down!" the command was sharp, but not shouted. It was snapped with authority, a man who expected the horses to obey him. Though the big grey stomped and even had the planks shaking as he kicked out a rear hoof he stepped back.

"Get that seen to boy," grabbing the younger ones wrist he inspected the hand, the indentation of the teeth, and the swelling already starting. "'Tis not the time to go into that horse, if you don't know better, you can bring the hey in later."

"Aye," embarrassed the young man hurried off, cradling his hand to his chest.

"And you, if you do not wish to be incapacitated another fortnight, had better settle down," the older man, too old now to be a rider approached the stall where the mighty stallion now stood tossing his head. Firefoot was not like any other horse in the stable, though he was not the one of the highest standing either.

Firefoot belonged to Éomer, sister son to their King and Lord. The boy had raised and trained the horse from a colt, and not even he was safe from the heavy hooves and sharp teeth. More loyalty was seldom found in a horse, and he had earned the respect from many of the others, men and horses alike.

An orc club striking his shoulder had caused him to be lame, or Éomer would never have sought to ride any other horse than him into battle, and Firefoot had not been happy about being left behind. The newest victim of his ire was not the only victim. Though he could now stand on the leg, he would not walk on it for it pained him.

Years ago, Éomer had brought a young foal, a mare, the only survivor from a herd raided by orcs. Though not many had seen the worth in the foal that the young rider did, it had been clear Éomer indeed saw something in her. Though slight in size, especially compared to the great stallion he had trained her to be a warrior's horse.

Though he had ever been right when he spoke of her courage, it had still been the first and only battle the mare would ever see.

Through no fault by either rider or horse she had been too badly injured, a crossbow bolt had struck home by chance. Not only hitting the horse, but first going through his leg and into her shoulder. There was naught to be done before they came back to Edoras, and then once the bolt had been cut out, it was clear the mare would never be able to gallop so freely again.

Firefoot had watched, he had seen as she was saddled and he had not been happy. Yet it was not the first time his master set about to ride another horse. He had known Earnwinë since she was naught but a skinny foal, and he had felt a kinship with her. He had cared for her and he had not minded, much, as his rider took her into his care.

Nay, he had felt great sorrow and an unspeakable rage when he saw all their slaughtered kins on the field. His rider had wept, and he had wished for nothing more than to chase after the foul beings and crush every one of them underneath his steel shod hooves. So nay, he did not begrudge the little one they took back the comfort of his rider. There were many of the two legged ones, some were as good as to almost be of his own kind, some were most certainly not. He was lucky in his rider, and he knew it. Small the two legged one had been, and with a fire burning in him that Firefoot felt in himself. Yet he was never cruel, no matter how Firefoot pushed him, the little one always strove to keep from hurting his horse.

There were those of the two legged ones that did not care so much, so Firefoot decided he was good enough to be counted into the herd. 'Tis was a honor not bestowed on many, but he felt something about the rider. He had only two hooves to walk on, so it was no wonder he needed to ride on them, for how could one run with those strange apandages? Yet the other two hooves that were not real proper forelegs he often used to give him apples and treats so if he wished to ride, Firefoot would not argue with him, much. He vowed to himself to never make it too easy for him, 'tis was not good to do so.

Yet he found sometimes he felt more kinship with the two legged colt than with some of his own kin. The rider cared for him more than many would have, and showed more kindness as well. Nay, Firefoot was glad to claim him, and if the little one wished to take another orphaned horse into their tiny family, he would allow it.

The orc that had caused his injury though still enraged him. He had seen him coming, and had known he could have slain him with one powerful kick from his hind legs and steel shod hooves. He could have, if it would not have left his rider exposed. The little one had been reeling from a hard blow, he might not have stayed on if Firefoot had attacked the foul monster. He could not risk that, he could not risk the foul monster slaying the little one, so he tried to twist out of the way instead. It had not been enough, but the blow that would have crippled him had instead only caused a minor injury.

Tears had run down the little ones face when he tended to his leg, and Firefoot had nudged him, seeking to offer comfort for it was not his fault.

That he could not run for a short time had not bothered him too much, he had seen it happen many times to the others in the herd. Yet when he saw the little one saddle the mare, and knew he would ride him into battle he had felt fear grip his heart. He liked the mare well enough, she was of his own kind and one he held in high regard, but she was no one to entrust his little one to in battle. She did not know how to throw herself upon the foul creatures. She did not know how to crush their stinking skulls and she did not know that the little one always took a second longer to see them if they fell upon him from the right. She did not know that after certain lounges with the steel arm that cut orcs in half, he was unbalanced for but a moment and one could not move to sudden then.

She did not know this, and he had not had the time to teach her, and how would she then fare in battle? How would she keep the little one safe when there were so many things she simply did not know. She was innocent, so young, a beautiful mare as he had come to see it. One that should not be subjected to such horrors, the cries of pain and stench of blood.

He did not wish that for her, and he did not think she could protect his little one, so though the little one had sought to appease him with apples before he left he had bitten him on the shoulder, a warning that he had better come home safe, or there would be hell to pay.

They had returned, he had caught their scent, amongst the blood and the grime he had caught their scent but they had not come into the stable. He could sense them in the yard, but they did not come and the smell of blood was so strong it almost overpowered the weaker scent at times. Furious, he had near kicked down his stall no matter how badly his leg hurt from it.

The mare came into the stable first, eyes hooded with pain, limping badly and unable to put any weight at all on one leg. They took her to a stall next to Firefoot, with heaps of soft straw for her to lay on.

Aye, she was hurt, and Firefoot had paced back and forth in his stall, she was hurt, but he could tell she would be well, but where then was the little one? Where was his rider? He could not see him, and none of the other two legged ones seemed to be there to let him know.

Not before his little ones keeper came. He was older, and kind but firm, and he had always deferred to Firefoot when it came to his little one. When the small colt was saddened and hid in his stall, he would not force his way upon them but waited until given leave. He was old, but kind and Firefoot would not begrudge his rider his comfort. He was just a colt for all that his legs had grown longer. He was just a little one who needed the strength of the horses. That the old one came was good, he would not have come if not his little one would be well, yet that he could not come himself upset him.

It had been a comfort to be groomed by him, for he knew then that he would not have taken the time to do so if his little one had been too badly hurt. He would have been with him then, and he would have allowed Firefoot to see him, he was certain. Yet for two days he had not seen him and he was furious. None of them seemed to understand that he just wanted to see his little one and ascertain they were taking care of him. Whom else could comfort his distress when he slept? Who would make certain he got oats to give him strength to heal?

Nay, Firefoot could not trust the other two legged ones to do so, and yet he could not go to him. His leg would not let him move up the stairs, and no matter how he bit the others, they did not understand what he wished them to do. They would not bring his little one to him.

So he did the only thing he could, if he could not care for his little one, he could care for the mare, his own kin. She was laying in the straw, in pain, and he opened the door to his own stall, limping slightly as he made his way into her stall. Leaning against the plank wall to take the weight of his injured leg he stood there, on vigil as she rested. No one would get near her unless he approved of them.

He would have done so for his rider, but if he could not, then at least this was something he could do. He would care for the mare and he would watch over her, and when his little one finally came back and Firefoot could see he was safe and sound, he would bite him hard to make certain he knew not to worry him so again….

A Temporary End... Please review, the Cricket is hungry...

Additional Author's note: Some of these stories might not fit into the Tolkien timeline, I apologise for this, I have not yet been able to procure an English copy, and therefor there has been things I was unaware of while writing. Some I've changed, some I've left as I liked them.
Most of the Rohirric I use, is, as I believe Tolkien himself used, Old English. Though some is modern Swedish, as, frighteningly enough, these are quite often the same. In order to give the story a more pleasant flow for the reader, I have opted not to use a glossary at the end, rather, I try to make the meaning very clear in the story.