For Author's Note and Disclaimer, see chapter 1

Chapter 23

It was a good place for a camp, Aragorn mused as the fire crackled and hissed cheerfully, casting a merry glow over rocks. Sheltered, guarded, as safe as any could be in the way. Even if they now lived in supposed peaceful time, old habits died hard. This site however was as close to ideal as one could come. There was a steep incline on one side, leading down to the rapidly flowing river. Had that been their only source of water it could have been a problem, but a small creek cut through on one side, leading to the edge and cascading down the steep sloop to join the rest of the river on the way downstream.

There was grass aplenty for the horses to graze. The season had brought them much rain and it was all green and lush, the creek near at overflowing. They had a good view of their surrounding area, and large rocks gave shelter from the winds that were wont to sweep across the plain.

On one side of the camp were a stand of bushes, nearly impenetrable, stood all the way to the edge of the incline. There was no sneaking up on their camp from that side he concluded as he reached out and plucked a needle. The bushes were unlike anything they had in Ithilien, but native to the border of Rohan. Thick stems with nasty thorns, long flat leaves covered in sharp spines, barbed at the end. Inspecting the one he held he could just see the barbs at the tip of it.

Wolves' cry they were called, though he knew not the origin of the name. Laying it down on the rock on which he sat he plucked another one, touching the tip lightly. Needle sharp, flexible and fortunately not carrying any form of poison. Even so they could leave nasty wounds for they would penetrate the skin where the barbs stuck in the flesh, making them as painful to extract as they were to get stuck by. They went in deep, and he knew many herdsmen who attempted to clear them away would end up with spines in their hands and arms, and often they got infected for they were deep wounds. So small they closed almost instantly, only tiny dots showing where they had stung, and then the infection would set in deep under the skin.

Taking it between thumb and forefinger he tested the flexibility of it, finding it very durable. Laying it down by the half dozen or so that already laid beside him on the rock. Reaching out he idly pulled another one with a sharp jerk as it did not come away as easily as the other had done. Holding it up against the light, aye, he could see the tiny barbs and he knew why the herdsmen did not like the bush. It stood only at about knee high to mid thigh and was easy enough to miss. Horses were wont to attempt gracing near them and got stung on the nose from the needles.

Herdsmen hated it, but the Rohirrim were quite fond of it as long as it was confined to strategic positions for it was indeed almost impenetrable and created a natural barrier.

They grew well and green with all the rain he noted as he absentmindedly tried to stack the needles in a rough imitation of a log house cabin. Shaking his head as they slipped apart. The next one was stuck firm, but two more came away fairly easily and he stood them on end in imitation of a fire instead. The barbs at the end stuck together most effectively, creating a little cluster of sharp nasty looking needle points.

At least their horses had sense enough to stay away from the stand, and grazed on the far side of the camp.

Taking a small measure of soft muddy dirt he rolled it into a ball. The ground was soft indeed, not really muddy, but soft and rich. The ball of mud he placed on top of his pointy pyre.

Reaching out his hand again he found a slightly larger clump of firm thick mud that he patted lightly into a roundish shape, and reaching out started plucking needles free with short jerks to break them away. Sticking them into the clump so that they stood out of the clump on all sides.

"I wish you would cease that," Éomer ground out. He had been in a foul mood since they made camp, and Aragorn felt it safe to assume it would not improve anytime soon. Nay, Éomer was at the moment short of temper and so he lay his spiky ball to the side, pulling another half dozen needles in rapid succession before stacking them neatly in a pile beside him.

"Bema's beard!" Éomer snapped, scowling at him. "By the great bearded hammer of Helm, I swear we will cross swords if you do not cease and desist!"

"I think, my friend, that you are letting your temper get the better of you," Aragorn mused, taking the bundle of needles from beside him and tying them together with a ribbon of grass.

The resulting string of curses was impressive, as well as sufficient to prove him right. Even given Éomer's reputation of being well versed in the less savoury language Aragorn found there was yet more to learn.

Before the string of expletives had fully ended he had plucked well on two dozen more of the needles. Firefoot came over to nuzzle his shoulder, and being weary about the needles laying beside him on the rock Aragorn moved them out of the way before taking an apple that he quartered with his knife and gave the mighty stallion as his treat.

Finally Èomer sat back, content with glaring at his friend. "I hold you to blame for this disaster," he stated sourly, looking none too happy with his friend.

"So I was beginning to suspect," Aragorn mused, not overly bothered. For all that Éomer had grown and matured as a King, there was still that hot tempered foolish youth under the surface and he rather enjoyed to catch a glimpse of him at times. It was nice to know that in spite of all the burdens he carried, at heart he had not changed all that much. "Though I have yet to learn why."

"This is all your fault, and you know it," Éomer gave him a fierce glare. The same that Aragorn knew had caused many a man to back down as soon as they were faced with the angered king of Rohan. Not that he blamed them, Éomer was a very intimidating man when he wished to be. Tall and heavily built from years of carrying sword and armour. His scowl could strike fear in any man. He had certainly made Faramir, Aragorn's Steward and Éomer's own brother by law worried many a time. For all that they were good friends and Aragorn knew Éomer was quite protective of the man, he did also enjoy tormenting him on occasion. So indeed was the ways of the Rohirrim, and Faramir knew to take it in good spirit.

"At least so you would have me believe," Aragorn smiled softly, indulgently. Out of the three of them, the two kings and one steward, Éomer was the youngest. It was hardly enough to matter in any way, especially not given the confidence the young king displayed. Every once in a while though, Faramir would remember the fact and display a more elderly brother attitude. Depending on his mood, Éomer would either accept it with good grace, or grate at it with an air of barely contained suffering.

He might have warned his steward by now, that Éomer hardly needed anyone to take the role but if he was to be honest, Aragorn found it amused him. Also need or not, it was good for him.

"It bloody well is your bloody fault!" Éomer snapped angrily now. Faramir was not with them, and Aragorn had to admit it might have been for the best. He was not quite certain what view his Steward would have taken on the matter. "You're the bloody bastard that taught my bloody horse all this bloody nonsense…!"

Frowning and toying idly with the needles in his hand Aragorn almost worried the Rohirric warrior had run out of curses since he seemed to be repeating himself. However a fresh string of expletives served to reassure him.

"I have hardly taught your horse to do anything at all," he mused. "It is simply so that your horse is a very intelligent creature and also very well aware of what goes on around him. As I believe you have trained him to be yourself."

"It's still your bloody fault!" Èomer exploded in another set of curses as Aragorn continued to pluck the sharp needles, feeling it was a task as good as any to occupy himself with until his friend was more willing to listen to reason. He might have taken his pipe, for he would certainly have had time for a pipe or two, but the smell of pipe weed was not likely to put the King in a better mood.

"Was it not you yourself that taught Firefoot to turn over pots and spoil any attempts of your sister to cook?"

"I taught him to turn over a pot, I did not teach him to do this, this is your bloody doing!" Éomer growled menacingly as Aragorn turned to look at him.

In spite of the many needles he had plucked to lay beside him on the stone, several dozen more were imbedded in Éomer's arm where the tunic hung in tatters from shoulder to elbow. Another dozen or two was set in his side and belly where the tunic was in a similar state. He had not yet counted how many were in his legs, but though the trousers had been made of a most sturdy material it had not been enough to fully protect him and the garment was as torn and ragged as the tunic. Dozens of needles standing out from the flesh, deep gouges from the sharp thorns running in zig zag lines here and there. One or more of the thorns had gone through the tunic just below his throat, and the red lines, sluggishly oozing blood ran all the way down to his hips. Several needles had snapped off as he rolled down the incline after Firefoot had pushed him through the wolves' cry bushes. The long ones were easily removed, but the short stubs with only barbed points left in the skin would be a lot harder he knew, and if he missed one they were sure to become infected sores.

Even the punctures where he had removed the needles ran the risk of infection as the wounds were narrow and deep. Some had barely penetrated, other, had gone in nearly an inch. He was also soaking wet, which in the cool weather could not be very comfortable. If Lothíriel had packed for him, or stood over him as he packed, he like as not had a dry, whole tunic, but if the King had been left to his own device as he prepared himself Aragorn would consider himself lucky if he had even half a pair of stockings with him.

"I would not say I taught him anything," Aragorn smiled softly. "I merely found a method to reach the same goal as you yourself often strives to. And have you not said yourself you prefer it to having your sister attempting to beat you over the head with the stew pot?"

"I prefer to not get shoved through a stand of wolves' cry by my bloody horse, and if I ever catch you giving him apples again for the deed, King of Gondor or no, you will face me with a sword!" Éomer growled in a dangerously low tone.

It was that tone of voice that had most potential enemies of Rohan to think better of it, and Aragorn did not blame them. Feeling the weight of the second apple in his pocket he decided it was better saved for the time being. He could pass it to the horse later.

"Firefoot probably did not realise it was wolves' cry," he attempted a soothing tone as he resumed his efforts in plucking needles. Gathering that his friend was getting short of patience though he didn't bother to arrange them but simply laid them in a neat pile on the stone. "He simply wanted to help."

"He knows… And he knows his hide will join the rest of the ones on the floor of Meduseld if he ever does it again…" Éomer glared at his horse. "Ow!"

"I have to get them out, Éomer," now Aragorn softened his voice to a tone of genuine concern. He had once had his own tangle with the bush and knew how unpleasant extracting the spines were. That had only been half a dozen of them though. "And had Lothíriel been here she would have made a terrible fuss, and you know it…."

"Aye, I do," the young king nodded. "Ow!" He turned his head to glare at his friend. "Éowyn isn't even here!"

"I did note his timing in the matter was somewhat odd," Aragorn had to bite his tongue not to smile.

"There's nothing bloody odd about it. Ow! You've given him apples every buggering time he pushes me into a bush! He'll keep on doing it, and I will hold you, ow, fully responsible for it!" Éomer finished. Aragorn was extracting needles from the inside of his elbow and the skin there was much more sensitive.

"It wouldn't have mattered if she was along," Aragorn mused. "We've nothing to cook for supper either way," aside from the one apple he still had that was. Éomer had been holding their whole share of the food in his hand when Firefoot pushed him. It was all being enjoyed by the pike and trout in the river by now, and like as not they thought it was a feast. "And I doubt even Éowyn could repair this," he fingered a tattered rag of the tunic. "Have you anything in your pack?"

"No," came the grudging reply. "I had no reason to believe I would have any need of it."

"Well, I don't know if I have any spare leggings, but I know for a fact I have a clean tunic. I should have needle and thread to, I've not your sister's skill, but I can at least ensure your modesty is preserved until we get back." He choose to take the muttered cursing as a consent of the plan, or he was sure they would have been delivered louder and with more force. The tunic would fit Éomer fine, he was as tall as Aragorn and not really any wider over the chest either. A little more muscular, but almost thinner by build. Arwen had picked out the tunic, but as she had lamented once it was a shame it was so hard to get Éomer into the fabric that would bring out the softness of his dark eyes she would not mind at all.

Quite the opposite, if she found it to be a method of getting the King of Rohan to dress better she might even push him into a stand or two of bushes herself…

On second thought, she would have her husband bribe his horse to do the deed, she would not get her dainty elvish hands dirtied by such an underhanded act by herself…

Sensing his friend still scowling and knowing they would have a night of hunger before them he felt it might not be entirely unwise to distract the young man from his misery. He would remember it well enough in a little while when Aragorn started cleaning the cuts and punctures at any account. "I never knew why they were called wolves' cry anyway," he mused. "Do you know?"

"Aye," gritting his teeth and moving his arm back so Aragorn could work on the needles embedded in his side Éomer nodded slowly. "From a Gondorian noble who came down to Rohan to acquire horses from one of our herdsmen. Man had never been outside the city much before or so it would seem, for when he arrived the herdsman reported he was about a nervous wreck, feeling our fair country to be full of lurking danger. Even worse when night fell. In true Rohirric hospitality he was offered the finest food and ale, and a bed for the night. As the moon rose over the plains though, wolves could be heard howling their greeting to her. We take it as a good sign, for hungry wolves seeking pray does not howl such."

Working swiftly Aragorn listened with keen ears. As the Rohan hardly never used their language in writing, and only a handful indeed knew how to do so, their history lived in stories and songs, and all of them seemed to have inherited the trait of enthralling their audience. Even given what was less of a story and more of an account of the events Éomer's voice softened and took a lilt that was most pleasant to listen to.

"I take it the man of Gondor did not believe this?" he prodded gently for the tale to continue.

"Nay, he did not, he had the whole of the house up, demanding them to take arms, and though he was eventually calmed he was not at peace but declared he had seen no sign of the wolves in the day. He demanded an answer as of why they were only howling as they were at night. The herdsman looked him straight in the eye, and told him, because during the day, they can see the bloody bushes a'fore they take their seat…"

Aragorn made a valiant attempt not to laugh, but a rather un royal snort escaped him, and then he was laughing. "The name does indeed make much sense if that is how they got it," he grinned.

Éomer seemed less amused by the tale, but then at the moment Aragorn would imagine he felt more kinship with the wolves. Shivering as he was there was no use in passing him the tunic before all the needles were out, and the wounds cleaned.

When finally through with the task at hand he turned what was left of the destroyed tunic into crude bandages for the worst of the scratches, and sought out the dove blue tunic in his own saddlebag, passing it to his friend. Finding the small wooden box that contained needle and thread he also passed him the blanket to wrap around himself while Aragorn performed a crude repair job of his leggings. Attempting to sneak Firefoot the second apple while the young King was busy trying to wrestle on the tunic without pulling on the deep scratches.

"Do not think I did not see that," Éomer told him in a low growl as Firefoot munched contentedly. "And do not think I will hesitate to exact my revenge either. I think I could count on the discretion of the Queen of Gondor should I be forced to explain why I have the tunic she gifted him, and I do not think she would be one to find amusement in my plight either, though she would no doubt be cross with her husband."

"You would do that to a brother in arms?" Aragorn looked up from the tear he was mending.

"If at any point my sister finds out about this, you may take it for the truth," Éomer confirmed and Aragorn believed him.

"On my oath as the King of Gondor, no word of this shall ever reach anyone from my lips," he stated. At least Éomer seemed content with his word, which was fortunate Aragorn mused.

Éomer's anger while enough to send near whole armies scurrying away, did not scare him half as much as that of his queens….

Perhaps it would be best if he did not encourage Firefoot to this action again, if only so to be on the safe side….

A Temporary End

Thank you all who's read and reviewed, the Cricket is thrilled...

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.