Chapter 36
After the war of the ring Gondor was able to enjoy peace, but it was not a peace without cost. Peace, Aragorn had come to know, rarely was. The first winter had been hard with the people still not daring to offer much hope. The darkness had lain over the land so long it was hard for the people to trust it was gone.
Though a King on the throne, their Steward wed and happy as the people rejoiced with them, there were still a lingering shadow here and there over the land.
It had been even harder for Rohan as most of their food had been gone, their land torn asunder by orcs for so long there had been naught to spare. Now they had given so many of their men in the battle that there were too few to work the fields, too few horses to replenish their herds. The land of Rohan was harsh, though their people strong. With the support of some councillors Aragorn had gladly offered aid, and had not minded that it seemed to irk others. The forces of Rohan at the battle on the Pelennor Fields had been invaluable. Not only had Éowyn slain the witching, and thereby secured that all of Gondor would love her as wife of their steward. Many of the Gondorian knights had seen the charge of the Oliphaunts and the way Éomer stood against them when all others fled. Not only had he stood his ground and thrown his spear on one, with that spear, he had laid down not only one but two of the monstrous creatures.
The witch king had been Éowyn's fate, but Éomer's had been no less significant. For their forces to see what one man could do, after the horror of having the heads of their kinsmen catapulted at them.
Aragorn had not been there to see the charge of the Rohirri, but he had been told it was a sight to see, and he knew well what it would have been like. When he rode with Thengel King, their forces had never been so strong, but he knew the sounds of the hundreds of horns, the thunder of thousands of hooves and the song that carried as the Rohirri charged. Aye, few were the foes that stood easily against them when they came, their charge like an unstoppable wave crashing over their enemy.
They had given so much in that battle, left so many of their kinsmen behind that none in Gondor save a few self important nobles had begrudge them the aid. Salted pork and dried fish to see them through the winter, grain to ensure they were able to plant anew, and wool to make blankets and clothes for the bitter cold of the winter.
He had seen how weary Éomer had been, and known how heavy their fate weighed on him when Gondor really had no such worry, and it had felt good to be able to aid their kin. Orphaned children with wooden bowls full of steaming food, thick sweaters and woolhats as they beamed at them with blue eyes.
In Aragorn's mind there had never been anything less they could do. Without Rohan, he wondered if the white city would have stood long enough for the army of the dead to come. Without Rohan, their efforts at the black gate would have been far more uncertain.
One thing was certain, the Rohirri never lacked for courage, and he was glad to have Éomer by his side.
The Southrons had been attacking villages and settlements. Small farms that could not defend themselves along the border. Spreading fear and unrest of the worst kind, and it worried him. It worried him even more having one noble on his council who's loyalty suddenly seemed more uncertain as the man spoke against any action suggested.
People were suffering, losing their homes, their livelihoods and their lives. Many on the council had not wished for the King to go himself, but he had deemed it best. First he wanted to see it for himself, secondly Faramir was better at reading the currents at court. He would be far better suited to the task of sounding them out when the king was away.
He saw no reason to feel concern for his own sake, indeed not, for he had requested for Éomer to ride with him. If Gondor's border were no longer safe, then neither was really Rohan's. What more, he had come to feel better about any form of combat if he had Éomer by his side. As a friend and even brother he loved Faramir dearly, and the man was courageous enough and skilled, but his true nature was not that of a warrior. His skill with words were far greater than that of his sword, and it was where his heart lay.
Éomer in contrast, also a brother in Aragorn's heart, cared little for words and paper, he put his trust to his sword and spear. A cunning and ferocious adversary in any battle. With him at his side Aragorn knew they stood a better chance of a swift victory with few losses.
The charge of the Rohirrim tended to make the most determined enemy rethink what they were doing…
The southrons they met were however not easily deterred. They had horses themselves, and were armed with bows. Though both sides tried to rain the other with a hail of arrows as they approached, the loses were few at that time.
Then Aragorn found he had no time to ponder the situation as the two forces met, the thunder of hooves replaced by the crash of swords and screams of wounded men and horses. It was ferocious and cruel, there was no thought but to stay alive and hack madly. His sword not ideal for fighting on horseback Aragorn strove to adjust his tactic accordingly. He knew many had already fallen to the wrath of Éomer and the sharp steel of Gútwinë, a battle friend indeed the sword was.
Though his arm grew tired and he took some smaller scratches he felt the battle was going in their favour, no little thanks to the Rohirrim. Indeed a large grey stallion surged past him, rearing up on hind legs to beat his steel shoed hooves in the air, crushing the skull of a southron that would otherwise have been in a position to attack Aragorn. Throwing his friend a grin, Aragorn watched the young warrior dive back into the frey again, sword streaked with blood. The war cry he emitted drawing shudders from the enemy. Aye, Éomer was an opponent to be reckoned with and he did not doubt many of the Southrons had begun to doubt the wisdom of their actions. Certainly they were trying to give the Rohan king a wide berth in the battle, which did not earn them any favours with Éomer. The Rohirr saw any avoidance of battle as a sign of cowardice and he would not allow it. He followed them with another blood curdling cry and though Aragorn could spare little time to watch his friend he searched for the white horsetail whenever he had a moment free.
When he beheld him next he felt his blood freeze. Never before had he seen such a method of meeting their enemy. The Southron was not using sword, or scythe or any other bladed weapon Aragorn had ever seen. Nay, he was using what looked like a flaming ball of fire on a chain. Swinging it around, the heavy iron of the ball crushing the head of one opponent. Setting fire to the tunic of another. Whatever kept the ball ablaze, oil, or anything such, it escaped on impact to ensure the victim did not come away unscathed.
As the man sought to confront the blonde warrior king, Aragorn could tell that Éomer was as of yet unaware. Battling a man with a spear he had no idea of the enemy approaching from behind, and Aragorn could not make himself heard over the din of battle to warn him. Forcing Brego that way he knew he would be too late, no matter his effort.
The chain whipped out, and there was a terrified scream from Firefoot as the fire flashed in his eyes. The horse had stood his ground against a charging oliphaunt, but caught unprepared by fire right at his nose was too much for even a Rohan warhorse. With a scream he reared up so that he nearly overbalanced, panicked, he threw himself to the side. Éomer who had been forced off balance by the spear had no time to recover but crashed to the ground heavily as Firefoot bolted in fright.
The Southron gave him no time to recover, he followed, swinging his ball of fire, catching Éomer a bone crushing blow on the arm. As Aragorn watched, the sword fell from limp fingers, the vambrace not enough to protect him from such a strike.
Even worse, Aragorn as he struggled to make his way through the fray could see the fire eating away at the leather of his gauntlets. Droplets of fire landed on the ground from the impact, on the Rohirr's boots and greaves. Unarmed and with an arm that did not seem to obey him Éomer had no hope of defending himself, but the Rohirrim were not known for giving up easily.
With his sword out of his reach and fire eating slowly at his clothes and armour the blonde warrior crouched down, knowing even one blow from the flaming metal ball could kill him he strove to reach the chain. It was a futile effort, but it was his only chance unless he could reach his sword on the ground, while the enemy drove him away from the weapon.
Under attack himself Aragorn could not see what was happening, and by the time he had disposed of his enemy and once more sought out his friend he saw Éomer block the flaming ball with his already injured arm, and deliver a hard fist to the face with his sound hand. As futile as it would be, it made Aragorn smile how fierce and determined the warriors were. As long as Éomer was conscious, he would not give up the fight. With the Southron somewhat unbalanced if by no means defeated Èomer dove for his sword. Throwing himself into a roll where his hand would meet the hilt, and Aragorn screamed a useless warning as he saw what was about to happen.
The blow dealt by the Rohirr's fist had been hard, but not enough to stun his opponent, and the iron ball whipped out on its chain. If Éomer had done anything it was to shift his ballance enough the ball did not crush his skull, instead it struck the ground hard in front of him just as he reached for his sword. His fingers found the hilt, but it was no use to him as the flames shot up in his face and with an agonized cry the warrior crumpled to the ground.
There was no hope then, if he did not reach him in the next second Aragorn knew his friend would be dead. His arm over his eyes as another cry escaped him he stayed crumbled on the ground with the leering opponent leisurely swinging the flaming ball over him. He could kill at will, at his own leisure and no one was close enough to help.
Flames were still lazily playing on Éomer's armour, and no matter how valliant he could do nothing, and Aragorn was yet too far away.
Letting lose a string of curses he was not entirely sure of the meaning of, but had learned from Éomer he looked around in desperation. One of the Rohirrim had lost his helm as it lay by his feet, a most unsatisfactory weapon in comparison to a bow or a good throwing knife, but if it was all he had it would have to suffice. Scooping it up he flung it with all his might.
The helm struck the Southron right in the face, and stunned him for long enough for Aragorn to reach his friend, seeing Èothain battling his way through their enemy from the other side. "Get him out of here!" he knew the warrior would hate to leave the battle but loyalty to his king aside, the man was ever loyal to his friend. He would see Éomer safe, no matter the cost to him.
In this battle his longer sword gave him the advantage over the Rohirrim, he could reach the man while almost staying out of the reach from the flaming ball. He would stand a chance, but first they needed to get Éomer clear, and the man was still on his knees. Grabbing him by the arm Aragorn hauled him to his feet and evaded the fist thrown his way. Éomer still had his arm over his face, he would not know friend from foe.
"Èomer! Get up behind me!" Éothain cried to make himself heard over the din. He reached down his hand, and Aragorn was able to push him that way. It would seem that even half mad with pain, and unable to see, the Rohirr still knew how to mount a horse. With Éothain's hand to guide him, he swung himself up behind him, clutching at the warrior as Éothain spurred his horse forward. Leaving Aragorn to barely duck a strike from the flaming ball.
He did not share Éomer's hot temper or his rage in battle, the King of Rohan was well known for it. Rather than falling victim of it as his father had though, he had learned to temper it and use it to his advantage. Aragorn in comparison almost never felt that rage, but if he ever understood it, it was now. Such a weapon as to cripple the enemy so cruelly, it was cowardly. To see Éomer on his knees, unable to rise, and not given a chance as the man toyed with him, it was not the way a warrior acted. It was the way of a coward and he detested it. He might not posses his friends battle rage, but he had many more years of skill to draw on and he used them now. Dancing away from the flaming ball, allowing it to pass by him as he spun out of the way. The one advantage he had was that it was easier for him to change the direction of his strikes and he was able to draw blood. Not much, not enough, but he still kept his opponent from reaching him, and that was what allowed him to pivot on his heel, spin, and deal a magnificent blow over the shoulder.
The battle was won, the iron ball lay flaming on the ground, burning the leg of the man who had used it but there was no satisfaction in the victory. Only a sick churning in his stomach, worry for his friend.
They were winning, but at what cost…
He spotted Firefoot in the fray, smiling grimly to himself as he watched the warhorse retaliate his master. He would have to relate to his friend how valliant the horse was. Whistling he drew the horse to him where he could keep an eye on him, if he had failed to keep his master safe, at least he could be of aid to Firefoot.
Finally, as exhaustion threatened to overtake him he watched the last of their opponents flee. Their number was greatly reduced and he doubted they would need worry about them again soon. No, they had been driven off in disgrace, and there would be no immediate counterattack. Clicking his tounge he watched as Firefoot searched for further opponents, and in disgust over not finding any kicked one of the fallen. The horse had a temper, much like his master, and he was in a bad mood as he reluctantly headed over to Aragorn. Without Éomer near, the horse would follow him he knew. Hoping to be taken to his master and Aragorn did not intend to disappoint him.
The wounded had been taken off the field of battle, and the groans and moaning led Aragorn there before he could see them. Nothing could have held Firefoot back then, when he caught scent of Éomer, and it was Aragorn who followed on his heels. He did not know what he had expected to see, but it was obvious that the situation was grim by the look on Éothain's face. He could not see Éomer's features, his friend was cross legged on the ground, hunched forward with a wet cloth clutched to his face. As Aragorn approached Éothain reached for his shoulder, and Éomer batted his hand away with his own.
Giving a cry the grey stallion burst forward, skidding to a stop in front of his master and shoving his mule into his shoulder. Nearly toppling him before Éomer threw an arm around his neck. Burying his face against him as Aragorn came to stop beside them.
"How bad is it?" he doubted Éomer would answer him, so Aragorn directed his question to Éothain.
"Bad enough," was the grim reply. "The fire burned his eyes, I know not how bad, he will not let me tend to him."
"Éomer," with Firefoot there Aragorn did not dare to touch him. If the horse should think he was not careful enough with his master, his role as king, or even friend of Éomer would not protect him. "I need to see how bad you were hurt. You must let me see. I can't treat the burns if you do not let me see."
He knew that the blonde warrior held a healthy if only partially justified fear of healers, and was reluctant to be treated even by a friend. It was the truth though, he would not be able to do anything for his friend if he was not allowed to see the burns, and with Firefoot there, it was even harder. Though he did not begrudge the man the comfort the protection of his warhorse offered him.
The trouble was, in his desire to protect, Firefoot did not always know friend from foe and was likely to lash out viciously at anyone.
"Éomer, it is I, do not lash out," if Éomer struck him he wondered if Firefoot would not think he was harming his master and might very well attack him. Putting his hand on his booted ankle as he spoke he was at least relieved that he was allowed so. Moving his hand to his thigh while reaching the other to the wet cloth he clutched to his face. Praying one corner away was enough to tell him it was indeed bad. There was fortunately not the black charred burns that would have scarred him horribly and guaranteed blindness, but his whole face was puffy red and dotted with small blisters. If he had closed his eyes in time, like as not he would keep his eyesight, but first the burns needed to be treated and allowed to heal. Only then would they know for certain the damage done.
"Can you find my pouch on my saddle?" he asked Éothain. At the moment it was better Éomer was allowed to hold the wet cloth, it would cool the burns and sooth the worst, but he was burned on his arms and legs as well.
"Aye," the warrior nodded, leaving them. Though Aragorn knew he would want to stay with his friend, he knew Aragorn was better suited to treat him.
It worried him that Éomer was barley responding to him, but then the pain and the fear of what such burns could mean was likely overwhelming. Given how hard it could be to convince him to admit the need for aid even for less serious wounds, Aragorn was not surprised now.
Éothain brought his pouch and he quickly found a jar with a greasy pleasantly scented salve for the burns. He hoped the knowledge of the elves in also using fragrance would serve him now. Certainly most found it easier if the remedy had a pleasant smell to them. His friend struggled a little afore he allowed Aragorn to wind the bandage over his eyes, but the worst of the shock had wore off and he was calmer if in no less pain.
Securing the bandage Aragorn squeezed his shoulder, knowing Éomer wanted no assurance he could not be certain of himself. No, with the blond King honesty was always the best option, be it good or bad news. "You have a few more burns, I would treat them if you will allow me."
This time he took the silence as an acceptance, helping him to remove the armour before ensuring there was no foreign material in any of the burns that could fester. He had to extract some woollen fibres from one, and scrub away the blackened edge of another before he could treat them. Éomer keeping a white knuckled fist in Firefoot's mane as he did so. The horse eyeing Aragorn wearily as he worked, and he had to struggle a little before he could bind his injured arm. It was not broken, but the iron ball had impacted and the whole lower limb was swollen and discoloured.
Finished he sat back, reaching for his water skin. "You should drink some," there was no point in giving him a brew against the pain. If he barely allowed the burns to be treated he would not take that.
"No," while Aragorn felt it a good sign he spoke, he would have prefered it was not to argue.
"You need fluids, my friend," he stated in what he hoped was a firm but reasonable tone.
"No," Éomer gritted his teeth.
"You have my word, it's only water," if the man's fear of healers were barely justified, his refusal to take any of their brews most certainly was. While Aragorn felt the healer who had given Éowyn's nurse the flowers had meant for them to be used the proper way, the petty woman who disliked caring for a sick boy had given him the brew to drink rather than used it on a rash. Truthfully poisoning the young boy with what was meant to heal. No, he could not blame Éomer for his fear now, but he did wish his friend would have come to trust him.
"Leave me be!" the king demanded and Aragorn sighed as Firefoot laid his ears back. He would only be able to press him so much before the stallion had had enough.
"This is my water skin," he laid it beside him, touching his leg. "Try to drink some, you do need it, I will see to your men." It was the best he could do. Éomer needed time, but left alone as he wanted he thought he might be able to compose himself. He knew he would not have wanted anyone hoovering over him either, so how could he blame his friend? Éothain would remain, but Aragorn felt Éomer would like as not be more comfortable with him. The warrior gave him a brief nod, settling down cross legged on the ground.
His friend could not be in better hands, and yet Aragorn had to admit he felt ill at ease. Éomer was strong, but this type of injury he was not so certain he would be able to handle.
When he returned, he found nothing had really changed, Éomer had not touched the water and Éothain was scowling.
"Your men are well, some injuries, and we did lose seven men," Aragorn stated as he sat on the ground next to them. Firefoot was still keeping guard. "Those injured are being cared for and they should all recover. Fires has been lit for food, t'would seem it may be as well we camp here for the night." It was a little too close to the scene of the battle for him, but it would be easier on the wounded if they did not have to move too far.
"We might have fared worse," Éothain nodded slowly when his king failed to respond though Aragorn knew he had heard his words. The younger man was struggling and he wished he had words to aid him.
"Post sentries," Éomer's voice was hoarse, and Aragorn almost gave a start, though indeed it was a good sign and he was pleased for it.
"I will see it done," Éothain stood, nodding to Aragorn though the former ranger knew it was being done already. He would imagine that Éothain knew it to, the Rohirrim were nothing if not efficient in such matters. They hardly needed the order to see to the task. However if Éomer saw to give the order, Éothain would see to it that it was followed. Hoping that it would improve Éomer's state of mind.
Sitting beside him seemed like far too little comfort, but he knew not what else Éomer would accept. He had not taken any of the water, though when Éothain returned to inform them that there was food, if a simple fare, to be had Éomer started to struggle to his feet.
"I would get it for you," Aragorn offered, reaching out to take his hand only to find it batted away by the younger man.
"I am no invalid!"
"You are however injured, do not be a fool," Éothain shook his head though the gesture would be lost upon his king. "I will bring it to you."
"I will not require it," Éomer's lips were a thin line and Aragorn felt inclined to give in. Though he felt concern, the anger was better than despair. Such an injury would be frightening, more so than a sword wound. If anger was the only way Éomer could cope, then he would be understanding of it in the hope of aiding his friend.
"Very well, will you let us help you?" he stated slowly.
"I will not require any aid," he ground out, slowly and with a barely suppressed groan pushing to his feet. Slinging one arm around Firefoot's neck, the stallion whickering softly and nuzzling his neck. It would seem his friend intended to have his horse lead him, and as the worst that was likely to happen was that Firefoot might trod on his foot by accident Aragorn was inclined to allow it. Anger, and an attempt at self sufficiency was indeed better than dejected despair.
"Very well, then you should know it is this way," he started towards the fires, knowing Firefoot would follow him and Éothain, as indeed the mighty war horse did. It was slow, and he noted many times how Éomer stumbled but he kept his arm around his horse's neck and managed, if with some difficulty.
Aragorn watched him carefully as Éothain directed him to sit on the ground and Éomer more or less refused to acknowledge the presence of anyone else. Giving a grunt of thanks as he was given a bowl, gritting his teeth and remaining silent as Aragorn offered his aid. The King of Gondor could only watch as he fought with the stew, finally setting the bowl down only half eaten as he obviously did not quite manage on his own but still refused aid.
Clicking his tounge he waited until Firefoot nuzzled his shoulder, draping his arm around him again and using the stallion to pull himself to his feet. Aragorn did not know what he wished to do, and felt asking was not an option though he wished nothing more but to aid him.
"We are a proud people, and stubborn," Éothain followed his eye with something of an amused grin, and a troubled look in his blue eyes. "Some of us more than others…."
"I do not mind his pride or his determination, but I fear he will be injured if he does not admit to his limitations," Aragorn sighed, shoulders saging.
"Éomer, admit to the need of aid?" Éothain gave him a look of amused surprise. "I had thought you knew him better than so by now, nay, he will not. Truthfully, if he had allowed us to lead him around as he should, I would have worried all the more about him. Firefoot will see to it that he comes to no undue harm, and if when he truly does need it he will not take our aid. I shall gladly discuss the point with him," he rubbed one hand lightly over his fist and Aragorn shook his head. They were an interesting people, the horse lords of Rohan.
Éomer it seemed was determined to refuse all offers of aid, seeking instead to relay on his horse. It worked well the few times he made it across their camp that evening, but Aragorn wondered how he would fare when they sought to ride the next day.
Éomer had remained silent as he sat beside him the next morning, accepting a bowl of porridge from Éothain though his fist clenched around the bowl in a white knuckled grip.
"I had it made thick, so you won't be wearing it all over your tunic," Éothain told him as he sat beside him. Completely unfazed by the scowl his friend aimed his way. "I found a few drops of honey, but there is no cream, which is just as well as I believe you'd have just made it curdle with that sour disposition of yours."
"I neither asked for your opinion, nor for this," Éomer ground out as he clutched at the bowl and Aragorn was almost worried it would break in his grasp.
"If I had waited until you had the sense to ask, I would have let you starve," Éothain shook his head. "We will head back today, do you wish to ride your own horse, or ride with me on mine because you're weak from hunger?"
"I will ride myself," Éomer growled out and while Aragorn doubted the wisdom of it he felt there was little enough he could say. Between himself and Éothain they should be able to keep an eye on him. He truly was worried though, Éomer was virtually defenceless, if he admitted it or not.
It was evident though, that Éothain was immune to his friend's scowls as well as the way Éomer would snap at him. He did not even ask if he wanted his horse saddled or not. Knowing it was a task that he would find difficult, Éothain simply brought Firefoot's tack, and evaded the snapping teeth as Firefoot made a halfhearted attempt at biting him.
At least Firefoot was very much aware that his master was injured and needed his aid. Éomer clicked his tongue, which had the great grey stand just in front of him. Feeling with his hands over the neck Éomer found the saddle, and swung himself up without any difficulty at all, it was how he was to negotiate the terrain that worried Aragorn. "We'll be right be here beside you," he started softly.
"I shall manage perfectly!" the voice was hard, but there was a tense note in it that nearly broke Aragorn's heart, for he realised it was fear. Éomer had always been the fearless one, even as a child he seemed to acknowledge no danger. Truthfully, it is sometimes easier for a child that does not know the horrors of the world to show courage, yet how many children does not fear the unknown monster? Éomer had not, what danger he was told about he rushed forward to meet. He was no fool, he knew the danger well, and that the terror the orcs brought forward was well earned. He knew of the brutal way they would slaughter their victims and he knew what a painful death they would offer. He did not fear that fate, though he acknowledged the danger.
It was why his men followed him as they did, because they knew that no matter the weight of their own hearts, their leader would never falter. It was what made his eored so strong and allowed him to lead them with so few losses. When their leader showed such courage, it was easier for them to do the same, no matter their apprehension.
Éomer was the man who faced down the charge of an oliphaunt, and felled not one but two of the beasts with one spear. He was a legend in the Gondorian cavalry, though they knew they would not be able to match their Rohirric brethren it was still something for them to aspire to.
To then hear the tone of fear in his voice, that was worse than merely knowing he was pain. Try as he might, Aragorn was unable to fully comprehend what it was his friend was facing now. How hard it must be to move in a world of only darkness. He watched as his friend touched his heels to the side of the horse, and Firefoot fell into step beside Brego. Éomer would not know which way they were going, he relied solely on his horse following the other two, riding between his two friends.
The reins hung loose to allow Firefoot to pick his own way, Éomer well aware that in this he needed to trust his stallion. They hung lose, but he still had a white knuckled grip on them as if that gave him back the control he felt he lacked.
"Éomer," on his friends other side Éothain spoke up and the Rohirric king turned his head. "We are coming to the woods."
"You need not tell me, I do not need it!" he half snapped and Éothain shrugged.
"Very well my lord," he gave a light shrug, riding on unconcerned.
Aragorn a few minutes later made to utter a warning, but Éothain raised his hand, shaking his head. It gave him pause, but he could not say it sat well with him, however, Éothain had known Éomer longer than he had himself, though he called him brother. If anyone knew how best to handle the young King, it would be Éothain, and therefor he said nothing at the pained gasp that escaped the warrior as a low hanging branch snapped against his cheek. Éothain simply waited until the torrent of explicatives had slowly ebbed out before he spoke again.
"Will you let me warn you next time, or do you wish for me to let you fall on your ass when the next one sweeps you from the saddle?"
It was crude, and it did not sit well with Aragorn, but he admitted that perhaps there had been a need for the action. Éomer wanted to deny all and any need for aid, aid he very much did occasionally need. The sooner he saw sense about it, the better, for the next branch could very well do him injury. This one, Éothain had been able to control and had known it would not hurt his friend. The next one they might not be so lucky.
Now Aragorn watched the blond head bow down in defeat, saw the tremor that ran through the hands as he struggled to compose himself. "You may warn me," he finally stated in a low voice.
"Thank you," Éothain obviously took no pleasure in the victory, instead his voice was weary and saddened as he reached out a hand to squeeze his friend's shoulder. "Firefoot is a surefooted beast, he will not falter, but he will not be able to tell you when you need to duck," he mused softly.
The muttered reply was in Rohirric, and Aragorn could not quite catch all of it. Firefoot however swivelled his ears before tossing his head. Whickering loudly he turned his head to look at his master, before moving closer to Éothain's own steed. Walking close enough that the two riders legs touched he tossed his head again. Such gestures worried Aragorn, he felt it could be ill if he caught Éomer unprepared.
However it seemed it would take more than so, for Éomer simply shifted his weight in the saddle, and Firefoot settled down again.
When they stopped at midday, the blonde warrior tucked his injured arm close to his midsection before easily dismounting from his horse. Firefoot nudged his shoulder, and Éomer leaned against the beast, reaching his good hand to scratch him between the ears. Watching them, Aragorn would be hard pressed to say who was comforting who, for while both had to know he was near, neither one acknowledged it.
"I will see to it that those not needed to prepare the meal aid the wounded," Éothain stated matter of factly, as if he was merely responding to an order given. "I imagine one or two might need it after the ride."
"Aye," Éomer nodded his agreement, still leaning heavily against his horse and Aragorn wondered for a moment if he could keep to his feet if he let go. He did however know better than to word his wishes in quite that manner. Instead he stood himself beside his friend, noting the way his posture stiffened. The fact that Firefoot allowed it though, obviously told him what he needed to know for the moment.
"Firefoot has a few scratches I would like to tend to," Aragorn stated softly. He could see they were healing well, though would benefit from his ministrations. "With your leave of course?"
"Aye," a slow, pained nod before Éomer slowly took a step backward, hesitating for a moment before he lowered himself to the ground.
"They are not bad," Aragorn turned to Brego for the poultice in his saddle bag. "I do not think they pain him much but I would much prefer it if they did not pain him at all." He did not add that he wished the same for Éomer, because he knew it would not be welcomed. He felt the arm should have been secured, bound to his chest so it would not pain him so, and there were brews he could have given him, poppy juice, that would have taken the worst of the pain. Instead, all he had was a curt nod from where the young king sat.
"It is my wish also," he stated softly.
Glancing at his brother in arms from time to time Aragorn continued with his task, offering comforting words in Rohirric when the stallion objected to the ministrations. The salve would sting in the wounds, so he did not wonder. Instead, once he was satisfied that he had aided the horse if not the master he returned the small jar to his saddle bag. Fishing out an apple as he did so.
No more had he sliced into the treat with his dagger before the man on the ground started. "I thank you for spoiling my horse!"
Startled, Aragorn turned his head, but Éomer still sat with his head hanging low, and his eyes hidden under the bandage. He would have known the sound then, and possible the way Firefoot smacked his lips in excitement.
"I felt it well earned," he stated. "For I saw him in the battle, and he struck fear in the very heart of our enemy." Unconcerned, he gave the horse half the apple before giving Brego the other half. He would have offered a part to Éothain's steed also, but that horse did not know him well enough to take it easily.
"He is a war horse," Éomer shrugged, as if such feats of valour was something the horse did every day.
In Firefoot's case, Aragorn had to admit that it would be no surprise to him to learn so. Satisfied he had got all he would at the moment the stallion went back to his master, standing behind Éomer and resting his chin on his shoulder. Offering comfort and tiny bits of half chewed apple in equal measures.
Éothain soon returned, with what would be their meal, offering Aragorn a large chunk of bread and cheese together with an aleskin with a wide smile. "Not as fine as the food of the court, but good and hearty," he stated.
"I always felt what was good enough for the riders of Rohan, was good enough for the King of Gondor," Aragorn took it gratefully. It might be the bread was a little hard and stale for having been stored in saddlebags, and coarse at that. It was still a good simple fare that took no time to prepare.
"I even found a bit of sausage," Éothain declared as he sat next to Éomer, dropping the food in his lap and letting his friend sort it out for himself.
Taking the bread the young warrior broke pieces of it, but he did not eat much as soon pushed it aside where Éothain gathered it up with a shrug.
No sooner had the order to continue been given before Éomer struggled to his feet, and slung his good arm around Firefoot's neck. Swinging himself into the saddle with the grace of a lifetime of experience.
If anything spoke of his discomfort and unease, it was that as soon as he had heard Éothain mount his own steed, he nudged Firefoot to stand right beside him.
"We shall ford the river later," Éothain stated as he watched the men around them start to move. "I do not think there has been enough rain to give us any trouble. Though I can not speak for your men, Aragorn. What say you, can the men of Gondor handle it?"
"I think that those who can not, should be ashamed to ride with the men of Rohan," he allowed himself a smile at the friendly teasing. It was banter for comfort and brotherly camaraderie, and indeed beside him Éomer gave an amused snort.
"Aye, and indeed they should. A child could ford that river, even at its worst," with the reins in one hand he held the other close to his midsection.
"Should they have any difficulty, you have my leave to inform them so," Aragorn allowed. The river was quite shallow if wide, and he knew that Éothain's words were really only meant to prepare his friend. The stream would not pose them any difficulty at all, but if one was not prepared for it, and did not see it, the shift in the horse's gait could still cause one to be unbalanced.
"Another fifty paces or so, and we shall move down the bank," it was the first Éothain said in a long time, having rode mostly in silence. Aragorn had felt it best to let him take the lead in this, and between them Éomer nodded. He gripped the pommel of his saddle with his good hand, and allowed Firefoot to pick his own path between the other horses. Not once did he even waver in the saddle, and Aragorn doubted he could have repeated the feat himself. During the ride he had allowed himself to close his eyes for a short spell. Wishing to understand what it was his friend was experiencing. The hoofbeats from the other horses, the creaks of leather and the clanging of metal surrounded them, but he was hard pressed to pick out a particular one. Beneath him, he felt Brego, and the horse tossed his head as if wondering what his rider was up to.
It was disjointed, and not a little intimidating, and when he had opened his eyes again he found Éothain looking at him with knowing eyes. The younger man simply shrugged as if he found nothing strange at all with the action, and knowing how pragmatic the Rohirrim were, Aragorn doubted it had puzzled him.
"I think we should make camp early," he stated softly instead. "We shall come to a glade by the river, it should be well sheltered and our wounded need the rest."
"Advisable," Aragorn nodded. "What say you, Éomer?" he did not wish for his friend to think they did not want or need his counsel. He would know the area well enough to know the place Éothain had in mind, and indeed, what was visible of his face seemed to furrow in concentration.
"It should serve us well enough, send out a dozen men, see if they can find some game for the pot and meet us there."
"Aye," wheeling his horse around with naught but the touch of a heel and a knee Éothain moved down the ranks to issue the order. He only needed to relay it to one man, and within a mere few seconds a dozen men armed with bows had broken lose from the main body and moved swiftly ahead.
"With luck, we shall have some venison," Éothain proclaimed when he returned, and Éomer once more unconsciously nudged his own horse closer to that of his friend. "The grass is rich and the woods green, there ought to be game. Even a few rabbits would be welcomed for the pot I think." Taking his water skin from his saddle he uncorked it and held it to Éomer's hand. The young king hesitating only for a moment before he took it. Drinking deep he reached it to his other side to Aragorn who took it. He had no need of it in truth, as he had his own, but was well aware that the action was more for Éomer's comfort. Drinking sparsely though they could refill it at the river.
He noticed something at the camp, that Aragorn had to admit caused him some amusement. While Éomer still sought to quench his fear with anger, Firefoot behaved differently. As Aragorn had requested to see to his wound, and been angrily rebuked the young King had sought to move away from them. With his arm around Firefoot's neck he moved through the camp, and Firefoot would without fail lead him back to them. All Éothain needed to do was to give a low whistle, and the warrior would find himself right back where he started, cursing his horse for a traitor while Firefoot was unconcerned.
"At least your horse has sense, if I wonder at you," shaking his head Éothain waited for him to finish the explicatives. Feeding Firefoot as well as his own horse and Brego a carrot each as he did so. "We are fortunate enough to have fresh meat, so leave the poor beast alone and take your supper."
"Wærloga," Èomer half snapped at the stallion who seemed completely unconcerned by being called a traitor, and Aragorn did not wonder. If his master was prone to displays of temper at times, then so was also Firefoot, and neither would judge the other too harshly. Their loyalty to each other ran far deeper than a few heated words or hard bites.
"So you say, Lord," Éothain stated with an amused tone of his voice. No more concerned than was the beast. The two of them had been friends a long time Aragorn knew, and Éothain was ever loyal to the Mark and to his King. He simply had the manners of a childhood friend in also speaking his mind and keeping his liege in check.
Knowing he would be hard pressed to go against them if Firefoot would not indulge him Éomer sank to the ground, the grey beast settling down beside him. He accepted the bowl from Éothain and felt with his fingers to know what food it contained. Wiping his arm across his mouth and beard when he was done.
At least Aragorn was relieved that afterwards he allowed himself to be subjected to having his wounds examined, and it was with great relief the King of Gondor noted they were healing well. Another few days was his silent verdict to himself, and they would be able to remove the bandage wound around his eyes and see if there was any damage done. This was his judgement, and this he told to his friend, watching the young warrior's shoulders slump under his words.
"The burns did not go deep, I have hopes your eyes were spared," he stated softly.
"A blind King is of no more use than is a blind warrior," the words were quiet, a whisper that would have been too low for Aragorn had he not had his elven heritage.
"A wise King, and a fair one, is always of use to his people," he stated, dropping a hand to the shoulder. "And a cunning old warrior has always the knowledge of past battles to know the plans of the enemy, and how to foil them."
Èomer was silent at his words, but Aragorn hoped he took the counsel in them, and on the seventh day on their journey back when he stood and shielded his aching eyes from the sun that seemed to burn many times more fiercely, Aragorn thought that there perhaps was a new wisdom and determination in them.
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.