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

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

Chapter 45

Whickering and scraping his hoof on the floor the young stallion pushed against the door of his stall as he waited for his meal. As strange as those two legged beings were, they were to be counted on to provide sustenance. At just two years of age, he was much too young for his full status to be acknowledged. The older horses were superior to him in any way, and were quick to make it clear to him. He had however found that while they had little patience for the eagerness of youth, they were a virtual treasure trove of noteworthy tricks.

From a large bay he had learned to open the gate on his stall. A lot of the stalls did not even have gates that could be locked, but apparently if one made it to the fodder bin a few times they felt you had to be confined.

The little two legged one, the human colt whom he had been entrusted with was not bad for his kind. He slept in the stall with him the night after the fodder bin raid when his stomach hurt. He dragged him out in the cold and the rain, attaching a long line to his bridle and forced him to run in circles around him. The first few times when the weather was nice it was quite fun, but when the cold rain blew in his face and icy mud caked his legs it was not.

Still the young one forced him to endure it, horrible it was, but enjoyable once he ignored the line and ran straight for the little one, pushing him down in the mud. The cold sleet splashed all the way to his own face as he measured himself in the mud, growling and snarling coming from him as he rose so that Firefoot skittered away uneasily. Knowing that with the line there was only so much he could do.

He had understood that some of the man-kind lost their temper and became hurtful when angered, so for a moment he feared he had gone too far. While the little one growled though, he tried to scrape mud from himself, but he raised not a hand to the horse. Approving of this, Firefoot went over to him, nudging him with his nose on the shoulder. There were mud there, right between his nostrils and he wiped it off on the rough strange coat of the little one.

"You did that on purpose, you cur!" the words were harsh, he knew as much, but the tone was surprisingly soft and Firefoot had nudged him again. Certain now that while the little one was strange and far weaker than a horse, he was not a bad sort.

Scraping his hoof now, and knocking it against the wall he was rewarded by a cry from the food store. Soon enough a walking pile of hay came towards and he tossed his head in delight. Greeting his meal with a loud whinney he snatched a mouthful even as the little one struggled to open the gate.

A loud yelp, and a strange taste in his mouth saw him spitting out a mouthful of the long flowing mane of the little one. It was well near the colour of hay, so he could hardly be held to blame for mistaking the two.

"Bema, eat the hay and not me, you despicable wretched cur," trying to pick half chewed straw out of his mane the little one glared at him and Firefoot for once felt he wanted to convey his apology. It was not easy with the two legged ones, they did not comprehend horse sense. Truthfully, he felt they were sometimes quite daft.

Grabbing his sleeve in his teeth he pulled him over to the manger where there was some oats left from his morning meal.

"Let go of me!" grabbing at his coat the little one pulled back. To ensure he understood he was allowed to have a bite, Firefoot pushed his head between his shoulder blades so he fell against the wooden manager. "Sweet Eru, have you lost all sense?"

Glaring the little one pushed back from the manager without eating. A shame, Firefoot felt, for he was far too small. Most of the man-kind were at least twice as big as him, though it was true he was just a colt. Long legged and awkward, there was a chance he would grow to a decent size, but how he would do so if he did not eat his oats Firefoot did not know.

Still, it was late in the day and they had been outside, the little one had some very strange ideas. He'd strapped some strange light leather contraption to his back, and then there had been an endless going back and forth. The little one wanted him to run away from him, only to come back when he whistled. While Firefoot felt it was all rather pointless he had obliged at first. However it quickly became boring, and he wished the little one would make up his mind if he wanted him to stay or go.

To drive this point home, he found a quite clever method.

The men-kind were indeed strange, they had the golden mane, but no hair on their bodies and no tails. They were soft and vulnerable, and so clad themselves in the hide of other animals. Misshapen hoofs clad in leather, and when you trod on them they cried out in pain.

So when he tried to make it clear he no longer wished to do this running off just to run back at a whistle, he trod quite firmly on his hoof as he went.

He was actually a little surprised that the little one still after that wanted him to do it again. Another dozen times he bade him to go across the field, and another dozen times Firefoot made sure to trod on his hoof in doing so. Finally he felt a little bad for him when he noticed the man-thing could no longer stand on the hoof. Galloping across the field without being bid he waited for the whistle, at which he came back to stand beside him. Burrowing his face against his side, in under his arm which the little one slung an arm around his neck.

"Bema's Beard, why could you not do so afore?" rubbing at his face the little one kept his arm around his neck, and Firefoot let him. With their strange hoofs it was no wonder the little one could not walk back to the stable on his own. He recalled how he had fallen and hurt his own leg afore, and how the little one had been most kind to him. Too small and fragile to support him he had however stayed all night with him in the stable, so now Firefoot felt he could afford to be generous. Slowly they made their way back to the stable, and he had expected the little one to go off and lick his wounds, but he did not. There were men-things who were always in the stable, tending to his own kind. Grooming them, feeding them and taking care of them, though each of them had a man-thing of their own who took care of them as well. He knew Brego best, the older horse was still young enough to be indulgent at times, though quick to put him in his place should Firefoot get too cocky.

Brego had his own man-thing, but there were times when the other one would take care of him, and Brego always allowed it. So far, only twice had his own man-thing been away and let the others feed and groom him. The first time he knew not the reason why, the little one had been away with one of the bigger older horses and come back late in a pouring freezing rain that had chilled even the air in the stable. Firefoot had not liked it, so he had made certain to bite the man-thing who groomed him instead. He did not bite the one that fed him, that would have been foolish.

When his own little one came back almost a fortnight later he first welcomed him with a great cheerful nudge, then bit him to ensure he knew not to do so again.

He had been more generous the next time, mostly because he then felt he understood why his little one failed to come to him. Supposedly it was even his own fault, but not from intent. The little one had come climbing over the fence into the corral, and Firefoot had been able to smell the carrots in his pocket. A little too eager as he ran to greet him, he had failed to check his own speed and run right into the fence. It had hurt his nose, and the little one had fallen off. Waiting for him to get up, eager for the carrots and a little worried he had started neighing as loud as he could, and kicking the fence. Soon others of the men-things had come running, and cruel as they were they had not only failed to give him the carrots but taken his little one away from him for a whole sennight.

This was not something Firefoot forgave easily, and he had made certain they knew it. Only one had he let come to him, and that was the man-thing whom rode Brego. That one Firefoot liked, for he had seen how gentle and careful he was with his own little one. That one he allowed, but he made certain he knew it was only by his own good grace, not something to be taken lightly.

When his little one came back, he had one of those strange fore legs tied down, which really made brushing and grooming impractical, but Firefoot felt it was not the time to give him a hard time about it. It was partially his own fault after all, so instead he stood more still than he usually did, lifting his hoofs before he was bided to, to have them cleaned. Pleased, if a little surprised that he was not only given a carrot but an apple after the grooming.

Now the little one took him to his stall, and closed the gate before leaning heavily against it.

"You are a menace, and a pelt in front of the fire is what you really ought to be," the little one declared and Firefoot nudged him happily. He heard those words often enough to know them now. He knew the tone of this voice and knew it was a good thing. It meant the little one cared for him.

They were strange the man-things, so very strange. It was no wonder they needed to ride on him when they only had two week legs of their own, this one though, this little one that was his was not so bad. With a bit of training he would like as not turn out quite well, yes, Firefoot was certain of it. In his own humble opinion, this little one would do just fine…

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.