Black Horses

Gríma had made his way to Éowyn first, and yet, for some suspicious reason, he never revealed to her that Lily had set him on fire with her magic. Only that she had been secretly listening in on the conversations they had held before the King, and Éowyn, though forgiving in nature, had not appreciated it. Lily had understood very well that Gríma held too much power as the King's advisor, even more than Éowyn could stand up against, and therefore did not retort.

This secret had become a thing that lingered like a cloud over the Meduseld, ready to rain down when Gríma would command it so. As though he was waiting for the right moment to strike when it would benefit him the most – or when it would grant him the most satisfaction.

Not wanting to feel the lingering tension, Lily spent her days away from the Meduseld as much as possible. It had taken some time and effort, but proving to Eorlund that she was a quick learner had made his soul open up a bit. Though Eorlund didn't know it, keeping the fire of the forge going had become her way of figuring out how her magic worked in this world. She figured what she had done had been wandless magic, and non-verbal, too. A type of magic she had done a lot as a child, before she had even met Severus, believing – knowing, it to be the most natural thing. A type of magic that had faded as the years she spent at Hogwarts went by and she grew older. And perhaps that is also where the answer lied. Wands were merely tools of channelling and directing, as she was taught during professor Binns' History of Magic lessons, and many cultures around the world still did not require the use of a wand in order to perform magic. Only this magic was a different kind of magic, and it felt as if it drew from the natural things around her – and within her. The fire of the forge held the evidence that her magic was not lost, and it rekindled the feeling that all was not lost.

If Eorlund did not require Lily's help for the moment, she would make her way over to Gísli. Harvest season had started. The whole of Edoras seemed to have poured out onto the farm fields to help out, as well as many herbs for eating and for healing were being harvested on the slopes of the hills. She carried baskets filled with hops, parsley, cabbages, amongst many other things to designated places. The feeling of togetherness among the people of Edoras was a beautiful sight to behold. Even in the impoverished circumstances that they lived in, by looking after one another, none had to go hungry, nor did anyone have to go without a roof over their head. Unlike Cokeworth, here, there was no bridge causing division. No us versus them. Even its royal family lives a modest and hard working life amongst their people compared to the ones she knew from England. The desire to return home, and to find Severus, was far greater than her new found love for Edoras and its people – and yet, for at least a little while, a small part of her did not mind staying here. Here, there was peace to be found from the turmoil of her life back home.

Gísli had asked Lily to carry a basket with a herb, which Lily did not know the name of, to her house, and wait for her there. She had carried more baskets of the same plant to the cow and pig barns, where the animals gladly ate it as if it were a nutritious weed. As she waited inside Gísli's house, she pulled out some of the herb from the basket, and tried to figure out what it could possibly be. Its broad and hoary leaves reminded her of the comfrey Petunia liked to grow in their garden. It had small white flowers, but the petals were not as bright as the ones from the Simbelmynë. A sweet fragrance was released into the air as the rubbed the leaves together, and it reminded her of something that she could only describe as an orchard in bloom – and of something clean. It brought her peace of mind, and perhaps that was the very reason Gísli had wanted her to bring a basket of it to her home. There was something special about it, and Gísli knew this.

It didn't take long for Gísli to arrive with a bundle of firewood in her arms. 'I see you're already trying to figure out what it is,' she said as a beautiful smile formed on her face. She placed a few logs strategically in her hearth and made a little nest out of dry straw. She created smoke by rubbing sticks together, and transferred the heat to the straw, where she ignited a fire by blowing gently on it. She placed the burning straw carefully under her pile of logs, and in a matter of moments, the whole room was filled with light and warmth. 'You make it seem so easy,' said Lily, impressed by the ease in which Gísli warmed up the room.

'All becomes easy if you practise enough,' Gísli answered with a wink. She took a chair and sat down in front of Lily. 'What have you discovered so far?'

'That this is no ordinary weed,' said Lily. She rubbed some more of the leaves together, and drew in the pleasant scent with sweet delight. 'And yet, it appears that everyone around here just uses it to feed the animals. What makes it so special?'

Gísli took some of the herb into her own hands and held it up against her nose. 'It reminds me of heather in Springtime,' she said, as though spoken from an old memory. 'You are right to believe that it is no ordinary weed. I believe you have something magical within you, Lily. And I have spoken to lady Éowyn about it. She told me you claim yourself to be a witch, and I am not surprised, given all that you know.'

'Do you not fear me if I say that it is true?' Lily asked carefully.

Gísli shook her head. 'People are right to be fearful. To the East, there is Dark Magic at play. Powerful, and equally terrible. But I believe that magic is inherently neutral. Magic simply is, and how it is used lies solely in the hands of its wielder. I believe, my dear Lily, that goodness resides in your heart, and so whatever magic it is that you wield, I know it is born from a place of love, and that it is strong.'

Gísli's kind words moved Lily to some joyful tears. 'Thank you,' she whispered back as she wiped the tears from her face. 'It is good to know that you don't fear me.'

'I could never,' said Gísli. 'Please, let me tell you about this wonderful herb you're holding. I feel it may pass your path again for as long as you are here.'

Lily looked into Gísli's wise wizened eyes, and the spark that lay in their depths betrayed that Gísli had a much deeper understanding of this world than she was leading on. She was poised and well-read, and the modest life she lived felt as though it was by choice rather than by chance. 'I'd love to know more,' she answered.

'What you are holding in your hands is a plant that was brought to Middle-earth by the Númenóreans. They are now more commonly known as the Dúnedain. A noble race of Men, blessed by the Valar with the gift that made them taller, wiser, and live much longer than any other race. Éowyn told me that you have read the story on the House of Haleth, so I know you are familiar with their history. The Númenóreans named the herb Athelas, and they loved it so much for its healing properties that they felt it had to grow all over Middle-earth as well. Over the ages that passed since their arrival in Middle-earth, the knowledge about this herb has gotten lost to history, and now only the Dúnedain and the Elves are still familiar with its properties. The High Elves named it Asëa Aranion, meaning "leaf of kings" in their tongue. It is why us who speak the common tongue call it Kingsfoil. According to the folklore of Gondor, our neighbouring realm to the South, it is especially powerful in the hands of the King. There's a rhyme in Gondorian lore that goes as following.'

"When the Black Breath blows

and death's shadow grows

and all lights pass,

come athelas! Come athelas!

Life to the dying

In the king's hand lying!"

'But Gondor has not seen a King on its throne for nearly a thousand years,' Gísli continued. 'Not since Eärnur, the thirty-third king of Gondor, disappeared behind the gates of Minas Morgul, leaving no heirs to take his place. The Stewards of Gondor have ruled as placeholders of the throne, still awaiting the return for the rightful heir to the throne till this day.'

'Do you believe that there is still a rightful heir?' asked Lily, curious to know more. 'Is there still someone out there that gives this herb special powers?'

'I don't just believe it,' said Gísli with a twinkle in her eye. 'I know it. May I be fortunate enough in my old age to live and see the throne of Gondor restored!'

'And what is this Black Breath that the thyme speaks of?' asked Lily.

'It is a power bestowed upon the Nazgûl,' said Gísli. 'The Nine great Lords of Men who have fallen into shadow long ago. They are cloaked for they are formless beings. We now call them the Black Riders, and do you know why we call them so?'

Lily thought about the answer, remembering the enormous herd of horses she had seen when Éowyn had shown her the mounds of her ancestors behind the city gates of Edoras. 'There are very few black horses,' she answered eventually. 'Were they all taken?'

'Orcs keep taking them,' Gísli answered grimly. 'Some years ago, servants of the Lord of the Black Land came to us, wanting to purchase our horses for a great price. But the Riders refused the servants' generous offer, for we know that the horses would be put to evil uses, and that is not our way of life. Since then, Orcs have come plundering, taking only the black horses, and our feud with them has since been bitter. Some horses have been taken, again, last night. It is why lord Éomer and Elfhelm have gone to the Eastern border with their own éored, in the hope to reclaim their horses.'

Lily understood where Gísli's story was going. The Kingsfoil she had harvested was meant for the Riders who would soon return, and some were bound to be wounded – or worse. Even without a rightful King's healing hands, the herb would still contain some healing properties. 'How do we prepare this herb?' she asked.

'It's quite simple,' Gísli explained. 'We boil it in water, and then we use the water for the wounds to prevent them from festering. It has never failed me in all the years that the Riders have returned from battle.'

Form the way Gísli was describing it, it seemed that the herb could be applied as a powerful antiseptic. Lily helped her boil water in cast iron kettles that were hanging from a spit over the hearth, and poured the Kingsfoil infused water in wooden buckets. The steam bore a scent of morning dew into the air, leaving both women feeling refreshed and light at heart.

Near the city's gates, the ground had started to shake under the hooves of the returning Riders. A low rumbling note was blown through a horn. Its sound of an alarming nature. 'That is the call of Horn of the Mark,' said Gísli, and her kind expression was swiftly changed into a look of deep concern. 'I feared it would be so. They need our help. Take some clean cloth from the shelves and carry the buckets to the gates, quickly!'

Lily did as Gísli told her to, and the serene feeling of Gísli's home was swiftly replaced by a sense of fear as she made her way outside. The people of Edoras, most of them women, were rushing out of their homesteads. Among them, Lily and Gísli found Éowyn taking the lead with Háma following closely behind. Fear was etched upon everyone's faces as the gates were opened and the Riders came pouring in. Over a dozen horses had come back riderless. Many more had come back carrying wounded men, and the screams of agony chilled her to the bone. Curved, crudely cut blades were sticking straight through shoulders, chests, and legs, opening up the skin as though sliced by a butchers knife. Blood trickled down the horses flanks, creating a pool of blood where they stood, and the unexpected stench of it made her root to the ground in shock. Tied behind the horses, she saw for the first time what had to be Orcs. Humanoid looking creatures, short in stature, bow-legged, sallow and crooked, as Háma had described to her. They did not make a sound nor stir, and she figured they had to be dead. Whether they were dead before they were tied behind the horses, or died during the journey back to Edoras, she could not tell. But they were vile, and reeked of sweat and sulphur, and it was clear to her why these creatures were an unwelcome guest in Rohan.

'Lily, the water, please!' It was Éowyn who called out to her. Lily snapped out of the horrid scene that had unfolded in front of her and hastily ran up to Éowyn, who was putting pressure on a deeply cut wound on her brother's arm. Lily dipped some cloth into the water and took over from Éowyn by applying pressure. A sigh of relief left Éomer's lips as his blood trickled through, and the Kingsfoil was working its magic. 'We were ambushed from the North,' he said hastily, as though still out of breath from the fight. 'More and more Orcs keep crawling out of places we have never seen them crawl before. Then men we have lost we have buried in a mound – we have not been able to retrieve any of the stolen horses.'

A shrill cry pierced through the air as a woman behind them cradled the body of a young man. The light of the young man's soul vanished in the depths of his eyes, and Lily felt her heart shatter like glass. 'You can do this, Lily,' whispered Éowyn, who had taken notice of her growing weakness.

Lily tried her hardest to pull herself together, but the shards of her shattering heart pierced painfully through her body. She saw her own hands getting to work, but her mind did not follow, as though it was all happening from a distance. She cleaned more wounds. Held needles made of antler, and sewed up wounds with a flax thread to the best of her limited abilities. Blood had stained her hands, her clothes and her face from all the nervous sweat she had wiped from her brows. The men strong enough carried the ones who couldn't to their homes, and the dead were carried by their loved ones to their graves. The last thing Lily remembered doing was bringing the riderless horses to the stables, and her mind did not return to her until she lowered herself into the hot water of the bathhouse, and watched the blood leave her hands like red ink released in water.

'The sight of battle is not a place for gentle women like you.' Gríma's cold voice spoke from behind, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up, alerting her that she was naked, vulnerable, and alone.

Lily looked over her shoulder in an indifferent manner, not wanting to give the man before her any sign of fear of him. 'Would that not make you a gentle man?' she answered casually as her eyes locked into his. 'For I did not see you when the Riders returned, nor did I see you attend to their needs. Or did my eyes deceive me?'

Gríma answered with a crooked smile. 'My duties lie elsewhere, as you must surely know considering your proclivity to eavesdrop. So tell me, Lily of the House of Gryffindor, who is this friend of yours, that you have lost?'

'It appears I am not the only one with a proclivity to eavesdrop,' Lily answered. 'What is it to you?'

'I wish to know more about you, little witch.' Gríma stood rooted to his spot, unyielding. 'Your motives. Your desires. Your reasons for being here.'

'That is not for you to know,' Lily spat.

Gríma's crooked smile widened. 'Just how it is not for the King's relatives to know that you could set this place on fire with that mere glance in your eye.'

Lily could argue, but she knew that he held her in the grasp of his words. 'My friend is a lot like you,' she answered in defeat. 'Looks different than all the others.'

'Go on,' said Gríma. Lily saw him taking a step forward, and she turned around and held on to the edge of the bath, looking up at him.

'I met him when we were very young,' she continued. 'You see, the children of the place where we grew up look just like me. Some have brown hair, and others more golden like the people here. There are even quite a few with hair like mine, but we are all still very much the same. But not my friend. His hair is black, and his skin is different, and the reason for that is because of his father's mother. She had come from the far East as a little girl to the West when the ruling over the East by the empire of the West was ended. She had fallen in love with a man from the West, and although their marriage was looked down upon, they still did for their love was of greater weight than the disapproval of their families. And from that love, my friend's father was born. And his life was hard, and still is, till this day, for he didn't fit in with either the people from the East nor West. Do you understand where I am going with this?'

'I believe I do,' Gríma answered stiffly. There was no longer a grin on his face.

'My friend looks a lot after his mother,' said Lily with a bit more confidence, 'but of course he also inherited traits from his father, and it has made his childhood rough. He was ridiculed. Laughed at for how he looks. Children, and even grown people, have told him that he looks unwashed. Unclean. Have told him that he needed to scrub the dirt from face as if it was somehow his choice to live within the skin he does.' Feeling a surge of strength as she told the story of Severus, she raised herself out of the water and stepped towards Gríma, who dared not look away. She brought her voice down to a mere whisper, forcing him to listen closely. 'It is your story too, is not it, 'Gríma? A story of not quite knowing where your loyalties lie?'

A flicker of acknowledgement seemed to flash in his eyes. 'We shall continue this another day.' Turning on the ball of his heels, he tore his eyes away from hers and strutted away, the sound of a swishing cloak leaving the bathhouse by the slamming of the door.

Wet drops of blood trickled down on her face and touched her lips, leaving the copper taste of death and victory lingering in his mouth.

A/N An important note regarding Lily as a character.
From time to time, I receive comments (mostly anonymous on FFN) on all my stories that involve Lily, that she's too OC. But reviewers don't leave it at that. There are also a lot of comments about her that she's too naïve. Too emotional. Too picky. Too hot-headed. Too shy. Too unforgiving. Too prideful. Too apologetic. Manipulative. Mean. Rude. Possessive. Bossy. Indecisive. Weak. Undeserving of Severus (excuse me, people are not a prize to be won), and a downright bitch, just to name a few.

Lily was only sixteen when she broke off her friendship with Severus. How much they saw and spoke to each other after that (both in and out of Hogwarts) we can only guess. I made the creative choice in this story for Lily to have used their time apart to reflect, and for her to want him back in her life, hence why we start at the beginning of their 7th year at Hogwarts. It does not negate the fact that canon Lily choosing for her own safety and beliefs, somehow makes her an unforgiving bitch (as she has been called).

Lily is OC, and she is OC because she is OC in everyone's story. In canon, we only know bits and pieces of her character through the biased stories of others told to Harry. This biased view includes the one from Severus, who held her on a high pedestal all the way up to his death.
Rowling loved using symbolism throughout her magical story, and I personally believe that Lily as a character was more symbolic than she was real. She's a martyr, who sacrificed herself for something of importance on a much grander scale. Lilies, the flower, are associated with death and with the virgin Mary. It's mainly about the loss of innocence, which also applies to Severus after losing Lily. Lily is the symbol for love and sacrifice, but as a character we, fanfic writers, can take her wherever we want to take her, because she was never a well-rounded character to begin with.

My Severus has also been called OC, but never by any of the names mentioned in the first paragraph. This problem stems from a misogynistic place.
It's sad to see that people are still looking at girls and women and feel the need to point out every single flaw they might have. It's as if women are not allowed to have irrationally based emotions, or say the wrong things, or be ignorant on certain matters, or stand firmly behind their own opinions, even if they stand stark in contrast with the opinions of all others. The behaviour of women lies under a constant magnifying glass, and something will get pointed out and ridiculed the moment a woman does something that one does not consider appropriate or right.
It is okay, to not be entirely okay. It is okay to be that way in real life, and it is okay for fictional characters (which mind you, are reflections of the workings of our inner world) to be that way. My Lily is a proud OC, because she is little bits of me.

A/N In this story I use two books for plant and tree references. One is "Flora of Middle-earth" by Judd&Judd that describes all real and fictional plants used in Tolkien's legendarium. The other is "Guide to Medicinal Herbs" by National Geographic. The latter book I use specifically because it uses scientific based evidence on medicinal properties of plants.

A/N "Some years ago, the Lord of the Black Land wished to purchase horses of us at a great price, but we refused him, for he puts beasts to evil use. Then he sent plundering Orcs, and they carry off what they can, choosing always the black horses: few of those are now left. For that reason our feud with the Orcs is bitter." - Éomer, The Two towers. This is why the Nazgûl have black horses.

A/N An éored is a company of well trained riders and horses of the Rohirrim. It always counts 120 riders and one captain. A full muster of all éoreds is called a éoherë. One éoherë is made up of a 100 éored.

A/N The books can be confusing about it at times, so I'll explain it here. The term 'orc' and 'goblin' are used interchangeably for the exact same species. Orc = goblin and goblin = orc. It's a bit annoying when you're reading the books for the first time and don't quite understand why even in the same paragraph it gets mixed up. "Not a sound but the wind,' he said [Gimli]. There are no goblins near, or my ears are made of wood. It is to be hoped that the Orcs will be content with driving us from Moria." The only theory I can think of is that Orc is written with a capital O, making that the official term for the species, and goblin is a lowercase g, making it slang.