( Just a note, I am having alot of issues with and it has been rather frustrating. It keeps deleting my chapters in my other fanfic. If it keeps up I will be moving both of my works to another location and if that happens I will inform all those that are reading both.)
They had been riding for days, the golden plains of the Riddermark stretching endlessly before them. The great city of Edoras lay ahead, but still many leagues distant, and Blake found himself once more perched behind Freya like an unwelcome bundle of cargo. He hated the sensation—hated the helplessness of it. He could ride somewhat on his own now, his wounds knitting together with agonizing slowness, but the truth remained: he was not yet whole. And the ceaseless jostling of the road did little to aid his recovery.
His stubbornness had not helped matters.
The gods, it seemed, had spoken again.
Freya called a halt, her sharp eyes fixed upon the horizon. A thin black column of smoke twisted into the sky, a dark blemish upon the bright morning air.
Blake exhaled, already wary. "Are there villages out this way?"
Freya shook her head. "Nay. The nearest settlements lie closer to Edoras. And no patrols are meant to range this far. We were the farthest scouts afield."
Her fingers tightened on the reins. "We must look."
A sigh left her lips, though whether in resignation or dread, Blake could not tell. With a sharp command, she spurred her horse forward, and the company followed, galloping toward the distant smoke.
They had ridden some miles before Blake saw them—small, shifting specks in the distance, moving with dark purpose across the plains. He frowned.
"Hold up a second," he muttered, shifting uncomfortably in the saddle. His ribs ached with the motion, but he ignored the pain—he was getting good at that. "Fram's got my gear. Get him up here."
Freya gave him a sharp look, irritation warring with curiosity. But she did as he asked, and soon the old healer was riding beside them, concern in his weathered face.
"What ails you, Blake?" Fram asked gruffly. "Are your wounds troubling you?"
The other riders muttered amongst themselves. The distant figures were slipping away.
Blake gritted his teeth. "No, but I need something from my pack. It's… ah, hell, how do I explain this?" He exhaled sharply. "It's a set of eyes. Tubes, set close together. Black in color, fits in your hand—just look for something that makes no damn sense, and that's probably it."
Fram furrowed his brow, muttering under his breath as he dug through the pack. "Strange contraptions… unwieldy inventions…"
At last, he produced them, holding the binoculars between calloused fingers as though they might spring to life and bite him. "This odd thing?"
Blake snatched them up before the old man could drop them, bracing himself awkwardly against Freya—who grumbled but did not shove him off. He raised the binoculars to his eyes, adjusting them with practiced ease.
Figures sharpened into shape.
Blake let out a low whistle. "Huh. Ugly bastards. I don't know what those are." He lowered the binoculars, then held them out toward Freya. "Here. You're the expert. Take a look."
Freya gave him another of those suspicious looks, then—tentatively—set the strange device to her eyes.
She stiffened instantly.
Before Blake could react, she lunged—one hand yanking at the hilt of her sword, the other still clutching the binoculars as though she meant to slay whatever she had seen through them.
"Orcs!" she cried.
Blake barely held on as she nearly dumped him to the ground. If not for Fram's quick hand, he would have eaten dirt.
The Rohirrim exchanged tense glances, their hands tightening on weapons.
Freya turned back to Blake, breathless, still gripping the binoculars. "Incredible…" she murmured. "It is as though I see with the eyes of an Elf."
She turned abruptly, shoving the binoculars toward Fram.
"Here! Try them!"
Blake reached out too late. "Hey, hold on—"
Fram caught them clumsily, bringing them to his eyes with hesitant suspicion. Then—
His horse nearly reared as he jerked back in terror, one hand flying to his sword.
"Foul spawn of Mordor!" he bellowed.
Blake rubbed his temples.
This was going to be a long day.
The Riders of Rohan moved like a river in flood, swift and relentless across the plains. What had been mere specks on the horizon now grew larger—figures darting, frenzied, desperate. The orcs had spotted their pursuers, and fear had taken hold.
They ran with wild, lurching strides, but there was nowhere to flee. The fields of Rohan stretched wide and bare, no forests to hide them, no crags to shield them. Only open ground and the storm of hooves upon their heels.
Freya's voice rang clear as a blade through the wind.
"Take one alive! I want answers!"
Her men answered with a roar of approval, spurring their horses faster, weapons gleaming in the failing light.
Blake just stared at her. One alive. That meant the rest—every last one—were as good as dead. No surrender. No prisoners. Total annihilation.
This was war in its most brutal, uncompromising form. And it was nothing like the wars he had fought.
The Riders did not descend upon the orcs blindly.
They herded them.
A flanking wedge peeled off to cut ahead of the retreating orcs, forcing them to slow, driving them toward the waiting spears of the main force. Their movements were surgical.
Every charge was calculated, every angle considered. They did not strike and remain—they struck and withdrew, riding past with the grace of hunters wearing their prey down.
A rider wheeled in, lance flashing, spearing an orc through the chest before veering away. Another flashed past, blade singing, and a second orc crumpled.
Blake watched, fascinated.
These weren't men blindly charging into battle. This was war as art.
The orc archers—or what passed for them—loosed crude, jagged arrows in return, but they fired wildly, blindly. Their hands shook, their aim wavered. Their shots were desperate.
And desperation was not enough.
Not against cavalry that had perfected the dance of battle over centuries.
The Rohirrim twisted in their saddles, dodging the shafts with ease. Not a single horse fell.
Within moments, the trap was sprung. The orcs' escape was cut off.
The Rohirrim circled like wolves, their spears glinting, their blades stained black.
It was over before it had even begun.
Then—a scream.
Blake's head snapped toward the sound, just in time to see a Rider fall.
An orc, larger than the rest, had landed a lucky strike, sending man and horse tumbling into the dirt.
The Rider barely had time to raise his shield before the orc loomed over him, rusted axe raised high for the killing blow.
Blake didn't think.
He acted.
The M4 came up.
He squeezed the trigger.
A single thunderous crack split the battlefield.
For one frozen second, everything stopped.
The horses screamed, several rearing in panic. Riders cursed, gripping their reins, trying to steady their mounts.
More than one Rohirrim twisted sharply in the saddle, weapons flashing, searching for the unseen attacker.
A few even turned toward Blake.
Freya flinched, eyes snapping to him in raw, instinctive alarm.
For a split second, she looked at him like he was some kind of wraith.
Blake didn't hesitate.
BARK.
Another orc crumpled, a hole in its chest.
BARK.
A second fell, lifeless in the grass.
The Rohirrim had seen war. But they had never seen war like this.
The orcs hesitated.
That was their last mistake.
Blake didn't move—he couldn't move much. His ribs were screaming, his leg was on fire, and every breath felt like it might tear something open.
So he let them come.
He just had to be faster.
BARK.
The nearest orc jerked backward, skull snapping as a bullet cored through its forehead. It fell without a sound.
Nine left.
They charged. Fast. Too fast for him to track them all at once.
So he didn't.
BARK.
He dropped the closest one, the round ripping through its throat. The orc gagged, clawing at the wound, but Blake was already moving.
His grip tightened on the rifle. Too heavy. Too much kick. His body couldn't take it right now.
He let the M4 drop, still hanging by its sling, and went for the pistol.
BANG.
The sidearm bucked in his grip, but the round found its mark, punching through an orc's eye. It dropped mid-sprint.
Seven.
His vision blurred for half a second. Pain. Exhaustion. Blood loss.
Didn't matter. Keep going.
One of them was almost on him, swinging a jagged cleaver—
BANG.
The round hit center mass, but the orc kept coming.
Shit.
BANG.
A second shot—this time to the face. The orc's head snapped back violently, and it collapsed at Blake's feet.
Six.
Movement to his left—
Blake barely turned in time. His side screamed in protest—the torn muscle in his ribs pulling like a hot wire.
Too slow.
The orc was almost in arm's reach.
Blake didn't have time to raise the pistol.
So he fired from the hip.
BANG.
The shot slammed into the orc's gut. It stumbled, but didn't fall.
Blake gritted his teeth, raised the pistol one inch higher—
BANG.
This time, the round punched through its skull.
Five.
He was breathing too hard now, his body rebelling against every movement. But he couldn't stop.
Another orc—this one faster than the rest—sprinted at him. Blake saw the axe coming down—
Too late.
His legs wouldn't move.
No time to dodge. No time to step back.
So he didn't.
He threw himself backward, let himself fall.
The axe missed by inches, carving the air where his head had just been.
Blake landed hard, every wound screaming in protest.
Didn't matter.
He raised the pistol one-handed—
BANG.
The orc's head whipped back.
Four.
Blake tried to push himself up.
Couldn't.
His ribs weren't having it.
Shit.
He heard snarling—
Another orc was closing in fast.
His arms were shaking. His vision swam.
But his hands were steady.
He lined up the shot—
BANG.
The orc dropped mid-sprint.
Three.
Blake forced himself up. Every part of him protested. His ribs felt like they were grinding together like broken glass.
Didn't matter.
Two left.
One of them hesitated now. It saw what he was. What he was doing.
Blake stared it down—daring it to try.
It ran.
He didn't even bother shooting it.
He only cared about the last one.
The biggest.
The bastard was still coming.
Still snarling.
Still too damn fast.
Blake didn't raise the pistol.
He lowered it.
BANG.
The round obliterated the orc's kneecap.
It collapsed, howling in agony.
Still trying to crawl toward him.
Blake didn't slow.
He walked forward, breath ragged, pistol hanging low in his grip.
The orc reached for a fallen blade—
BANG.
The second knee exploded.
It slumped forward, broken.
Bleeding.
Helpless.
Blake was already past it.
The fight was over.
Blake barely registered the bodies around him. Didn't hear the dying orc groaning behind him.
The only sound that mattered was the ragged, wet gasping from the fallen Rider.
The kid was drowning in his own blood.
Blake dropped to his knees, his own wounds flaring hot and sharp, but he gritted his teeth and shoved the pain down. It wasn't his pain that mattered.
The young Rohirrim was on his back, his chest rising in shallow, uneven jerks. Blood foamed at the edges of his lips, pale and thin and wrong. His pupils were blown wide, his eyes unfocused, rolling in shock.
Sucking chest wound.
Blake pressed two fingers to the boy's throat—searching.
The pulse was there. Weak. Fast. Too fast.
Shit. He was going into shock.
"Fram! He has a punctured lung. We need to get this armor off—now."
Fram hesitated.
Blake grabbed him by the collar and yanked him forward.
"Help me, or he dies!"
That got him moving. Fram's hands fumbled with the buckles, and Freya—already at Blake's side—ripped the cuirass away. The leather peeled back, revealing the deep, jagged cut between the ribs, bubbling darkly with every breath.
Blake barely noticed the Riders gathering around them. He didn't care that they were watching.
He cared about the hole in this kid's chest.
He snapped his fingers at Éothain.
"Bag. White cross. NOW."
The Rohirrim warrior hesitated.
Blake's patience was gone.
"MOVE!"
Éothain scrambled, yanking the bag from the saddle and shoving it into Blake's waiting hands.
Blake tore it open, digging fast—chest seal, chest seal, where the hell—
There.
He ripped the plastic open with his teeth, yanked the adhesive backing free.
Blood was welling too fast. He needed to stem it.
He grabbed a gauze pad, pressing it firmly against the wound—blood seeped through almost instantly.
Shit. Too much blood.
"Éothain, I need cloth—clean cloth, now!"
Éothain fumbled with his cloak before ripping a strip free and shoving it toward him.
Blake folded it, pressed it into the wound, holding firm.
The boy wheezed weakly beneath him, eyes fluttering.
"Stay with me," Blake muttered. "You die on me, I'll be real fucking pissed."
Freya's eyes flickered at the strange oath, but she said nothing.
The blood was slowing. Not stopping, but slowing.
Good enough.
Time for the seal.
Blake pulled the makeshift gauze away, keeping one hand pressed over the wound.
He slapped the chest seal down, pressing it hard, making sure the adhesive stuck.
The kid gasped sharply—then choked.
His chest shuddered violently.
Blake's gut went cold. Not enough. He wasn't getting air.
He needed to vent the pressure.
Blake's hand flew to his belt. He pulled his knife, flipping it in his fingers—not the blade. The handle.
He pressed it against the chest seal and pushed—just a little.
A hiss of air escaped.
The boy exhaled raggedly. His chest… rose.
Blake froze. Waited.
Another breath.
A little easier.
Blake slumped back on his heels, exhaling sharply.
Still alive.
Still breathing.
The tension in his own chest finally eased.
But he wasn't done.
The kid was still ice-cold, pale as death. If Blake didn't get fluids in him, he wasn't making it home.
Blake dug back into his bag, pulling out an IV kit.
He yanked the boy's arm free of his tunic sleeve, searching for a vein. His hands were steady, despite the pain lancing up his ribs.
"Éothain, hold his arm still."
The warrior obeyed instantly. No hesitation this time.
Blake found the vein—too small, too deep.
Dammit.
He adjusted, tried again.
The needle slipped in cleanly.
Blake taped it down, connected the line, and held the IV bag above his head to keep the flow moving.
"Don't let this drop," he muttered, and before he even looked, Freya took it from his hands.
Blake leaned back, finally letting his muscles go slack.
It was done.
The kid was going to live.
Blake let out a slow breath, his body protesting every inch of movement.
He felt Freya's eyes on him.
He looked up.
The entire group was watching him.
The Riders of Rohan—warriors who had spent their lives surrounded by death—
Had just watched him pull a man back from the brink.
Freya's gaze was unreadable.
She finally spoke.
"You are… unlike any healer I have known."
Blake huffed a tired laugh.
"I get that a lot."
And then, because his body had finally had enough, he let himself fall back into the dirt.
Blake lay bonelessly on the ground, exhaustion creeping over him like a slow, relentless tide. His body had not been ready for this—not the fight, not the sprint to save a life—but he stayed awake, listening to Garwin's breath.
The IV bag was still held aloft by one of the Riders, its clear liquid dripping life back into the kid's veins.
Freya had gone to interrogate the orc.
Fram remained.
The old healer sat nearby, his presence silent but steady.
After a long moment, he spoke. "What is his name?"
"Garwin," Fram said simply, his weathered hand resting lightly on the young Rider's shoulder.
Blake turned his head slightly, taking in the boy properly for the first time.
Golden shoulder-length hair, now matted with sweat and dirt. A strong complexion—or it should have been. He was pale now, the kind of pallor that came with blood loss and shock. He looked fragile.
Too fragile for a battlefield.
Fram exhaled. "Will he live?"
Blake's gaze lingered on Garwin's face.
How many times had he seen that same expression?
That same slack, unconscious look. That same quiet stillness. That same thin line between life and death.
Blake had knelt over hundreds like him.
Some had lived.
Most hadn't.
He swallowed. "If infection doesn't set in."
Fram's brow furrowed, but he said nothing.
Blake pressed on, voice low, matter-of-fact.
"We'll have to keep fresh bandages on the wound. The lung was punctured. In my world, that would need immediate surgery. Here?" He exhaled sharply. "He'll have to heal on his own. Slowly. Day by day."
A pause.
"All I did was give him a chance."
His eyes drifted back to Garwin.
So young.
Too young.
Blake's stomach twisted.
He had seen that face before.
On men and boys alike, scattered across battlefields. Lying in the dirt. In the dust. In the blood.
A field hospital in the desert, boots crunching over gravel. The stink of antiseptic and sweat and fear. Hands pressing down on a wound, blood pooling through his fingers. A kid gasping under him, trying to breathe past a ruined lung.
Garwin's face blurred with all the others.
Blake blinked hard.
He was so damn tired.
But he stayed awake.
Because Garwin was still breathing.
And until the kid was out of the woods, Blake wasn't going anywhere.
The Rohirrim moved from the battlefield, putting as much distance as they could between themselves and the rotting corpses of the orc-band.
Freya chafed at the delay, but she knew the truth—they couldn't move a man this badly wounded. Not without killing him.
So they made camp.
She had wanted to drag answers from the last surviving orc, but the creature had given them little before she put it out of its misery.
The orcs were moving across the Westfold, heading toward the River Isen.
How had they avoided the patrols so far? The thought disturbed her.
Blake had paid it no mind.
He didn't know this world. Didn't know these creatures. He had a thousand questions, but he kept them to himself, sitting near his gear, back propped against his pack.
He looked like hell.
Pale, but manageable. The pain pills dulled the worst of it, though they wouldn't last forever.
Garwin still lay unconscious beside him.
The IV bag was empty, but it had done its job. His bandages had been changed, his chest had been checked for new swelling or distress.
And most importantly—
He breathed.
Shallow, but steady.
Blake's mind was already turning ahead, seeing the next issue before it became one.
They couldn't put Garwin on horseback.
When Freya finally returned, he wasted no time in telling her.
"He can't ride. His wounds aren't like mine. He's not out of the woods yet, and he won't be for a good long while. If you put him on a horse, it could kill him."
Freya exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down her face. She looked as frustrated as she was exhausted.
But she wasn't heartless. She wasn't cruel.
She cared for her men.
"This patrol has been gone far too long as it is." She sat down beside him with a huff, considering. Thinking.
A moment later, she made her decision.
"I'll split the patrol."
Blake nodded. Smart.
"There's a village closer to Edoras. I'll send the men ahead to bring back a wagon and send word to the city."
She met his gaze, her voice firm. "I will not risk him."
Blake exhaled.
That was the right call.
In his world, Garwin would already be in a Black Hawk, loaded onto a medevac chopper.
But this wasn't his world.
There were no medevacs.
No trauma hospitals.
Only time and hope.
Fram sat near them, silent for a long moment.
Then, at last, he spoke.
"What was that liquid you gave him?"
Blake glanced up, raising a brow.
Fram's gaze was steady, unreadable. "You were trying to save him, so I did not question you at the time… but now, I must ask. What was it?"
The question had weight.
Blake exhaled slowly.
Here it was—the first real moment of scrutiny.
The Rohirrim had seen what he could do, but they didn't understand it.
Now, they wanted answers.
Blake rolled his shoulders, wincing at the sharp pull in his ribs.
Then, calmly, he told them.
Blake sighed, rolling his shoulders slowly, testing how much his ribs would let him move.
Fram was still watching him, waiting for an answer.
What was that liquid?
It was a simple question. With a complicated answer.
Blake exhaled. "It's called IV fluid."
The word meant nothing to them. He could tell from the way Fram's brow furrowed, the way Éothain—who had been listening nearby—glanced between them warily.
So Blake adjusted. Kept it simple.
"When a man loses too much blood, his body shuts down. The heart beats faster, trying to push what little blood is left to his organs. But it's not enough. The body needs liquid to keep moving, to keep pressure in the veins. Otherwise, the organs fail. The brain shuts down. And then he dies."
Fram's expression shifted slightly. He was a healer. He understood that much.
Blake gestured to Garwin. "He lost a lot of blood. Too much. His body was shutting down."
Freya, who had rejoined them quietly, crossed her arms. "Then why not give him water? That is what we do when a man is weak."
Blake shook his head. "He couldn't drink. He was unconscious. He would have choked."
Her frown deepened. "Then how—"
"Through the vein."
Silence.
Éothain shifted uncomfortably, like the very idea of it unsettled him.
Blake lifted the empty IV bag, letting them see the clear tubing and the thin metal needle at the end. The vein catheter, still stained faintly with Garwin's blood.
"I put this into his vein and let the liquid flow straight into his body. That's what saved him."
Fram leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing at the IV. Curious now.
"And what is this liquid made of?"
Blake hesitated. He had to word this carefully.
"It's mostly water. But with salt—just enough to match what's in our bodies."
Fram's brow furrowed. "Salt? In the blood?"
Blake nodded. "Your blood isn't just water. It's full of minerals—salt, mostly. That's why, if you drink too much water but don't eat, you still die. You wash the salt out of your blood, and your body can't work."
Fram looked down at Garwin, processing this. It made sense, but it was foreign to him.
Blake pressed on.
"When a man bleeds, he loses those minerals. His body dries out inside. This fluid replaces some of it. It keeps him stable until his body makes more blood."
Freya's gaze flickered to the IV again, eyes narrowing. "But how does it go in? How does it not kill him?"
Blake pulled the empty catheter from Garwin's arm, holding it up for them to see.
"The veins in your body carry blood. They're like rivers, moving fast. If I put a small cut on your skin, blood comes out, yes?"
Freya nodded. "Of course."
"Then what happens if I put liquid into that same cut?"
Fram's expression darkened slightly. "It would mix with the blood."
Blake nodded. "Exactly." He held up the catheter. "This is just a thin needle. It goes into the vein, and because blood is always moving, it pulls the liquid along with it."
Éothain looked faintly disturbed. "You… poured liquid into his blood?"
"Yes."
A long silence.
Blake could see the discomfort on their faces.
It didn't make sense to them.
To Middle-earth medicine, wounds were to be closed, not opened. To them, this was unnatural.
Maybe even dangerous.
Fram's Skepticism
Fram's expression was unreadable.
At last, he said carefully, "And you have done this before?"
Blake met his gaze without hesitation. "Hundreds of times."
That was the truth.
Fram exhaled through his nose, clearly wrestling with what he had just heard.
Freya finally broke the silence.
"And without this… Garwin would be dead?"
Blake looked down at the kid, still breathing—pale, weak, but alive.
"Yes."
Something changed then.
Blake could feel it.
The Rohirrim weren't entirely comfortable with what they had seen… but they couldn't deny the truth.
Garwin was alive.
And he shouldn't be.
Blake wasn't a sorcerer. He wasn't a healer in their eyes.
But he was something else.
Something they didn't have words for yet.
Freya studied him for a long moment.
Then she nodded once, final.
"Then I am glad you are with us, Blake Takahashi."
Blake blinked at that.
Before he could answer, she rose to her feet and left.
The conversation was over.
But the weight of it remained.
By dawn, half their number had ridden out toward Edoras. Éothain led them, carrying word of what had transpired.
Freya remained behind.
Blake had stayed awake most of the night, his body running on sheer willpower, keeping vigil over Garwin as the wounded Rider fought to stay in the world of the living.
It wasn't until Fram took him firmly to task that he finally allowed himself to sleep.
Even then, he slept lightly, one hand resting on Garwin's arm, fingers always touching the pulse at his wrist.
Fram had shaken his head at the sight.
Now, as the morning fire crackled, Freya stoked the embers with the tip of her boot, glancing toward the two men.
"He is dedicated," she murmured. "More so than any healer I have known."
Fram exhaled slowly. "Aye. And if he's not careful, he'll be lying beside young Garwin before long."
He cast a glance toward Blake, who still lay beside the wounded Rider, one hand limp over Garwin's arm even in sleep.
"But seeing what he did yesterday?" Fram continued, his voice quieter now. "A gift of the Valar, I would have sworn. Not even our finest healers could have brought the lad back from the brink. That was a death sentence."
But Garwin had lived.
A small shift, a quiet groan—
And Blake was immediately awake.
He sat up too quickly, his ribs howling in protest, but he ignored it, already leaning over Garwin.
"Hey, hey, hey—easy, man. Very easy."
Garwin's blue eyes snapped open, wild and unfocused, his breath coming too fast, his body tensing—
Blake's hand came down, firm but steady, holding him in place.
"No—don't move. Don't speak." Blake's voice was low, soothing, but left no room for argument.
Garwin tried anyway, his lips parting—
"No," Blake cut him off. "You're hurt. Badly. Don't waste your strength. Just listen to me, alright?"
The young Rider stilled, his chest rising and falling shallowly.
Blake nodded. "That's it. Just breathe. Slow it down. Like this." He took a long, slow breath, demonstrating, then exhaled smoothly.
"Follow me. In… easy. Out… slow."
Garwin obeyed, his breath hitching at first, then falling into rhythm with Blake's.
Freya and Fram watched in quiet awe.
For a warrior to show such care and skill in healing—to command life and death in equal measure—it was something rare.
Freya still wanted to ask about his strange, deadly weapons, but the time for that conversation had not yet come.
Blake gave Garwin a once-over, eyes sharp and assessing. The kid was still weak as hell, still pale as a ghost. But he was alive.
"I won't lie to you," Blake said finally. "You're hurt bad. But I've got you patched up. You're going to be alright— if you listen to me."
Garwin blinked sluggishly, still too drained to do more than take in the words.
Blake's tone hardened.
"No heroics. No moving on your own. Hell, I don't even want you thinking about walking. If you need help, even relieving yourself, one of us will handle it."
His dark eyes locked onto Garwin's. "Is that understood?"
A long beat.
Then, hoarse but audible—
"Aye… thank you… thank you for my life, my lord."
Blake snorted.
"Ha! Don't make me laugh, kid. I ain't no lord."
Garwin blinked at him, confused. Who saved a man's life and did not take credit for it?
Blake just shook his head. "I'm a grunt, same as you."
He exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. "Now, listen up. You lost a lot of blood, which means we need to get food and water into you. You don't speak—just nod if you understand."
Garwin nodded weakly.
Blake turned toward the nearest Rider—a man named Éodreth, who stood near the cookfire.
"Is there any way we can get our young friend some broth? Something easy to keep down?"
Éodreth nodded immediately. Blake had earned his respect—he had saved one of their own.
"I'll see to it."
As Éodreth moved to prepare the meal, Freya smirked, amusement dancing in her eyes.
"It seems if I am not careful, I may find myself taking orders from you, Blake Takahashi."
Blake leaned back against his pack, letting out a slow, tired exhale.
"No, ma'am." He gave a lopsided grin. "This is your show. I'm just along for the ride."
The food was finally ready.
Eodreth stepped forward, bowl in hand, ready to feed the young Rider.
Blake waved him off.
Without a word, he took the steaming bowl and water skin, shifting carefully to Garwin's side. His ribs protested—but he ignored them.
The kid was his responsibility.
Blake uncorked the water skin, lifting it gently to Garwin's lips.
"Small sips," he murmured. "We do this slow. You're dehydrated, but we don't wanna drown you all at once."
Garwin obeyed, drinking in small, careful pulls before Blake pulled the water away.
Then came the next challenge.
Sitting Garwin up.
Blake wasn't about to let them just haul the kid upright—not when a botched movement could send him into a coughing fit, a fresh wave of pain, or worse.
So he took charge.
And for the first time, the Rohirrim found themselves following the precise, clipped orders of an Air Force medic.
"Easy—don't pull him too fast. I need someone bracing his back."
Freya arched a brow but did as he asked, moving behind Garwin to support him.
"Alright, lift just a little— not too much. Good, hold it. Fram, keep an eye on his breathing."
The old healer huffed but obeyed, pressing two fingers to Garwin's pulse.
Blake watched like a hawk, his sharp eyes tracking every wince, every shift in Garwin's breathing.
It was almost amusing to see Freya taking commands so easily, her usual authority momentarily overridden by the medic's sheer force of will.
She caught Fram's eye—and for a brief moment, both of them shared a knowing smirk.
Blake was damn near a mother hen.
Satisfied with Garwin's position, Blake finally took the bowl of steaming broth.
He fed him himself.
Spoonful by careful spoonful, making sure he swallowed fully before offering another.
It was deliberate, controlled— as though Blake had done this a hundred times before.
And the truth was… he had.
By the time Blake was satisfied with how much Garwin had eaten, the boy was already sagging with exhaustion.
Blake eased him back down, adjusting the cloak beneath his head.
"Alright, that's enough. You need to rest now."
He pulled a small bottle from his vest—pain pills, rationed carefully from his own supply. He popped one into Garwin's palm, then lifted the water skin again.
"Take this. It'll help."
Garwin did as he was told, swallowing the pill before his head sank back against the makeshift bedding.
Within minutes, he was out like a light.
Blake watched him a moment longer, noting the faintest hint of color returning to his face.
A good sign.
"You are full of surprises, Blake Takahashi."
Blake let out a slow breath, finally turning to Freya.
She stood at the edge of the firelight, arms crossed over her chest, her expression somewhere between curiosity and quiet admiration.
Blake huffed a tired laugh.
"I aim to please, ma'am."
His voice was worn, dry—but light.
Then his gaze drifted back to Garwin.
"Back home, he'd already be in a hospital."* His tone was softer now.* "He would've been in surgery hours ago. But here?"
He sighed, shaking his head. "Here, he has to do it the hard way. I'll have to monitor him for a long time. It could take weeks before he's back on his feet."
Freya said nothing, only studying him.
Blake felt his body finally giving out.
Exhaustion dragged at his limbs, his ribs throbbing in protest.
So, with nothing left to do, he laid back on the earth…
…And was asleep within seconds.
The days blurred together. Each one felt the same, stretching endlessly, marked only by the slow work of healing.
Freya had sent scouts searching for the orcs, but their trails led only to abandoned camps and empty plains. Whatever enemy had been moving through this land was either gone or waiting where no eyes could find them. Other than the wild game and the roaming herds of horses, the land felt eerily empty.
Blake remained at Garwin's side, watching over him like a hawk. He fed him, changed his bandages, checked his breathing, and monitored every sign of recovery or decline. When Garwin was finally strong enough to lift the spoon himself, Blake allowed it—reluctantly. But he still hovered, still kept a careful eye on him, still refused to let the young Rider overexert himself.
His own wounds had not healed nearly as well. He could walk more now, though the fractured leg still throbbed under its splint. His ribs were no better; every breath pulled at them like knives beneath his skin. His back remained a mess, the bruises deep and ugly, the muscles still stiff from the impact of his fall. There was nothing to be done but endure. Fram did what he could, tending to Blake even as Blake tended to Garwin, but the truth remained: time was the only real medicine either of them had.
And so the days dragged on.
Until, at last, a wagon appeared on the horizon.
A line of riders flanked it, their banners snapping in the wind, a white horse on green fields.
A cheer rose from the camp as the column approached.
Freya moved to the front, her expression unreadable. The lead rider stood taller than the rest, a white horsehair crest flowing from his helm. The moment her eyes met his, she bowed deeply. The others followed, dropping to one knee, their reverence instant and unquestioning.
"Prince Théodred… I was unaware you would be joining us."
The man dismounted in a smooth motion, removing his helm. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his features strong, his presence commanding. Even among his warriors, he carried an air of quiet authority.
"Yes, my lady Freya. I heard of your troubles and came with some of my own household." His gaze moved over the camp, assessing, sharp and practiced. "I was told there were wounded… and that you found an interesting guest."
Blake had already pushed himself to his feet, though every movement was agony. He stood near Garwin, unwilling to let the younger Rider rise under any circumstance. He barely suppressed the groan that threatened to escape as his ribs protested, but he managed to remain upright. It was instinct, drilled into him, that told him to acknowledge a commanding presence. His first attempt at a bow was a mistake—his body was not made for such motions, and the result was more of a stiff, pained lurch than anything else.
The prince regarded him with open curiosity.
"So, you are the stranger who barks fire and brings the dead back to life," he said, an amused smile touching his lips. "I have heard much about you from Éothain."
Blake clenched his jaw, knowing damn well the bow had been a failure, and finally said to hell with it. Straightening as best he could, he snapped his feet together and delivered a perfect, crisp salute.
"Technical Sergeant Blake Takahashi, United States Air Force, sire."
Théodred's brows lifted slightly at the sharp precision of the motion. For a long moment, he studied Blake, and there was no mistaking the intrigue in his expression.
This meeting had just become something far more than a simple introduction.
Prince Théodred watched Blake carefully before his gaze shifted downward, settling on the wounded Rider. He knelt beside Garwin, resting a firm but gentle hand on his chest. The young man stirred, his bleary eyes fluttering open.
"Garwin… I am glad to see that you are still among the living."
Garwin startled slightly, instinct urging him to rise, but Blake's sharp look kept him from even trying.
"Yes, my prince," he said, his voice still weak. "I would stand, but… my healer has forbidden it."
Théodred caught the brief glance Garwin cast toward Blake and followed his gaze, eyes narrowing slightly in thought.
"So your healer is skilled, then?"
"Aye, my lord," Garwin said without hesitation. "Without him… I would now dine in the halls of my fathers' fathers. He saved me. Tended me. Fed me. Without him, I would not be here to speak with you now."
His tone carried something close to reverence.
Blake swallowed, shifting where he stood. He had saved countless lives before, but he had never quite had it described that way. He had seen gratitude—had felt it in desperate embraces and tearful thanks—but this was something else.
For the first time in a long time, he found himself at a loss for words.
Théodred nodded and gave Garwin's shoulder a firm squeeze.
"Then we must listen to our healer's orders, must we not?"
Garwin nodded faintly, eyes already slipping closed again, exhausted but alive.
With that, the prince rose once more and turned fully to Blake.
His gaze traveled over him, studying him closely. Not with suspicion, but with a deep, innate curiosity. The strange garb, the unfamiliar gear, the way he carried himself—everything about him spoke of a man forged outside the world Théodred knew.
Freya stepped forward then, standing beside him as she spoke.
"Garwin speaks the truth. We found Blake Takahashi wounded on the plains—gravely so. By all rights, he should not even be standing, but he is stubborn as a green foal." She shot him a pointed look, though there was something amused behind it.
Then her tone grew more serious.
"But when we came upon the orc-band, one of them pulled Garwin from the saddle. And before any of us could act, Blake—despite his wounds—brought it down with his strange weapon. Then he slew nine others before dropping the last one, the one I later questioned. He did not hesitate. And the moment the battle was done, he moved to Garwin's side… and worked with the hands of a healer in ways I have never seen."
She turned slightly, motioning to Fram.
"Neither of us have ever seen it."
Fram nodded solemnly. "Aye, my lord. She speaks the truth of it. Young Garwin was beyond my skill. In fact, I wager he was beyond the skill of any of our healers. When your chest is so wounded that you begin sucking in air, it is usually a death sentence. But Blake here… he brought him back. And he did so while still wounded himself."
The old healer glanced toward Blake, shaking his head almost in wonder.
"His own ribs are cracked, his leg splinted, his back still battered… and yet, here he stands before you, having pulled one of your own back from the brink."
A murmur of agreement passed through the gathered men. Those who had fought beside Blake, who had seen him in action, nodded their heads to the tale. They had watched him spill blood and save it. They had seen his pain and his resolve.
He was no Rohirrim.
But he had earned their respect.
Prince Théodred listened, his sharp eyes moving between them all before landing once more on Blake. There was no mistaking the shift in his expression. It was one thing to hear of an outsider… it was another thing to stand before him and witness what he had done.
"You are a stranger to this land," Théodred said at last. "But you have done us a great service. It is not in my power to grant you leave in Rohan—that authority rests with my father. But hearing this tale, and seeing what you have done here today… you will have it without question. Of that, I can assure you."
He paused.
"You have earned a boon. Name it, stranger."
Blake hesitated.
A boon?
Hell, he wasn't even sure where the hell he was. He had saved Garwin because it was his job. Because that was what a PJ did. He had never once expected a reward for it.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but steady.
"Sir, I… I don't require anything. I just live up to my job." His gaze drifted toward Freya briefly before returning to Théodred. "I don't know where here is, not really. Freya has told me a bit, but I think this place and my place are so far apart that I don't know if I'll ever understand it. I don't need coin, or titles, or gifts. I just need a place to recover. That would be the only thing I ask."
Théodred regarded him for a long moment.
Then a smile ghosted over his lips.
"Then by the Valar," he said, voice firm and sure, "you will have it."
They were loaded into the wagon, both Blake and Garwin, the latter still deep in medicated sleep. Blake, for all his injuries, had taken up the role of nursemaid and field commander in equal measure.
He barked orders at the Riders like he had been born for it, his voice sharp with authority, guiding them with the kind of efficiency that left little room for argument.
Freya and Fram found it endlessly amusing.
Théodred, riding beside the wagon, seemed equally entertained.
Even Éothain, once cold and wary, now nodded respectfully whenever their eyes met. The suspicion had faded. Blake had kept a brother in arms alive. That was all that mattered.
The wagon's journey was slow, its wheels groaning over the uneven terrain. Every jolt sent a fresh wave of pain through Blake's battered ribs and leg, but he gritted his teeth and endured it.
Garwin, at least, was spared the worst of it. Blake had kept him dosed just enough to ensure he remained unconscious, limbs immobilized as best as possible.
To his surprise, Théodred rode alongside the wagon, Freya keeping pace beside him. The prince's sharp gaze flicked to Blake, filled with curiosity.
"So, Blake Takahashi," Théodred mused. "You are a healer and a warrior. Tell me—does your land always breed such contradictions?"
Blake exhaled, shifting slightly where he sat. "Not really. Most of our men are cross-trained to render aid on the battlefield. But I guess you could say… I'm a specialist."
Freya glanced at him. "Didn't you call it special forces or something along those lines?"
From the driver's seat, Fram spoke up, grinning to himself.
"And don't you have a motto?" he added. "So Others May Live?"
Blake rolled his eyes, half amused, half exasperated.
"Yes," he muttered.
He leaned back against the wagon's side, exhaling slowly. "I already explained to Freya and Fram how large my homeland is. Our military is divided into multiple branches, each with its own purpose. We have… what you'd call advanced technology, I suppose. But my unit?" He let out a breath. "We specialize in going where others can't. When our brothers in arms are beyond saving, when they're deep in enemy territory with no way out, we go to them. We pull them back. Or we die trying."
A brief silence followed.
Théodred's gaze remained steady, his respect clear.
"That is incredibly brave," he said at last. "I imagine men such as yourself earn great renown among your people."
Blake shook his head slightly.
"We don't do it for fame," he said simply. "Back home, most people treat us with respect. They'll thank us for our service. But the truth is…" He hesitated for a moment, then exhaled. "Most don't really understand. They see the uniform, the medals, the stories. But they don't see the brotherhood behind it all. They don't feel the weight of it."
His fingers absently traced the edge of his tac vest, worn and bloodstained, but still a part of him.
"It's not just a job," he finished, voice quiet but firm. "It's a calling."
The journey continued for three more days, the wagon setting the pace. The land rolled on, vast and unbroken, stretching beneath an endless sky. Each dawn painted the horizon in fire and gold, each dusk faded into the cool hush of silvered plains.
Blake spent most of his time tending to Garwin, checking his breathing, changing his dressings, watching for signs of infection. The young Rider's recovery was steady. He was growing stronger—a good sign. Blake saw it in the way his skin no longer looked pale and clammy, in the steadiness of his pulse beneath calloused fingers.
When he wasn't playing nursemaid, commander, or both, Blake simply watched the land unfold before him. Even now, after days in the saddle, it still held an untamed beauty that caught him off guard. It felt empty yet alive, like a thing that had existed before men ever set foot on it, and would exist long after they were gone.
At last, on the morning of the fourth day, they crested a final ridge.
Blake felt the air shift—cooler, crisper, carrying the scent of earth and horses and woodsmoke. The wind, ever restless on these plains, whispered through the grass, and then—
They saw it.
Edoras.
A great rolling plain stretched in all directions, wide as the sky itself, and in its center rose a solitary hill, steep and proud, like a silent sentinel keeping watch over the Mark.
And atop it, a city of wood and gold stood against the wind.
A tall palisade of sharpened stakes encircled its base, a wall of spears standing weathered and defiant against time. A winding road, well-worn by hoof and foot, climbed the green slopes, etched deep into the earth by the passage of kings and herdsmen alike.
Banners streamed from the heights, green and white, bearing the white horse of Eorl. They snapped and danced in the wind, their presence unmistakable, unyielding.
Blake took it in with a quiet exhale.
This was no simple fortress.
It was not the steel and stone of his own world. It was older, wilder—built by men who belonged to the land as much as the land belonged to them. The houses, their roofs golden with sun-dried thatch, clung to the slope like stones set carefully into the hill. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the scent of oakwood fires, damp leather, and horse tack.
But it was the Golden Hall that commanded the eye.
Perched at the summit, Meduseld stood like the crown of the Riddermark itself. Its massive wooden pillars, carved with the stories of kings and riders, held aloft a great golden roof, gleaming in the light like the mane of a galloping horse. The hall's wide doors, adorned with intricate knotwork, stood closed but watchful, as though they gazed out over the plains with the wisdom of centuries.
For all its beauty, Edoras was no idle jewel.
It was a city of horse-lords, of warriors and shepherds, of battle and song, of mead-halls and hard-won laughter. It stood unyielding and proud, its people woven into the rhythm of the land itself.
Blake let out a breath, shifting in the wagon, his ribs aching as he adjusted.
"Home," Théodred murmured beside him.
Blake glanced at the prince, saw the pride in his face, the weariness in his posture.
A city. A fortress. A kingdom on the edge of war.
They had arrived.
Blake watched in awe.
He had seen distant lands in his time—had traveled farther than most men ever would. From the wild and unforgiving peaks of the Hindu Kush to the blistering deserts of Iraq, from the vast savannas of Africa to the dense, untamed jungles of South America. He had stood on foreign soil beneath skies that seemed to stretch into eternity.
He had seen the Rocky Mountains, their jagged peaks crowned in glacial white, glistening like shattered glass in the morning sun.
But he had never seen this.
Edoras, bathed in the golden light of morning, stood proud upon its lonely hill, the mountains rising behind it like ancient sentinels. The banners of Rohan rippled in the wind, green and white against the pale blue sky, the white horse of Eorl galloping forever in the breeze.
It was a sight he knew, in his soul, he would never forget.
For the first time in a long time, he was speechless.
Beside him, Freya smiled.
She had been watching him, quietly, studying his reaction. There was something about the way he stared at her home, eyes wide with wonder, drinking it in like a man starving for beauty. It pleased her, in some odd way, to see that even this hardened warrior from a strange land could be so deeply moved by Rohan.
"Does our home please you, Blake Takahashi?" Her voice carried that familiar teasing lilt, but beneath it lay genuine curiosity.
Blake barely heard her. His voice was quiet, almost reverent.
"It's… like something out of songs and legends." His fingers tightened slightly on the wooden edge of the wagon. "My people don't have places like this anymore."
Absently, he stood up, still staring, caught in the sheer majesty of it all.
"My world has changed so much…" He exhaled, as if the thought weighed heavy on his chest. "We've forgotten so much of who we really were. But this… I swear I will never forget this moment for as long as I live."
Théodred laughed, nudging his horse forward.
"Spoken like a true warrior!"
The wagon lurched beneath him, and Blake—too lost in his own thoughts—nearly lost his footing.
He dropped to his knees, but his eyes never left Edoras. He drank it in like a man who had found water in the heart of a desert.
Something in him shifted.
Something deep, something quiet, something he hadn't known was missing until now.
For the first time in a long time, he felt it—
A yearning.
To belong.
Somewhere.
For once in his life.
The gates of Edoras were thrown open, and the column of Riders rode in without pause. The city had come alive with their arrival—merchants and craftsmen lifted their heads from their work, stable hands hurried to meet the returning horses, and children stopped mid-play to watch the riders pass.
Blake sat stiffly in the wagon, head on a swivel—not for threats, but to drink in the sights around him.
It was a simple life here.
There were no steel towers, no blaring horns of traffic, no constant hum of electricity. Just the creak of cartwheels on dirt roads, the distant neighing of horses, and the soft murmur of daily life carrying on as it had for generations.
He saw children running barefoot, their laughter bright and unburdened, weaving between carts and barrels as they played their games. They had no idea of the wars being fought in his world. No fear of drones overhead or bombs shaking the earth.
It felt... untouched.
Beside him, Freya studied his face.
"Do you not have children of your own?" she asked, watching how his eyes lingered on the playing children.
Blake shook his head. "No," he said simply. "Being a PJ never allowed me the luxury. It's not a life you ask of a family. Any mission could be your last, and I didn't want to burden a wife and kids with that. So I never tried to settle down."
A short, mirthless chuckle.
"My parents hated it."
Freya nodded, but she said nothing, her gaze drifting back to the children as they disappeared into the streets.
The wagon came to a halt at the base of Meduseld's great wooden steps. The air smelled of oak, damp leather, and the lingering scent of a distant forge-fire.
Men moved forward to take Garwin, but they were not Freya's Riders. They reached for him with rough, hurried hands, and Blake snapped before he could stop himself.
"Easy! Easy! He's still wounded! If you undo my work, I will knock the shit out of you!"
The men froze, glaring at him as if debating whether to take offense.
Before the tension could settle, Freya's men stepped in sharply, cutting them off.
"Get him to a bed and a healer," Blake ordered, his voice flat and final. "And if they undo all my hard work, there will be hell to pay."
This time, there was no argument.
Theodred laughed, turning to the men Blake had just scolded.
"You had best listen to the man. Wounded or not, he still felled numerous orcs. I would not trifle with this warrior."
The men grumbled but went about their work, muttering under their breath.
Theodred grinned. "I have a feeling you will liven things up here, my dear soldier. I look forward to seeing what you bring." He clapped a hand on Blake's shoulder. "Now, come. My father awaits us."
And with that, they climbed the great steps of Meduseld.
The great wooden doors of Meduseld loomed ahead, tall and carved with winding horses and battle scenes of kings long past. The wind whispered through the open terraces, carrying the distant call of the plains beyond.
At the threshold, they were stopped.
Hama, the Doorward, stepped forward, spear in hand.
"You may go forward, Prince Théodred," he said respectfully. "But do you speak for this stranger you bring before your father?"
Théodred didn't hesitate. "Yes, my dear Hama. I will vouch for him before my father's throne."
Hama studied Blake for a long moment before nodding.
"Very well, my lord," he relented, stepping aside.
Blake shifted uncomfortably as he walked past the man, offering him a slight nod. Hama was just doing his job. Blake could respect that.
But as they stepped inside, a thought struck him like a hammer to the skull.
He leaned slightly toward Freya, lowering his voice.
"Wait… I'm really meeting a king?" His voice had a slight edge of panic to it.
Freya barely contained a smirk. "Aye," she said, far too amused.
Blake's expression darkened with realization. "I thought 'prince' was, like… a military rank or something." His voice dropped even lower. "You're telling me Théodred is actually royalty?"
She grinned, enjoying this far too much. "Aye."
He looked pale.
"Shit."
Freya chuckled as they strode forward.
"Do you not have kings in your world?"
"We do," Blake muttered, running a hand through his hair. "But they're mostly ceremonial at this point. I've never had to actually meet one."
He took a deep breath, but it didn't help much.
A real king.
Not a general, not a commander—an actual king.
Shit.
"Just be respectful, Blake Takahashi," Freya murmured, still smirking. "You have already done us a great service."
Her voice grew quieter, more cautious.
"But I will warn you—be wary of his advisor."
Blake frowned. "His advisor?"
She hesitated, looking for the right words.
"Gríma," she said at last. "Many call him Wormtongue. He is…" She searched for the right word.
Blake's brow furrowed. "Shady?"
She considered the word, then nodded.
"Aye. Perhaps that is an apt description."
Blake exhaled, straightened his back despite his ribs screaming in protest, and clenched his fists.
Alright. Meeting a king. Watching out for some shady advisor.
No big deal.
Right?
King Théoden sat stooped upon his throne, his once-strong frame bowed beneath the weight of years and unseen burdens. His hair, once golden as the fields of Rohan, had thinned and faded, and his eyes, clouded and weary, carried the distant haze of one long lost in thought.
Yet as Théodred stepped forward, his father's gaze lifted, sharpening as he regarded his son.
"Father, I greet you." Théodred's voice was steady, strong. "I return with Lady Freya and her company. Their patrol was delayed, and we rode to join them on their journey. They had wounded."
Théoden's expression did not change, but his eyes flickered toward Freya.
"Surely the wounded would not delay so fierce a lady as Freya… There is more to this than simple injury."
His voice was rough with disuse, yet laced with quiet authority. His gaze settled upon Freya, who immediately dropped to one knee, bowing low.
"Yes, my king," she said, her voice unwavering. "Upon our patrol, we came across a wounded stranger. He was… unlike any we have seen before. His garb was strange, his wounds grievous. We tended him, and he now stands among us."
A sharp scoff echoed through the hall.
"You delayed your patrol for a wounded stranger?"
The voice was silken, yet cold, dripping with disdain.
Gríma Wormtongue.
He stood at the foot of the dais, his pale face twisted into a smirk. His dark robes clung to his thin frame, making him seem almost like a shadow given form.
"Have you grown soft, dear Freya?" he sneered. "Patrols are vital. We do not have the resources to spare for bleeding hearts."
Freya's head lifted sharply, her eyes blazing.
"I did not know that the men and women of Rohan had grown so cold-hearted that we would turn away a stranger in need, Councillor Gríma."
A murmur rippled through the hall. Some nodded in quiet agreement; others merely watched, unreadable.
Gríma's smirk curled deeper, his tone turning mocking. "Compassion is a fine thing, my lady… until it puts our people at risk. Tell me, what if this stranger is an agent of the enemy? Look at him." He gestured lazily toward Blake. "Strange garb, strange weapons. A vagabond, no doubt. What makes him so special?"
Blake remained still as a statue, his face unreadable. He had learned long ago that letting the enemy talk too much gave away more than they realized.
Freya's voice was sharp as a blade.
"If you would but open your half-closed eyes, councillor, you would see that he is special."
She turned to Théoden, her tone steady but passionate.
"Any man with sense can see that he is no servant of the Eye. What enemy would break himself just to fall into our ranks? That is not the way of the foe we fight."
The tension in the hall thickened, and at last, Théoden lifted a hand, his voice calm, yet firm.
"Then tell me, Lady Freya. What of his actions?"
Freya inclined her head before turning to Blake.
"We cared for him for many days. His wounds were deep—his leg fractured, his ribs broken. Yet even now, he stands before you, out of respect for your throne."
At her words, Blake shifted, inhaled slowly, and with a stifled grunt of pain, he carefully lowered himself to one knee.
Theodred clenched his fists. He hated seeing a man forced to kneel in pain—especially one who had risked his life for Rohan. But this was not the moment to act.
Freya continued. "When we met the orc band, we struck. One of them brought down our own—Garwin, son of Feowin. And this stranger, this man you doubt, without thought for his own well-being, felled a number of them to save one of ours."
She stood tall, her voice ringing through the hall. "And when the battle was won, he did not stand in triumph. He knelt in the bloodied grass and fought for Garwin's life. With the skill of a healer, he brought him back from the brink of death. Without him, we would have returned to Edoras with an empty saddle."
Another murmur swept through the gathered men.
Gríma's lip curled. "So he is a sorcerer, then? Bandying with the dead? Using fell powers to play at healing?"
A ripple of unease flickered through some of the household guard.
Blake finally spoke.
His voice was clear, firm, and edged with steel.
"No, sir." He lifted his gaze, meeting Gríma's directly. "In my country, we train our soldiers in battlefield healing. Some more than others. I happen to belong to a group that trains for years in how to heal—not with magic. With skill. With knowledge. With equipment."
A heavy silence followed.
Gríma stalked forward, his dark eyes narrowing. "And what country do you hail from, stranger? How do we know you are not from the East? A spy of the Great Eye?"
For the first time, Théodred moved.
He stepped forward, standing between Blake and his father.
His voice rang clear, cutting through the hall like a blade.
"Father, this man killed for one of ours, then healed for one of ours. Garwin, son of Feowin, one of your own household guards, would now be beyond the sea if not for him."
He turned, leveling his gaze at Gríma.
"This should not be an interrogation." His voice grew stronger, sharper. "This man deserves our thanks. He asked for nothing—no riches, no land. Only for a place to recover. And what would we be if we turned him away, after he saved one of our own?"
His words hung heavy in the air.
Théoden was silent for a long moment, eyes settling once more upon Blake, still kneeling.
Finally, he exhaled.
His voice was quiet, but resolute.
"Sit down, Gríma."
The councillor's mouth opened, but Théoden's voice hardened.
"I said sit."
Gríma sat.
The king's gaze returned to Blake.
"Stranger, stand before me."
Blake inhaled slowly and, with effort, rose to his feet. Freya longed to help him, but she knew he would refuse.
He stood straight, masking his pain, and saluted with crisp precision.
"Technical Sergeant Blake Takahashi, United States Air Force."
For a moment, Théoden said nothing.
Then, with the weight of a king, he spoke.
"Then, Technical Sergeant Blake Takahashi… I thank you for your service to Rohan."
His voice carried through the hall.
"For now, you have leave to come and go within my kingdom. You may stay, and for the aid you have given, you have my thanks."
Blake hesitated, then nodded.
Théodred gave a small, knowing motion of his head, guiding him back. Blake, though exhausted, stepped backward slowly until he stood near Fram.
Only then did he take a breath he did not know he needed.