Eorling Mead Hall

[Folwren]

The stranger had gone! He retreated behind the crumbling wall beyond Thornden’s. But what in middle-earth did that hobbit think he was doing? Falco ran forward to the wall and peered around it and then looked back and was actually beckoning to them to follow him.

“Come!” he called, waving his hand.

“Not on your life!” Thornden replied, standing stock still. “Garmund, get back here,” he ordered as the boy started forward, more sternly than he intended to. “Falco, what are you thinking? I am not going to go hunting that man! Not when I have you and Garmund with me. Garstan expects his son back alive and undamaged, and it’s not safe to go following him. We’ve disturbed him enough. I think we should go.”

[littlemanpoet]

"Aye, you should stay," Falco retorted, "'tis you the man fears. He was almost kindly to the boy and me. Something about you being big I don't doubt. I'll not try to take Garmund from you, but I for one am going to find out what I can."

With that, Falco slipped through the opening in the wall and looked around. The woods were thick and closely hung with vines. A narrow path bent left and followed the wall on the other side of which he had left Thornden and Garmund. Quiet as a hobbit can, Falco crept down the path, keeping his eyes, nose, and ears as alert as he could. He'd marked that the man stank a bit, and sniffed the air for remnants of it: a man who hadn't bathed in maybe years.

The path left he curving wall and went straight toward the mountains. Two great firs stood ahead on each side of the path, which was still closed in by thick brush and overhanging trees. He crept to the edge of the fir trees and peered left, hunched over. More woods. He peered right. And met the knees of the man. He looked up. And fell on his back in wide eyed surprise.

"Who be you?" said the man.

"Aye, who?" said the other man that came out of the same pair of legs. For the man was one up to the hips, and split in two above, four arms and two heads. The burlap bag turned out to be the tunic of the new man. They were twins from head to hip, one man from hip to toe.

"Please don't eat me!" Falco squeaked.

[Celuien]

"Can we go? Please?" Garmund stared in the direction Falco had taken, trying to pierce the dense trees with his gaze. "I don't think the man wants to hurt us."

"No! I will not have you running into trouble. Who knows how dangerous that man might turn out to be?"

Garmund's face set. "If he is dangerous, should we not go to help Falco?"

[Celuien]

"Have you seen Garmund?" Lèoðern asked Garstan.

"Yes, I have. He has gone with Master Boffin and Thornden to see a ruin not far from here."

Lèoðern's face was suddenly crestfallen. "Gone?"

Garstan smiled. "Yes, gone. They are to return before nightfall and share the tales of the day with us over the meal. But, Lèoðern! What means this?"

Tears were trickling down her face, and her lip quivered. "Garmund left, and just when we were going to say we were sorry. He left us! And I'm sure he's not sorry at all."

Garstan shot a puzzled look at Modtryth and Cnebba before repeating his question.

"What means this?"

[Folwren]

Thornden frowned and his jaw clenched. Yes, if the man was dangerous, then it would be up to him to go save Falco. But if he was only dangerous when Thornden was around, then it would do absolutely no good to go after him now. He felt half inclined to tell Garmund that they’d let Falco get himself out of the mess he’d gotten himself into, but he knew that he couldn’t do that.

The seconds dragged on into a minute, and then two. Garmund waited, a painfully rebuking look in his young face. Thornden finally made up his mind.

“I’ll go, Garmund, but you need to stay here. Whatever happens, I don’t want you getting hurt.”

[Celuien]

Another long pause followed Thornden's order to remain behind. Garmund was disappointed. He had gone on the trip to the ruins because he was left out at the Hall, and now he was being left out again just as an adventure seemed to be at its beginnings. An adventure like the ones in Cnebba's tales. Garmund wanted to be go back to the Hall and tell Cnebba and his sister that instead of hearing tales today, he had been in the middle of one. And too, if help were needed, three were better than two, even if one of the number was a boy. He could still fight. But Thornden had given his answer, and Garmund would not disobey.

"I will stay," he mumbled.

[littlemanpoet]

The two heads looked at each other and they began to chuckle.

"Small you be, but not small as that." The men sat down on an old stump and watched him, toothless grins on their faces. The man to Falco's right, the original speaker, said, "What be you called?"

Now he was on familiar territory. He hopped to his feet and bowed, saying, "Master Falco Boffin at your service; er, services, sirs. And how may I call you?"

"I'm Lefun," said the original speaker.

"I'm Ritun," said the other.

Left and right. Could it be believed? "Those are your names?"

"None other," they said in unison.

"How - how - you - " Falco couldn't help himself. "You've only one pair of legs between you! What happened!"

They looked at each other knowingly, then turned to him; Lefun spoke. "Aborne we were so."

Suddenly noise of running could be heard from the path down which Falco had come. Lefun and Ritun stood and scowled, and hid themselves in the thickness of the woods just off the path. Falco saw Thornden coming. Clearly, they were afraid of Thornden, but Falco did not know why. He waited, wondering what he would say, and wondering where Garmund was. What if there were more of these two headed men about? And Garmund left alone?

[Folwren]

“Thank you,” Thornden said when he heard Garmund’s slow, reluctant promise to obey. “Go back through these vines here. I think you’ll be safer if you are more hidden.” He turned once he had spoken and ran to the wall. He paused one moment, glanced back towards Garmund, and then went beyond it.

A faint path could scarecly be seen, leading the way between thick woods and thicker underbrush. Visibility on either side was next to nothing. Thornden pursed his lips. He didn’t think anyone would envy his position just now. “I certainly don’t envy me,” he said with some irony in his voice. All the same, he had to go one.

And he did, at a swift walk. Turning the first bend, he saw Falco up ahead, looking down the path at him. Thornden hurried forward, frowning like a thundercloud. “Are you satisfied, Falco?” he asked as he drew near. “Let’s go back and quit looking before one of us gets hurt! I don't like leaving Garmund alone, either."

[Firefoot]

Léof was tying the horses down in the aisle when Javan trotted into the stable, although Léof noted with approval that he slowed upon entering. Léof wondered what had brought Javan back, whether he had needed something or liked horses or simply assumed that Léof would prove more interesting than whatever it was Saeryn and Medreth would have to talk about. He suspected that while it might be a combination, it would be more the latter than the former two.

Half-waiting for Javan to begin a conversation, he began to unsaddle Medreth’s horse. When he didn’t, Léof offered up a question, “So do you have any other siblings, besides Thornden and Medreth?” He glanced over the horse’s back at Javan as he asked, and realized that he was still just standing there as if he weren’t quite sure of himself. “You can sit down over there if you want,” Léof offered, indicating the ledge where Linduial had sat watching him just a month ago. “Of if you’d rather, you can help by unsaddling your horse.”

[Folwren]

Javan thankfully chose the second option and hurried forward to his horse. His hands flew as they undid the girth and pulled the saddle off. He followed as Lèof led the way to the place where saddles were kept and they put them up. Lèof handed him a cloth and brush from a bag hanging on the wall and they went back out to rub the horses down.

“So. . .” Lèof said once again as they began their work. “Do you have any siblings other than Medreth and Thornden?”

“Oh, yes!” Javan said, looking up briefly. “I have two more sisters and another brother. Thornden and Medreth are the two oldest. Medreth’s married and has a son now, you know. They say I’m an uncle, but it seems rather odd. I’m not very old yet.” Javan gnawed on his lip as he rubbed the sweaty back of his horse where the saddle had been. His hands moved more and more slowly and his eyes looked around the stable slowly. He craned his neck about as far as it would go in attempt to see a horse in one of the stalls.

“Do you work in here all day? With the horses?” he asked, turning again towards Lèof.

“Pretty much,” Lèof replied, glancing up slightly as he continued steadily. Javan hurried to go on with the rag, but he couldn’t help saying –

“That must be fun. And you must be awfully skilled with horses.”

[Laiudanama]

Trystan had slipped discretely out of the stable shortly after Saeryn had entered and this new woman, this Medreth, had begun questioning her about her relationship with Eodwine. He shook his head to himself, wandering out towards the woods not far from the Mead Hall, no clear direction in his mind except to put some distance between himself and such conversations. He knew already what Saeryn’s answer would be; after all, was it not the same answer that she had given to every nosy busybody who wanted an insight into gossip. An apprentice only; nothing between Eodwine and Saeryn; yes, the titles can be confusing; he is my mentor, that is all.

Trystan picked up a stick and childishly swiped at a nearby bush. How many mentors address their wards by the name ‘love’, combined with a swift wink, before they ride off on business? Aye, he’d seen that exchange before Eodwine had ridden off, had seen the look that he had given her before turning away without a backwards glance – but, much to his frustration, the youth had been unable to see whether Saeryn’s expression had reciprocated such surprising affections. What did it matter what the Lady Saeryn’s feelings in that direction were though anyway. It wasn’t as if she would be – interested – in – him…

Each word was punctuated with a swift chopping blow against the undergrowth, childish, petty acts of violence that did little more to relieve his anger and frustration than had his previous inactivity. It simply reminded him of what a child he must appear in Saeryn’s eyes – why, she was barely older than him, surely! Yet she seemed so much older, a Lady, wise – and noble, of course. Unattainable. Always reaching for something you cannot have, Trystan – after all, wasn’t that the problem with Tamarin: just had to have something you shouldn’t have gone near…

Trystan glared at an inoffensive looking shrub that, to its own misfortune, momentarily took on the features of the Lord of the Hall and drew back his stick to deliver a splendid back handed blow—

The sound of sharp voices nearby made him freeze, stick frozen in mid-air.

“Garmund, get back here!”

Garmund? Garstan’s son? And the other, deep, curt and Rohirrim, was Thornden: a life in the shadows had blessed Trystan with a skill at recognising voices without the help of faces. The sharp command was followed by a softer exchange, the boy protesting against Thornden’s firm hand, and Trystan found himself drawn towards the voices. As he arrived soundlessly behind them in the space of the ruins, Trystan was just in time to see Thornden’s form disappear into the wood, leaving Garmund alone in the ruins. The boy certainly was unhappy with the situation, hanging back, but just barely, and apparently inwardly torn between Thornden’s clear request to stay and his own desperate desire to follow. For a moment, it seemed that the latter would prevail and Trystan decided now was as good a time as any to announce his presence.

“Not so fast – wouldn’t want to be rushing into things now, would we?” Trystan’s wry voice, with more than a hint of irony, made Garmund spin around immediately to face him, and the panic on his young features quickly settled into a scowl at the sight of the youth watching him, his slim form leaning unconcernedly against one of the lone trees that had crept daringly forward from the general line of the wood. Trystan gave him a quick grin then turned his gaze upon the wood, nodding towards the path which Thornden had taken a few moments previously. “May I ask the cause of the fuss from which you and I appear to be excluded?”

Garmund surveyed Trystan for a second, then shrugged, with maybe a little too much nonchalance: this was his story, his adventure, and evidently he didn’t appreciate the older boy’s gate-crashing. But the desire to share the adventure won over his initial resentment, although he kept his tone carefully casual. “Oh…well, there was this man hiding in the ruins, and he was huge, hiding there—”

He trailed away. Trystan had suddenly tensed, straightening up immediately from his lazy position against the tree, and a decidedly hunted look had taken itself into his grey eyes. His fingers itched, ready to grab for the knife in his boot – after all, though one remained on a shelf in the stables, an admission to Leofric of his horse-thieving intentions if he was ever to reclaim it, Trystan was not unarmed, and a similar, slender knife remained within his high boots. He’s found me; he’s come all the way from Minas Tirith, just for this, just to make me pay – gods, he’ll kill me, he’ll kill me all over that blasted Tamarin…

“What did this man look like?” he asked, softly.

[Firefoot]

“Well, yes, I suppose so,” answered Léof, slightly unsure of how to answer this comment. “I guess you could say that I’ve never really wanted to do anything else.”

This appeared to impress Javan very much, but Léof thought, It had its price. Everything has its price. He had neither the will nor the heart to explain this to Javan, however. Why should he? Javan would become a man soon enough and find out such things for himself. Léof thought of his own sister, just about Javan’s age, and how much sooner she had had to grow up. What was she doing now? Was she well? He had heard naught of her in over two months now, despite the second letter he had sent three weeks ago. He wished he might see her now as young-seeming and unfettered as Javan appeared to him.

“You seem a fair hand with horses, yourself,” Léof commented. He had noticed Javan's curious gaze wandering around the stable. "If you'd like, I can show you around once we're done with these two."

[Thinlómien]

"What means this?"

The children were reluctant to speak out. Modtryth answered the stoneshaper's gaze. "I do not know about this any more than you do, Master Garstan. The children ran to me asking had I seen Garmund. They explained me they were going to apologise to him. But why, that is something they must tell you themselves..." she said, turning her gaze to her son. She cursed herself; had she been less occupied with her work and concentrated on the children, she shoud have known, not guessed, what had happened. Anyway, it's better to make Cnebba tell me and Garstan himself...

Cnebba cast a miserable glance at his playmate. Lèoðern, tears running down her pretty cheeks, had however fixed her gaze on a stain on her shoe and did not notify him. "Dad says I and Lèoðern are scorning him. Garmund, I mean", Cnebba said, looking first at his mother and then at the father of his friends. "Are you?" Modtryth asked sharply. Cnebba looked at his friend again, and this time the girl returned his gaze. "I guess we were, mum", the boy replied, looking her mother in the eye with her own dark brown eyes. His expression was as serious as his mother's.

"We did not mean to be nasty", Lèoðern added quietly.

[Nogrod]

Stigend tried to continue his work a while after the children had gone searching for Garmund but soon realised that his thoughts wandered in totally different matters. Modtryth maybe right. Maybe I’m too concerned about Cnebba? But how could I not?

“Auch!” The axe slipped and hit Stigend’s right shin sideways. He dropped the axe, took hold of his leg and cursed silently, breathing slow and deep. Well, not the edge though, but hurts... like always. That kind of things happened every now and then. When the mind slips the tool slips. He knew that well enough. Okay, I might as well go to see Garstan now. This work seems not to be progressing now anyway...

As Stigend approached the half-built kitchen he heard Garstan’s voice. He couldn’t quite make out what was being discussed but it was something concerning a trip to some ruins or something and telling tales and then not understanding what was going on. When Stigend came to the corner he heard his wife talking. “But why, that is something they must tell you themselves...” Stigend halted and listened to Cnebba explaining the situation. Brave lad..., he thought and decided to get involved.

"We did not mean to be nasty", Lèoðern added quietly just as Stigend walked into the kitchen.

“I believe you didn’t.” Stigend said aloud, entering the room: “But you didn’t actually mean to be nice either. Now did you?” Both children laid their heads down again. Stigend nodded to both Garstan and Modtryth, gesturing them for a permission to continue a little bit. He took a look at the children. They both looked quite beaten and ashamed but also somewhat defiant. There was something else here Stigend realised that he did not know about. He bowed lightly to come more at level with the children.

“Allright you two. I believe you meant no harm as such. But when you want to be friends with someone, you’ll have to think every now and then how that one feels the things you do and say. And that’s easy, really. Just think how you would feel yourself in a same kind of situation.” With that Stigend raised himself back up to meet Garstan and Modtryth.

“Have you eaten anything yet?” Modtryth asked, pointing her question to both men.

“You’re right. We should have lunch, all of us, and talk this over. I know something about this but you seem to know other things.” Stigend agreed. Garstan nodded to the proposition: “Some lunch then. I’m waiting to hear the whole story, if there is one”, he said.

They helped themselves with some soup, bread and household wine and water. Then they settled to a table in the Hall near the kitchen. Stigend told about his discussion with the children earlier and Cnebba and Lèoðern admitted intently playing Garmund out of the game. Then Garstan told about the trek to the ruins. After that they ate in silence for a while, all in their own thoughts.

“Well, I’m not wishing to downplay any other aspects of the problem there may be, but the root of this seems both easy to see and hard to fix”, Stigend said eventually, tearing pieces of bread and dropping them to his almost empty bowl of soup. Garstan laid his bowl down and looked at him, keenly waiting for him to continue.

“I mean. Garmund spends a lot of time, many days a week learning your trade, Garstan. That is great, don’t get me wrong. I have been somewhat impatient to have Cnebba with me learning the carpentry. Modtryth here will give testimony of that.” He took a fast look at Modtryth and smiled. She had soup in her mouth and had to really concentrate not to laugh out aloud to Stigend’s mild way of putting the thing forward. They had discussed that, many times.

“So, when Garmund gets back to join these two, they already have their own games and adventures. They’ve had fun all the day and Garmund is left outside of it. If I could take Cnebba to learn my trade, this could be solved, but it maybe that Modtryth is right. He maybe too young for it still.”

Stigend tried to look as solemn as he could, but inwardly he was smiling widely. Nothing so bad as not to carry with it a seed of something good. Cnebba had never really been so interested in carpentry but liked to study all kinds of bugs and the like and Modtryth had given him a firm no everytime he had tried to reason a deal why Cnebba should start learning his trade. Now he could beat both oppositions. How to make a child do something? Tell him not to do it or tell it publicly that he’s not capable of doing it... And even Modtryth can’t go against it now as it would solve the basics of this problem.

[Folwren]

Javan blushed with pride at Léof’s word of compliment. He looked up eagerly at the offer of being shown around. “Oh, yes, I’d like that,” he said.

In a few minutes they were finished and the horses passed Léof’s inspection. “Follow me,” he said, untying Medreth’s horse. Javan untied his horse and followed him. “Put him in there,” Léof said as he passed an empty stall. “She’ll go into the next one here.”

In a moment, the horses were away. Javan and Léof bolted the doors and Léof offered to take the bridle. Javan slowly, half extended it, but then took it back. “I’ll follow you and put it away.” Léof grinned and once more led the way.

Once the bridles and brushes and rags had been put into their proper places, Léof began the tour of the stables. Javan followed him, his hands in his pockets, and his ears and eyes wide open and Léof told him where and what things were and showed him the horses.

“Do you have a horse?” Javan asked abruptly, half way down the line.

[littlemanpoet]

“Are you satisfied, Falco?” asked Thornden as he drew near. “Let’s go back and quit looking before one of us gets hurt! I don't like leaving Garmund alone."

"Aye, I'm satisfied," Falco answered, "satisfied that you shouldn't have left Garmund alone! Better to have brought him with! Get on with you! I'm right behind! I don't want your big lumbering feet tripping me up from behind!"

Thornden furrowed his brow but apparently could think of nothing to say, so turned back around and started for the opening where they had left Garmund.

Falco turned to the brush where Lefun and Ritun were hidden and gave a big wink in their general direction, then trotted after Thornden. Somehow he needed to get Garmund away from Thornden, he was not sure how, but the chance might arise somehow, so that Garmund could meet Lefun and Ritun for himself. He would have to warn the boy somehow so that the poor lad didn't shreek with fright at first glimpse. He would have to see how this would go, he promised himself.

Then his sharp hobbit ears picked up yet another voice, another of the big people, a young man by the sound of him, in the opening where Garmund was. Who? Falco furrowed his own brow in sudden fear for the boy. There was no knowing who it might be.

Thornden had turned the corner and stopped dead in his tracks. Falco scrunched between his legs to get a look. It was Trystan! Garmund was telling him about the man.

[Celuien]

Garmund scowled black as a thundercloud when Trystan entered. After Thornden left, he had fully meant to quietly follow from a bit off the path. Far enough away to avoid Thornden's watchful eye, but close enough to see any excitement - and to help in a fight if needed. With Trystan's unexpected arrival, that plan was thwarted, and Garmund again forced to remain behind like a child who needed watching rather than a great boy of nine.

"What did this man look like?"

The question briefly drew Garmund away from his irritation. At least he was asked to tell some of the tale instead of being forced out of it.

"A great, tall man, twice as high as me, with a great, dark, shaggy beard and rough, dirty clothes. He talked strangely. Like a man out of the tales, only real. Then Master Thornden came, the man ran away, and Master Falco and Thornden followed. Master Thornden wouldn't let me come, so here I am." Garmund looked at the ground, kicking it a bit harder than he had thought to do.

"I wish I knew what they were doing out there."

[Folwren]

Now that was injustice! Thornden positively smarted under Falco’s scornful rebuke. Leaving Garmund alone? It wasn’t his idea, to be sure! He had only left to save Falco. Why try to argue the point? He turned and walked back the way he had come.

Coming round the old wall, he became aware of another voice. He stopped as he came into view of Garmund. Trystan was there, too. He could hear Garmund telling Trystan about the man they had stumbled upon. Trystan’s face was sharp and his figure tense.

After pausing a moment, Thornden went forward. He drew near, just as Garmund said in a rather bitter tone, “I wish I knew what they were doing out there.”

“Nothing happened,” Thornden said. Garmund turned to look at him and Falco. “I didn’t see him again and Falco’s in one piece. Hello, Trystan. When did you get here?”

[Laiudanama]

Trystan almost flinched at the voice, tense as he was, and his reflex was to spin around immediately, knife in hand - an impulse that he just barely resisted. Half-turning his body to face Thornden, he slipped the knife into the back of his belt, under his jerkin, and hoped that neither he nor Falco had seen it: it was a practised action, smoothly and discretely done, but he didn't know how much they had seen, and Thornden certainly did have a look of storm about him. To be found holding a knife to the son of one of Eodwine's men - how well Saeryn would take that take of events!

He smiled disarmingly, turning fully and pretending to breathe a slight sigh of relief. "Why, Thornden, you startled me, I didn't see you there - and what with apparent fugitives running around left, right and centre, I wasn't sure what to think."

Thornden's lips went through the motions of returning the smile, but Trystan fancied that it did not quite reach his eyes. Trys continued, "I came but a few moments ago - Garmund was just telling me of a man found here, a 'great, tall, shaggy man'?" Despite attempting to keep his voice neutral, mildly interested, he was afraid maybe a little more eagerness than was perhaps usual slipped through, but tried to relax; the ex-soldier would merely put it down to curiousity, or to 'boyish enthusiasm', he hoped, with more than a hint of irony. Boyish enthusiasm: not one of Trystan's usual traits, but he could pretend in an emergency...

The comment was recieved with narrowed eyes, then Thornden looking towards Garmund, who nodded sulkily in confirmation. Trystan resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow: his word was taken at the confirmation of a mere child of nine or ten years. Such respect had he evidently gained within the past month at the Mead Hall... But such thoughts were not the most pressing in his mind at the present: his head was still spinning with thoughts of this man, this 'huge, shaggy, man' with apparently some sort of foreign accent.

Stagram.

The name sounded through his mind like a death knell. The root of Trystan's problems, the reason he had spent more than a month before his stay at Mead Hall on the run from everyone and everything he had ever known - and a figure who could well fit such a description. Admittedly, running away had never really been Stagram's style, but he had always been a coward, and to be this far away from home, he would be looking for only one thing, or, well, one person: Trystan himself.

"Is there anything I could do to help? You say you have not yet found this man...?"

Thornden shook his head begrudgingly. "Nay. Falco lost him in the woods somewhere, and I was unable to catch up-"

He's still loose somewhere near the Mead Hall. A shiver ran down Trystan's back, and he responded a little too sharply, cutting off the end of Thornden's statement in his haste. "Then surely we should find him?"

"I reckon this big people is no more dangerous than any other of you log-footed folk, Trystan," said Falco, watching the other carefully. Trystan could feel his facade slipping by the second, but he was beginning to panic at the helplessness which was coming over him: panic and helplessness, two states with which he was rarely confronted, and which he was therefore unpractised. It was almost suffocating - and he couldn't tell anyone why! Forcing himself to maintain an outward calm, Trystan gave a quick smile and shrug, before responding. "Aye, of course, but maybe it would be unwise to take chances? To have a ruffian of such dimensions on the loose near the Mead Hall, with women and children present - and valuable horses too, of course," he added, with another brief grin, to which Falco allowed a reluctant half smile: after a month, Trystan had just about rid himself of the label of would-be horse thief, but it was nonetheless how he knew he had appeared when he first entered. Taking advantage of a moment of such good nature, he continued, "Maybe if I was to help you search? That way someone could stay with Garmund so as to avoid him coming to harm in the case of this man returning...That is, if you think it a wise idea?" he added with a perhaps not altogether convincing air of nonchalance - although he was inwardly desperate to get a glimpse at this man, to see whether it was indeed Stagram. To see whether his past had pursued him all the way to the Gap of Rohan...

[Firefoot]

As Léof showed Javan around, he was forced to revise his earlier supposition about him. Javan had probably not come back to the stables so much for avoiding his sister and Saeryn’s conversation as for being near the horses and Léof, for his being the ostler. Javan had not grown bored or fidgety as Léof had half-expected, especially when Léof had started telling him about the individual horses; to the contrary, Javan was all wide-eyed curiosity, and Léof welcomed his company.

“Do you have a horse?” Javan asked, apparently out of nowhere, although Léof supposed it was a rather logical question.

“Sure do,” answered Léof. “She’s right down here.” He skipped past a couple occupied stalls and an empty one to stop at Æthel’s stall. She had poked her head out of the stall and whickered a greeting. “This is Æthel,” said Léof, not without some pride. It occurred to him then for the first time that Æthel may not in truth be his, but his father’s – what would happen if he demanded her back? He doubted he could afford to buy her. I’ll never let that happen. Ever. Aloud, he added, “Don’t ever let anyone tell you that a horse can’t be your friend.” That was a comment he had heard often enough from his father. “Æthel is one of the truest.”

[littlemanpoet]

Falco pursed his lips and pondered a moment. There's something false about this Trystan, sure as shine when the sun's out, Falco thought to himself. Seemed the boy always had a mask on, because every now and then it slipped; and Falco was nothing if he wasn't quick to mark such things. So much for pondering.

"Aye, you two go on ahead and I'll stay back with Garmund," Falco replied. Thornden eyed him suspiciously. "What're you lookin' at me like that for? You ought to be happy I let you come along at all! Garmund will be fine with me. Now go catch up the lad, can't you see he's leaving you behind?"

Thornden, still eyeing Falco, glanced to where Trystan had been; he was not there. He threw up his hands in consternation and set out at a run to catch up to Trystan.

Falco turned to Garmund who was again looking a little sullen. "There now, my boy, they've gone on a goose chase wild as you like. You want to see the man? I'll show him to you if you like."

[Celuien]

"I should like to see the man. Did you find him?" The idea of going to see the man slowly eased Garmund's sullenness, and the frown faded from his brow.

"Aye. So I did. Come along quick now. We wouldn't want them to catch us again, would we?" Falco grinned at the boy, and Garmund smiled in answer. The conspirators could go on together, now that Thornden was off on his wild goose chase.

Falco headed out of the circle, and Garmund hurried after, images of the coming meeting with the stranger filling his head.

[littlemanpoet]

The foliage was thick about them, spring well on its way to summer, and everything lush and green and making for good hiding at a pinch.

"Now I want you to understand something, Garmund," Falco said quietly as he led the boy down the path. Garmund was quiet on his feet for a a human, but Falco had to keep from wincing with what his sharp ears picked up of Garmund's solid tread. "This man will look different to you. See, he hides back here because folk fear him."

"Wh - why do they fear him? Is he bad?"

"Nay, not bad, but different. See, he was born with one set o' legs like you and me but he's twins on top."

Garmund stopped.

[Folwren]

“Don’t ever let anyone tell you that a horse can’t be your friend. Æthel is one of the truest.”

Javan giggled rather humorously. “I know. My father thinks it’s ridiculous. He likes horses and doesn’t mind me being with them so much, but he doesn’t see how they can possibly be anyone’s friend. ‘They’re animals,’” he went on, his voice dropping into a deeper, imitation of someone’s voice (his father’s, presumably), “‘animals aren’t friends. They may seem to like you so long as you feed and water them and keep them groomed, but they couldn’t care less if you didn’t.’”

He rambled to a stop and gently stroked Æthel’s velvet-like nose. She was a very attractive horse, with warm, bright eyes, and a finely shaped head. He leaned against the wall, his hand still caressing her. “I wish I had my own horse. I don’t have one,” he explained with a sigh as Lèof’s glance showed surprise. “How did you get yours?”

[Folwren]

Thornden didn’t trust Falco and his innocent appearance of staying behind with Garmund. He kept looking back towards the hobbit and boy as long as he was in sight, but the thick foliage and trees and crumbling wall soon hid them. He walked in silence by Trystan’s side.

What was he even doing? He didn’t want to find the man! That hadn’t been his purpose at all, from the very beginning. He wanted to leave the stranger alone. A man unprovoked likely doesn’t do anything dangerous, and that’s exactly how Thornden wanted it. He stopped abruptly and plucked Trystan’s sleeve.

“Hold on, lad,” he said. Trystan turned towards him. “I don’t think we want to go hunting him. He didn’t mean any harm, I’m certain of it, and I don’t think he will cause any harm, unless he thinks he’s being hurt, or about to be hurt. If we go poking about this place he might get angry. He called it his place and therefore, I think, might consider our walking about it in search of him as trespassing.”

“But, we-”

“What makes you so anxious to find him anyway?” Thornden asked, interrupted Trystan before he had scarcely begun. “Is there any reason?”

[Celuien]

Garmund froze in his tracks to stare at Falco, unsure whether to believe the story or not. There had been nothing in Falco's voice to make Garmund think that he was being teased.

For Garmund had been told a story of two-headed giants, who, in times long forgotten, had dwelt among the wilds of the mountains in the North. The giants fell upon the Wold, stealing horses and burning farms until Aldhelm came with his bright sword and drove the giants back to the hills.

But that had been a child's story, told to Garmund and Lèoðern by their father as they sat around a fire and the evening shadows grew deep around them. Twins sharing one pair of legs seemed to belong more to old legends than the light of day. As Garmund thought upon the tale, he recalled another story out of the North. A story of little people who lived in the sides of hills and rivers. Falco had walked out of those tales to dwell in Rohan. Some legends could hold truth. Garmund knew that the stranger in the ruins was not a giant from the story, but maybe there had once been others like him who were the beginning of the tale.

"One set of legs, but twins on top? Two heads, four arms, and everything?"

[littlemanpoet]

"Aye, Garmund, that is the way of it. Not scared?"

Garmund seemed to be thinking hard a moment, then shook his head in a determined "no".

"Well as you no doubt saw, Lefun and Ritun are plenty scared of folk like Thornden, but not of you or me. Ready to go on?"

"Yes," Garmund said, his face a mix of caution and eagerness. Falco smiled. They walked on, quietly.

"Lefun? Ritun?" whispered Falco presently. "It's me an' the boy. Hullo?"

All was quiet. They had stopped, straining their ears to hear anything over the quiet breeze.

"Here we be." The voice spoke from one side of the trail, behind the foliage, not two yards from before their very faces.

"Follow me, Garmund." Falco pushed some low stems to either side and stepped into the darkness of the underbrush. Garmund was right behind. Two more steps and they were in green shadow, the leaves whispering all about them. Falco stepped to one side, allowing Garmund room beside him. Garmund looked up and his mouth opened in awe, for before them were Lefun and Ritun, their shadowed faces watching the two carefully, the strain of caution not completely gone from the twin's rigid torsos, open curiosity in their faces. Now that Garmund had a chance for a better look, he could see that the two were a little taller than Nain the Dwarf, but shorter than his Pa. And their single pair of legs were thick as tree trunks.

"Lefun and Ritun we are," said the one on the right, quietly, who seemed, to Falco, to be the leader of the two. "How are you called, young one?"

[Celuien]

Swallowing hard, Garmund tipped his chin toward Lefun and Ritun. They were not quite so big as he had told Trystan in his excitement. But the reason for his story was understandable. Though the twins were only a little taller than the Dwarf, they were made large by wonder.

On his best manners - for good manners were the best way with which to greet strangers, particularly when they were out of the ordinary - Garmund gave the twins his greeting.

"I am Garmund, son of Garstan the stoneshaper. I am glad to meet you." He turned a little to his left and added, "Both of you."

[littlemanpoet]

Lefun and Ritun grinned, showing big holes in their bites; those teeth that remained looked overlong, sticking at all angles out of blistered gums.

"A mannerly boy he be," Lefun said to Ritun, and turned back to Garmund. "Your Pa be proud of you, wager we."

Falco could not hold his peace any longer. "How long have you been here? Why do you live here? Or there more like you? How old are you? Surely you were among other folk once up on a time? How did they treat you? Or did they fear you, or you them?"

Lefun and Ritun closed their gappy mouths and their eyes drooped, looking pained.

"Folk are mean," Lefun said simply. "Folk bigger than you leastway. Here we hide. Lost count of winters here we have."

"You'd be safe enough at the Mead Hall, I'd wager," Falco ventured.

The twins frowned. "We'll not leave. None come here till you."

"But word will get out now, surely," Falco said, "for though Garmund and I can keep a secret, there's no surety that Thornden and the other will."

The twins scowled. "Then leave here we shall, and hide elsewhere."

[Taralphiel]

The two sat in the sun for a while longer, watching the light wind stir the leaves, and the sound of children playing and running from garden to hallway. Lys gingerly stretched out his legs, and saw that his legs had grown a healthy pink from the warmth. Carefully he stood and turned to the Healer.

“Shall we walk a little way again? I wish to see more, and not sleep. I have done more than enough of that in my room…” Hrethel clapped his hands on his knees in agreement and eased his knees up straight with some soothing words.

“Let us see what the streets will be like. I do not think you will manage it today, but perhaps another day we may take you on a trip to the markets.”

Hrethel and Lys set out, taking another slow walk through the Mead Hall and the grounds without, watching the sun rise to its height. Once they had made a fair distance around the surrounding streets, they made their way for the main entrance and for Lys’ room. Hrethel was talking of herb lore and the various ingredients in poultices for a myriad of ailments when to his distress he saw that Lys was no longer walking beside him. The boy had stopped a few yards back, his head turned to the East.

Lys was looking up at the sun, and the line of the buildings next to him. Hrethel slowly stopped by his side and touched his shoulder.

“What be the matter, boy?”

Lys pointed to the rooftops. “I have seen them before. It was the cold dawn. And here…”

The young boy turned his hand down to the ground. There the collection of barrels and kegs still stood, the shield for where Lys had been curled up weeks ago. What colour care and healing had put into the young boy’s face had gone, and he trembled. The old man sighed and gently took his hand.

“It will take more time. Be patient, young Lys. Not all wounds heal like skin and bone.”

Lys looked back to the man, nodding.

“I…understand. I understand it now, sir. But I do remember some things. I remember fear, pain and a cruel laugh in the night. Will time heal this?”

[Celuien]

"Please don't go!" Garmund cried out. "I'd not like to say farewell so soon after first meeting." His face shone with earnestness. Besides his curiosity, Garmund's pity had been stirred for the twins. By the looks of them, the twins had known hard times. Folk were mean, they said. Unfairly so, it seemed to Garmund. Strange though they were, there was no harm in them that Garmund could see. When not frightened, they were even friendly. It didn't seem right that they should be left alone in the wild, friendless, and in fear of strangers.

"Please come to the Mead Hall with us. At least for a little while. For supper. And if folk aren't mean, will you stay a little longer?"

[littlemanpoet]

Falco smiled at the boy's frank honesty and open desire to make friends with the odd pair of twins. Lefun and Ritun wavered, he could see it on their faces. They looked at each other and their mottled faces worked. Not a word passed between them.
"But the way they looked into each other's eyes, it was like they was Elves," Falco later said to Eodwine. At length they turned and looked at Garmund.

"We like you, Garmun," Lefun said. Ritun nodded emphatically. "Tell this Mead Hall to us."

[Firefoot]

"My family bought her as a yearling," Léof explained. "My father never really gave her to me formally, but it was always sort of understood. I was the first person to break her to the saddle, since I was so light that my father decided we could start teaching her to be ridden than we otherwise could have. I was thrown too many times to count, but my father was insistant that I could do it. And after that, she was our primary riding horse; the other three could be ridden but they mostly helped my father out in the fields - he is a farmer. I was the only one who rode often, so she effectually became my horse."

At this point, Léof felt his stomach rumble and said, "Your pardon! But I'm afraid I have not yet had the chance to eat today, though I had forgotten as we have talked. It must be near lunchtime already. We can come back after - or even while - we eat." Javan was in agreement, and the two left the stables to find some lunch: soup, bread, and water.

"So whose was the horse you rode here, if not your own?" asked Léof curiously.

[Folwren]

“So whose was the horse you rode here, if not your own?”Léof asked as they stepped into the sunlight. Javan’s hands wandered to his pockets and his little face became serious as he answered, looking steadily at the ground.

“My father’s,” he said. “He has a great number of horses. He sells and buys a lot, but he mostly breeds mares and raises and trains the foals to sell when they’re three or so. He says I can have my own horse when I become thirteen, but until then, I have to prove myself trustworthy with horses and be able to manage them. So I do get to work with them quite a lot, with someone around. I’ve helped break a few colts, like you!” he said proudly, looking up.

He stopped abruptly, his eye having caught sight of something. An old man and a boy came into the courtyard together. Javan stared openly with childish curiosity and pity as the boy limped slightly on his way towards the Mead Hall.

“Who’s he?” Javan asked in a low voice to Léof. He nodded his head towards Lys.

[Laiudanama]

Trystan marched hastily through the undergrowth, hand ready to grab the knife at any minute should he need to use it against this stranger, or creature he hoped would a stranger, and not the man who he feared it might be – or against Thornden, for that matter. He knew little of the man, he realised, except that he had been a former member of the King’s Guard, and that he appeared to be a close friend, or trusted employee at least, of Eodwine. He was unlikely to have taken to Trystan, then, the boy reasoned bitterly; Eodwine’s feelings towards him certainly hadn’t seemed to improve. Maybe that was in fact the reason that Thornden had followed him: to keep an eye on him! And unfounded, of course: why, he hadn’t asked this Thornden to ‘accompany’ him! He’d stepped not a foot out of line since coming to the Mead Hall! He wouldn’t dream of it…

When the object of Trystan’s angry thoughts interrupted them, therefore, the boy was somewhat less than cordial in his response.

“What makes you so anxious to find him anyway? Is there any reason?”

“None of your—”the words were out of Trystan’s mouth before he could stop them, his façade slipping irreparably in his frustration. Thornden’s eyes narrowed immediately and, although he did not move, a tenseness, a close attention to Trystan’s every move, down to the shallowest breath of stirring of his pulse, seemed to come over him. Once a soldier… Trystan tried to regain the group he already knew was lost, running his hand back through his scruffy dark hair agitatedly. “I…I’m sorry, Thornden, I didn’t mean to snap; it’s simply…well, it is worrying, is it not, to have a man, of such proportions as were described by Garmund, running loose so close to the Mead Hall…”

“No, it is more than that,” Thornden replied, his voice controlled, making the statement as a simple fact. His eyes were still narrowed and fixed on Trystan. “There have been other strangers and vagabonds who have passed the Mead Hall; were they pursued with such zeal? Least of all by you, of course, Trystan.”

It was a statement, astutely made, but felt like a slap across the face to Trystan. His countenance was increasingly becoming that of a wild creature, ready to fight or flee at any given second, and one would have half expected his response to be the hiss of a cornered feral cat. “That is how you see me then, Thornden? A ‘stranger and vagabond’? What, in all the time have I been here, have I done to merit such scorn? From you, from Eodwine, from all his lackeys like you-”

“Lackeys?” Thornden echoed sharply, his voice rising, and this time he took a half step forward. Of course, by now Trystan had realised that he may have bitten off a little more than he could chew, but the situation was deteriorating uncontrollably, fuelled by his panic and, yes, his fear: his fear of being thrown out again, his fear of being found out and hounded by the authorities, who would surely kill him or leave him to rot, and of Stagram.

Looking down the stairs, aghast, still clutching his prize, his ‘contract’, and, half-sitting, half-lying in the chair, the gentle-faced figure… Steps running outside, he was sure, and laughing, whispered voices…

The memory that came with Stagram’s name sobered the boy, and he turned away sharply, glaring fiercely into the undergrowth with angry, desperate, searching eyes, barely noticing Thornden’s perambulatory movement towards him as he did so. He was a just a boy, he’d done nothing wrong – he couldn’t keep this up by himself any more.

Dropping the prize on the dusty carpet in what seemed like slow motion, he ran – ran for his life…

“Thornden-” he started suddenly, then stopped. What was the use? He wouldn’t understand – no, that wasn’t true, maybe he would understand, but he wouldn’t want to, and he would certainly never be able to fully see Trystan’s side of the tale, nor keep it as the secret that Trystan needed it to be, however much it was eating him up inside. To tell a soldier that he was wanted for theft and murder? The idea would be laughable if the situation wasn’t so serious. He hung his head, dark hair falling into his eyes as he closed them and took a deep breath, before turning around, shaking his head. “You’re right. You’re…I’m sorry, you are right,” he said, falteringly. “I just…look, never mind, it was just a hunch, an idea that a certain…”

The broken sentences trailed away and he managed a somewhat rueful half-smile, fingers running through his hair once again, a signature gesture. “Making any sense?” he shrugged. The tension was still in the air, but it was fading, and his panic and anger were passing, leaving behind a sad, lonely boy. Straightening up, he tried again, his language formalised, as it often became before figures of authority, although in fact, he realised, Thornden was not much older than himself – a friend, maybe, although possibly in another lifetime. “Look, it doesn’t matter: you’re right, I have no reasonable compulsion for pursuing this individual. Should we return?”

[Celuien]

Garmund thought for a moment of how to tell the twins of the Mead Hall. They were afraid of folk bigger than he was. The hall was filled with big folk, including one who had already frightened Lefun and Ritun.

"Well," Garmund began, "it's like a great, big house. My sister is there, and our friend Cnebba. He's about my size. Master Falco stays there too. And my father. He's helping to build a new part of the hall, and I help him."

"And folk bigger than you?"

"Yes. The two here now are from the Hall. And Lord Eodwine. It's his hall. They're all nice. They wouldn't be mean to you, I'm sure." Aware that he was possibly saying more than he ought, Garmund added, "If they tried, we wouldn't let them. Would we, Master Falco?"

[Folwren]

Thornden stood in absolute silence, not from stern anger, but from dumbfounded surprise. What was it that leaped and struggled to get free, but at the same time shrank from coming into the light? Trystan, in his entire stay at the Mead Hall, had rarely ever seemed so flustered and disturbed. He was generally the epitome of nonchalant calmness. There had been flashes of indignant anger at being insulted, the usual mask of the apparent lack of interest, but never fear and this obvious uncertainty

“Thornden-” he began, and stopped.

‘Yes - yes?’ Thornden pressed inside his head, but speaking nothing aloud. A very long pause followed. Trystan looked up at him and then back to the ground.

“You’re right. You’re. . .I’m sorry, you are right. I just. . .look, never mind, it was just a hunch, and idea that a certain. . .” he stopped again. Thornden’s eyebrow lifted in confusion, and he still said nothing. Silently, he begged Trystan to continue.

‘Idea that it was a certain what? Oh, come on! Speak to me, I won’t bite your head off.’

Trystan looked up, maybe half apologetically as he ran his hand through his hair. “Make any sense?” It was a joke, but Thornden dearly wished it weren’t and that he could answer it.

‘No, none at all, actually.’

The satirical remark faded from his mind. Trystan glanced around him, a new look in his eyes, so recently filled with some inhuman fear, much like that in the eyes of the man Thornden had scared away. They were now filled with loneliness. Thornden felt taken aback and a wave of guilt flooded him. They’d all been so worried that he’d turn out to be a villain, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. They never thought that he might be needing friendship. Trystan was alone, with a crowd of people around him, and Thornden knew well enough that unless someone else broke the ice first, Trystan would always remain alone.

Should he say something now? Trystan’s shield had fallen. His mind and his feelings, his confidence, his secret - whatever that was - might be reached now. But in five minutes - in two, maybe - the guard would be back up and the lock would be dropped in place.

The thoughts passed through Thornden’s mind one after another and he had made up his mind to say something when Trystan spoke. “Look, it doesn’t matter: you’re right, I’ve no reasonable compulsion for pursuing this individual. Should we return?”

Thornden nearly winced at the sudden far-offness of his voice. The shell was already closing. “No, not yet,” he said quickly. But what could he say? The glimpse inside Trystan had been momentary, a chance passing more quickly than a flash of lightning. “You were. . .you were on the verge of telling me something.” Would it do any good to press his confidence? Someone had to, sometime. Was it fair to take advantage while his guard was half down? No other time would do, he figured. “Won’t you finish?”

[littlemanpoet]

"If they tried, we wouldn't let them. Would we, Master Falco?" Garmund looked at him, his eyes pleading.

Falco Boffin had the wits to put two and two together, and the force of character to make a thing or two happen, not to mention certain skills of hand, foot, and eye that could come in handy to force an issue now and then. He'd even killed a villain tried to set hisself up as the next dark lord; well, not quite singlehanded, but close as made no difference: Eodwine owed him, and on this particular matter he'd collect or he wasn't Falco.

"As soon they try moving that ol' Meduseld off its hill," Falco replied easily. Garmund grinned. Lefun and Ritun exchanged eyebrow raised glances, then turned to Falco.

"Safe is this place then?" asked Lefun.

"Its lord is a good man and owes me a favor for I saved his life once, and I mean to make him pay if it means taking you in as it's the right thing to do, if you understand me."

"This lord," said Ritun, speaking for the first time in an even more gravelly voice than his brother, "big he be?"

"Aye, big as Thornden, but good."

"And my father saved his life too! So he owes us both!" Garmund put in.

Lefun and Ritun grinned, showing their long ugly teeth and sore gums. Falco put his hand over his mouth and nose to ward off the smell of decay coming from the two mouths.

"What's the matter with your mouths?" Garmund asked innocently.

"They hurts," said both twins at once. "Eating be hard," added Lefun. Ritun nodded.

"You ought too have been cleanin' 'em all these years," Falco said. "See, you take a piece of bark from this here tree-" Just then Falco heard the heavy thud of man-sized feet coming back up the path. Half a moment later Garmund and the twins heard too. "Shh!" Falco shushed them. They stayed quiet as Thornden and Trystan passed them by. They were talking and so drowned out the noise of the brush around them. When they had passed, Falco said, "We need to get back or there'll be no end of Thornden tisking me for puttin' Garmund in danger. You two stay here an' I'll be back soon as I can! Come, Garmund!"

[JennyHallu]

The castle of Dol Amroth was especially lovely at sunset. The tall towers, rising impossibly high above city's rooftops, were built of pale limestone and white marble, quarried in the foothills of the White Mountains, and they caught and reflected the vibrant colors of the evenin sky and the deep harbor to the west. Also shining and sparkling were the granite cliffsides between the city and its harbour, younger sisters to the marble edifice that rose above them. A tall stair and a long ramp with many switchbacks had been etched into the cliff long before the castle had even been built, long ago in the first years the tall Numenoreans had made this peaceful harbour their home. A woman stood on a high balcony, sea breezes wrapping her long dark hair around her as she gazed into the West. So far above the noise and bustle of the traders and fisherman ascending the cliff-paths for home, or getting the day's shipping stored in the warehouses built on the harbour shore in the shadow of the cliffs, the waning of the day was peaceful, serene.

The woman was a daughter of the line of Dol Amroth, and the haunting beauty of her face spoke to the truth of the long-treasured legend of Mithrellas and faerie blood in her veins. She was young, but a certain shadow in her eyes spoke to a wealth of dark experience, and gave her a quiet timeless look that was hard to ignore. The denizens of a certain Hall in Rohan would be hard pressed to recognize their dear friend Linduial, the carefree girl unaware of toil or trouble. Womanhood had hit her hard, and in the month since her kidnapping, she had matured into a quiet, too-wise creature, jaded and unhappy, wandering through the halls of her home like a wraith, searching for a reason to be. Her father and brothers worried about her, but did not know how to help her. She seemed to have forgotten how to laugh. Only rarely did her eyes light up and her face take on the joyful lines familiar to them: when Rohan or Edoras or a certain handsome young man were mentioned, only then did she seem hopeful.

And so Farlen, now sitting uncomfortably on the delicate divan in this feminine room, had packed her up and sent her to his elder brother.

Even in earliest youth it had been obvious that, even had their ages been reversed, Imrahil would carry the Princedom. Farlen had never been interested, much less jealous of his brother. Imrahil had an unconscious aura of wisdom, of command, that came naturally to him. Privately, Farlen thought his brother and his King were much of a kind: they carried with them a sort of majesty that couldn't be ignored. And, to Farlen's mind, Linduial was more like her uncle and that far cousin in Minas Tirith than any other scion of her line, especially now. They were more...elvish. There was no other way he could think to describe it. He loved his daughter dearly, but she seemed some ethereal inhuman thing: he did not understand her, but she gave him the uncomfortable feeling that she understood him, more clearly even then his wife had.

But there was a difference between preternatural maturity and the dark depression he had sorrowfully watched the young woman sink into over the past month. Even Imrahil, towering and awe-inspiring (more to his younger brother than the most loyal of the Prince's men, if truth be told), spent hours every day romping with the youngest children of his house, crawling cheerfully around on the floor with two or three on his back playing Eorl, recreating bloodless and giggly versions of the battles of the War, all dignity forgotten. Imrahil was like her, Imrahil understood her, Imrahil could fix it.

"You should come look outside, Father." The quiet voice was serene and detached. "The sun is setting and the whole world is gleaming fuschia. The sea is beautiful: those of our line have always felt connected to it. They say it calls to the Elves. How can they resist her?"

"Come inside, Lin," her father pleaded. This talk of the Sea's call made him nervous, especially with the fell mood she'd been in lately. "It's about time to go down for dinner, and the wind'll get your hair all tangled."

Lin turned toward him, a smile on her face but not reflected in her eyes. "I'm not very hungry, Father, surely no one will mind if I stay here."

A flash of inspiration hit the older man. "Imrahil specifically asked that you be there, love. He's got a great wish to see you safe, and he'll be wanting to ask you about things in Rohan."

"Uncle asked after me?" A flash of interest--that was enough to keep Farlen on this ploy. He'd spoken to Imrahil about her, of course, and Imrahil'd been happy to hear her safe, and dismayed to hear her current state. He'd even agreed with his brother's hope that he might be able to help the youngling where others couldn't: the two had always had a close bond. But he'd made no special request. The Rohan bit...now that was pure fabrication, based only on hearsay: supposedly Imrahil'd been showing some quiet interest lately in Rohirric affairs, and Lin had at least spoken to his daughter. There was no reason to think he wouldn't ask her about Rohan.

"Of course he did."

"Well, then, if the Prince requests it, I shall go." She walked to the vanity and gave her hair a few cursory strokes with a brush, taming it enough to grab the mass of it and twist it into a low chignon. Wordlessly she waited to meet her father at the door, and slipped her arm into his as they left for dinner.

To be continued...

[Laiudanama]

Trystan snatched a suspicious glance back at Thornden, then turned away again. Had the older man a reason for pressing him? Almost to his own surprise, Trys found himself hoping that he didn’t. He’d lived his life with close companions, men and boys he could rely on for anything, thieves and vagabonds who had lived out of one anothers pocket whether it meant saving each others lives or stabbing each other in the back, the only thing tying them together being their unity against the law – the law of citizens, of lords, of soldiers – respectable, law abiding folk, like Saeryn, Eodwine and, of course, Thornden. When one lives a lifetime in that situation, trust to strangers really doesn’t come easily. How old was Thornden? Mid-twenties, he’d guess; Rohirrim as opposed to Gondorian; the very mark of the line law which Trystan had been tiptoeing since childhood. But despite this, they probably weren’t, he realised, all that far apart.

Trystan pulled his both hands up behind his head, scrawny elbows squewiff as he latched them at the back, then, with a huge sigh, let them drop down by his sides again, his shoulders dropping abruptly. “It’s nothing. Let’s go.”

“No.” Thornden’s answer was surprisingly sharp, and Trystan felt his suspicions rise again – but when he turned to face the solider, he found no scheming or anger in his face, only, maybe, curiosity, and some genuine desire to help. He gave a small, awkward shrug. “Look, Trystan, if something is really wrong, if you have any need of a friendly ear, of there’s something you should tell us-”

“Should tell you?” Trystan shot back immediately, picking up on the phraseology immediately: his mind flew to the possibilities. Should? They’d heard. They must have heard. Or maybe just suspected that something was wrong, put two and two together and now demanded the right to know. So now this soft voiced soldier had taken him into the wood to get the truth out of him…

Thornden stepped forward, perhaps trying to give some reassuring sign, but Trystan’s hand was to his belt and a knife in it in the blink of an eye as he stumbled backwards. “’Should’? Why have I any need to tell you anything of my life? What, you heard about some theft, some…death, and you thought immediately of me, is that it? Maybe a cat can change it’s stripes, right? Right?”

The boy was almost shouting now and his hand was shaking slightly, the light quivering off the small, sharp blade in it. Thornden’s face closed up immediately. “Put down the blade, Trystan,” he said, in a low voice. Trystan didn’t respond immediately, he was realising just how much he might have given away, but as fear welled up in his stomach, he pushed it down with projected anger once more.

“I didn’t do anything wrong, alright? I never did anything wrong!”

His words echoed slightly in the clearing in which they’d stopped, the sound dampened almost immediately by the trees pressing in around them, and the full and dreadful meaning of what they might have given away came home to Trystan with a jolt. His eyes flickered to the knife in his hand, and he let go suddenly, as if burnt, letting the little blade drop to the floor to lie passive, a harmless sliver of silver amid the leaves. He stared at it, then backed away, wiping one hand on his trousers as if trying to get rid of it – or maybe, it would appear to an observer, to wipe some previous trace from his hands. Looking up at Thornden, the young Gondorian boy’s face was startled, a glitter of fear darting across his dark eyes for a second, before it was hastily masked. The façade fell back into place and a blank, hard cover shifted across his eyes, a subtle, second, snake’s eyelid.

“So you’ve heard, have you?” he croaked. "How?"