Chapter 18: The Three Hunters

CENTRAL PLAINS

Darkness was fast approaching as Elfhelm and his men readied their horses for the ride to Edoras. Tension was thick among the Riders, and none of them spoke as they concerned themselves with saddles and bridles, absorbed in their own grim thoughts of what they would find upon entering their capital.

Leaning against Éon as he pulled the girth tight with his full weight, Elfhelm could not help wondering whether Céorl had succeeded in preparing their secretive arrival… or would the Snake’s henchmen await them behind the city gates, because the filthy crook already knew of their plan? And what should they do then? Fight… or let themselves be captured without resistance and hope for the best? What crime could Wormtongue accuse them of, even if the manner of their arrival in the city looked more than suspicious? Would the citizens of Edoras and Éothain’s éored tolerate it if they were captured and accused of conspiracy against the King with no solid evidence? So many questions, and no answers.

His lips a thin line, Elfhelm fastened the buckle and took a step back to regard his work as the bay stallion turned his head to cast his master a long, inquisitive stare, peacefully chewing on a mouthful of hay. With a half-smile, the warrior extended a hand to run his fingers affectionately over the white star on the horse’s brow. Éon sensed his tension, but while the sensation made other animals skittish, the long-legged, experienced war-horse remained calm. Even in the heat of battle the tall bay usually kept his cool head, and the number of orcs killed by his hooves was awe-inspiring. Éomer had once jokingly remarked that Elfhelm had chosen the otherwise docile animal because of his lacking riding skills, but Elfhelm had seen the respectful look in the younger man’s eyes even then and known what to think of these words. In certain aspects, Éon and he were very much alike: they both were experienced warriors, extraordinarily skilled in the use of their weapons and possessed of well-founded self-confidence. Like Éomer and his moody and temperamental Firefoot, they were a perfect match.

With a deep intake of breath, Elfhelm patted his steed’s muscled shoulder and shifted his attention back to his men to find them ready and looking at him in expectation of orders. He cleared his throat and began.

"I realise that it might not be easy to ride in the darkness all the way to Edoras, all the more as the ground has been treacherous for the last day. That is why we are leaving so early; we will ride slowly and should reach the Snowbourn about an hour after moonrise. There we will wait in the cover of the rocks near the pool until the sign is given."

"And what kind of sign will it be?" Arnhelm, his experienced scout asked. "The waving of a torch? Or will someone leave the city to guide us in?"

"I do not know, but I would assume that it will be a torch signal; probably from outside the gates and not from the watchtower, lest anyone sees it from the Golden Hall. Make no mistake about this, brothers: once we are on the way, we will be seen as conspirators against the crown, and our path will be a dangerous one. If there are any among you who doubt our purpose, this is the time to step back from it." He waited, and found only determination in the faces before him. The sight filled him with pride. "I did not think so, but I thank you nonetheless. The Mark needs us, and we have already waited too long to take action. Let us ride!" He swung into the saddle, and a sudden surge of energy flooded his body. The Worm had better watch out that he did not cross their way tonight, or he would lose his head before he realised who had come to avenge their people for the long years of misery…

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WHITE MOUNTAINS

They had waited patiently, not daring to attack. The horse was strong-boned and tall even for his kind, and willing to fight, answering their taxing stares with a challenge of his own each time they attempted to intimidate him. For a long time now, the pack had circled the stallion, afraid of his hard and quick hooves which came terribly close whenever one of them jumped forth in a quick feint to snap at the air to convince the great beast by their mere presence that it would be wiser to flee and leave the creature it guarded to them. After days without food, the pack desperately needed to make a kill, but still they hesitated to attack so powerful and well-prepared an adversary. Of course the horse would have made a much worthier target and provided those surviving the attack with a feast for several days, but none of the wolves wanted to be the one starving to death with broken bones somewhere in a den afterwards. So instead they had silently agreed among themselves to settle for the smaller prey; it would suffice to fill their stomach at least for a few hours and seemed less risky to obtain. Sooner or later, the great beast had to understand that it stood no chance against their combined attack and abandon the man. It was patience they needed to exercise now, not boldness.

But time had passed and twilight thickened around them, and still the horse blocked their way and seemed in no way impressed by their increasingly desperate false attacks. Quite the contrary, the last times a member of the pack had jumped forth, the grey’s whirling hooves had only narrowly missed, and the beast seemed emboldened now by its success at keeping them at bay. Apparently, there was no other way: they needed to heighten their risk or abandon the attack entirely and retrace their steps to the orc carcasses. Coming to a silent understanding, the two leaders of the pack decided to take action, and upon their unspoken signal, the others assembled in a circle around the horse and its fallen rider.

Sensing the sudden change in his attackers’ demeanour, Firefoot hammered his hooves onto the ground in a powerful threat and snorted. The wolves recoiled once more, but not as far as before, and with each of their now quicker feints they moved closer, intending to separate him from his lifeless master. Two had already met with his fury, and they held themselves in the back now, limping, but the pack was determined: they would not give up this prey under any circumstances. Working together in an elaborate plan, two wolves on either side jumped at their adversary while simultaneously, two more attacked the prone shape on the ground, and their fangs sank into the thick cape and began to drag it from the stallion’s reach.

With an enraged shriek, Firefoot turned on his first attacker and sank his teeth into the fur, but could not evade the jaws of the other wolf as they closed around his left foreleg. Encouraged by the sight of the great beast’s distress, the rest of the pack then entered the fray while two more helped their brethren with the heavy target of their attack. Their full weight behind their thrusts, they had already succeeded in moving the prone figure away from the madly fighting horse, and the smell of his sweet blood did incredible things to their empty stomachs when - without warning - their leader collapsed with a pained gasp, struck down by an arrow through his neck. Baffled and shocked, the pack turned to face the new threat still hidden by the mist.

Firefoot used the moment to whirl around, and the wolf he held still between his teeth yelped and then was forcefully thrown into a bush. A well-aimed kick found another attacker, and when the leading female fell under another arrow, the rest of the pack turned their tails and fled into the snowstorm. Firefoot pursued them for a few leaps, then halted and turned on his rear as he sent a triumphant scream after them. His bleeding head proudly lifted to encounter the new threat, the great stallion drank the cold air with quivering nostrils, and his powerful frame trembled with tension. Friend or foe, who had chased off his assailants? Would he have to defend himself and his master against something even worse now? Once again Firefoot probed the scent on the howling wind, and suddenly a loud neigh escaped his throat in joyful welcome of the two shapes emerging from the swirling snow. With twitching ears, he eagerly listened for an answer as he turned in an anxious half-circle, too nervous to stand still.

He did not have to wait for long and by now, their scents were strong enough for him to recognise. Again he called out to them, overjoyed to finally have found company of his kind. They were two stallions, a bay and a white and both of them familiar. But the scents of their riders Firefoot had only encountered once before, and he tensed again as he observed their approach with pricked ears. Friend or foe? Torn between the options of attacking or waiting, he remained still, a statue of vigilance that would burst into action upon the slightest provocation.

"So this is the end of the trail: that stallion is guarding someone; there, in the snow!"

"Are you sure it is a person? All I see is a heap of clothes."

"That is because you have too much hair in your face, and all of it has frozen over. You ought to shave it off, or you will always have to rely on my eyesight."

A distinct snort could be heard even through the storm.

"As if we dwarves ever had to rely on the elves for anything!"

"Give it a rest, you two. That is a war-horse of Rohan. He would not guard a worthless bundle of clothes against a pack of wolves." The leader of the little group dismounted with a fluent movement and then stood still, aware that the anxious stallion before them was still mistrustful and nervous in the wake of the fight. A quick glance found the man on the ground, but the stranger understood that he had to be patient. Rashness could easily result in an attack, and none of them wanted to kill a horse that merely defended its rider. Blood already marred the stallion’s grey hide running in several thin rivulets from his proud face and strong legs, bespeaking the fierceness with which the animal had protected himself and its master. And now, it dared him to approach…

"Sssssh, my friend…" the stranger said, and he lowered his voice to a soothing mumble while he held out his hand in a calming gesture, switching into Rohirric. With a faint smile, he noticed how the horse reacted at his change of languages, his ears flickering toward him while he kept his wary glance upon the others. "We will do you no harm. We are here to help your master, if you will allow it."

"I know why I don’t like horses," the shortest and stoutest of the riders huffed. "Be careful, Aragorn, he looks like a grumpy fellow to me!"

"He just saved his master from the wolves," the tall figure in front of him explained. "Of course he is not certain yet of our intentions. But see, he is listening to Aragorn. He looks calmer already."

Deciding to take his own horse along to further calm the stallion down, the Ranger slowly approached, and a distinct feeling of dread settled in his stomach as the feeling of familiarity grew stronger. Surely the majority of the famous Rohirric horses were of that colour, but he could not shake the awful suspicion that they had already encountered this particular stallion and exchanged words with his master only a few days ago. Was this the price the Marshal had paid for lending them the spare horses? It was a horrible thought.

Eying him closely, the grey pawed the ground with an explosive snort and Aragorn halted, granting the animal more time to decide that he was no enemy while he once again regarded the lifeless figure in the snow. He had registered no movement yet, but then again, there was no blood on the snow around him, either. Perhaps they had arrived yet in time to safe the warrior’ life.

"I will advance now, with your permission," he said at length, again in Rohirric. "Your master needs our aid, and I am sure that you want us to help him." Carefully, Aragorn took another step, and the stallion tensed. With a clap on Hasufel’s shoulder, he sent the bay ahead, and then advanced further. The way the two horses greeted each other indicated their familiarity, and he noticed how all tension finally fell away from the stallion and knew that he would be allowed now to approach the fallen rider.

"Is he alive?" Gimli asked from behind and then protested as the elf dismounted from their horse, leaving him alone on the unsaddled back of a beast he held no control over. At last, the son of Glóin also jumped into the snow, deciding to seize the brief opportunity to stand on his own two feet where he would not be at the mercy of the unreliable beast. Aragorn slipped his hand under the unconscious man’s hood, gently easing it from his head, and his expression darkened as he found his fears confirmed. "It is the Marshal we met on the plains with his éored. The man who gave us the horses."

Standing behind him, Legolas creased his brow as he looked down. "So he killed those orcs in the caves, but he paid a high price for his victory. I wonder what he is doing out here all by himself. Where are his men?"

"A good question. I hope they did not meet with an unfavourable fate." Aragorn sighed and slowly shook his head as he continued his examination of the fallen Rider. "But then again, we followed the trail for quite some time, and there was no sign of them before, not even on the plains. No, I doubt they accompanied him. Yet who in his right mind would roam this land alone if he had a choice?" Carefully, Aragorn ran a hand through the Rohìr’s matted and blood-encrusted hair, finding gashes on the side of his head and his brow and paused. Then he removed his gloves and at last he laid his fingers onto Éomer’s slightly parted lips to feel for his breath.

"You think that he was punished for lending us the horses?" the elf spoke into his thoughts, voicing his fears. "But didn’t he say that he was related to the King himself?"

"He also said that Théoden was no longer the man he used to be, that his mind had been overthrown by the enemy. If the Marshal’s generosity was enough to get him banished by his own kin, it is no wonder they were tense when we met them on the plains." Aragorn felt nothing, and his heart sank from fear that they had arrived too late to save the warrior. Only when he concentrated he became aware of the faintest stream of warmth against his skin, and with a quick glance at the stallion who had apparently decided that they could not be enemies if his brethren allowed them on their backs, Aragorn carefully rolled the Rohír on his back to probe for other injuries in addition to the ones he saw. "His breathing is shallow and unsteady, and he feels cold to the touch. We must find shelter quickly." He looked over his shoulder, contemplating their further course of action.

"You mean back to the caves?" Behind the thick crust of ice that covered his face, the dwarf looked as if he could easily acquaint himself with the thought, but Aragorn shook his head. Rising to his feet, he clicked his tongue for his steed to come closer and began to untie the thick blanket from behind the saddle.

"No, the caves are too far away. We would not reach them before nightfall and he will not last much longer out here. He needs aid soon, and I could not provide it for him there. We must see that we find a house, or a settlement. In the meantime, we will wrap him in our blankets."

"We will have to put our faith in the horses then," Legolas said, his keen gaze already scanning the continuation of the mountain path. Quickly he untied his own blanket and together with the dwarf, helped his friend to wrap the unconscious man in it. "They were eager to proceed since we left the cave, so perhaps they sense something that is hidden from our eyes yet."

"Then we must find it quickly." Looking down with obvious worry, Aragorn led his obediently waiting steed alongside the Rohír. "Help me to get him into the saddle; I will ride with him. Perhaps the warmth of my body will keep him alive until we find shelter."

Under Firefoot’s watchful eyes, the three companions wrestled Éomer onto the bay’s back, and at last, the little group was on their way again…

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WHITE MOUNTAINS

"Félarof he named the mighty stallion when at last he cornered the animal. And as if by some miracle, the horse understood that he was indebted to Éorl for taking his father away from him. Éorl did not know it then, but Félarof understood the language of man, and the stallion agreed to be his steed from that day on, under one condition: that he’d be ridden without tack, because even if he gave up his freedom, the father of the Méaras would not be tamed in that way. He submitted to the man on his own free will, and Éorl accepted, and since he was the most skilled rider the Mark has ever seen, he needed neither bridle nor saddle, not even in battle. And he rode the stallion in that fashion ever since."

"And Félarof truly understood all that Éorl said to him?"

"Every word of it. He could not speak our language himself, because horse’s throats are different from ours, but he knew what the man demanded of him, and he understood that it was Éorl’s right to ask this service of him in payment of his debt. It is a trait that lives on in our horses even today, and it is what makes the bond between them and their riders so strong. But enough for today, it is already late, and you need to sleep." Smiling, Freya bent over to give her eight-year old son a goodnight kiss.

The lad’s brow creased, and he exchanged a sceptical look with his younger sister at his side before he turned back to his mother. "But then why is Féllea being so difficult? I fell from her back twice today, and yesterday, she even tried to kick me. If she understands what I want, then why…"

Laughed, Freya lovingly ruffled her son’s hair.

"Ah, but do your friends do all that you ask of them, even if they understand you quite well? Or does your sister, for that matter?" She winked at the little girl who had silently listened to her tale with shining eyes, one finger ceaselessly twirling a flaxen curl that stubbornly hung into her face, and found the child’s fascinated look quickly replaced by an impressive scowl. "Oh, Edilda, you know how I mean it. Come here, Little Lamb!" She invited her daughter in her arms and laughed when Loégar, jealous of the attention his sister received, quickly pried his way into her embrace as well. Luckily, both children were still small enough to fit into her arms nicely, and Freya squeezed them affectionately, enjoying the moment of closeness. "You both know how much I love you, so you don’t need to show me your lower lip, Edilda, even if it is very pretty."

"Edilda never does what I tell her!" Loégar shot a dark glance at his sister, and she stuck her tongue out at him.

"Because you always send me for things you forgot, and you are too lazy to get them yourself," Edilda snapped at him, her little hands clenching in her mother’s garments. "Like you have no feet of your own!"

"Stop, stop, stop, both of you!" Freya intervened, releasing the children from her embrace and regarding them with the stern expression of a very annoyed parent. "This afternoon, the two of you promised me not to fight anymore, at least not today, and I will not believe that you have already forgotten my words. What was it that I said about your quarrelling, Loégar?"

The boy scowled and averted his gaze.

"That I should not take advantage of Edilda just because I was the older one."

"Very well, I see that you do indeed remember," Freya said, shifting her attention to her youngest. "And Edilda, what did I tell you?"

"That there are times to listen to my brother, too. But--"

"No "but", little Lady!" Freya wagged her finger. "If the two of you don’t learn to get along, I fear that the further adventures of Éorl and his mighty steed Félarof will have to wait."

"No!"

"Mother, please--"

"Then you must keep your promise. Your mother has a lot on her mind each day, and many tasks to accomplish. If the two of you get into each other’s hair over every little word, you make things even harder for me, and I will not have the time to think of further stories for you, nor would I want to tell them when I am exhausted from your quarrelling in the evening. Do you understand me?" The children nodded reluctantly. "Very well. We will see about that tomorrow. And now I will hear no complaints when you go to sleep. You have had your story for today and…" The young mother’s lecture was interrupted by the sudden eruption of furious barking from outside, an unwelcome sound that sent a shiver of fear down her spine as it usually indicated danger.

"Mother?"

"What is it, Mother? Who is coming?" In the six years of her life, Edilda had already witnessed too many alarms to remember, and knew just as well as the adults that it usually meant that their farm was about to be attacked by horrible things with sharp teeth. Quickly, Freya made her way over to the window. Please, Béma, not again! Barely one week had passed since the last pack of wolves had sought out their farm in a desperate attempt to find food. The winter was hard on everyone, and the wolves had looked lanky and malnourished and given up quickly once Freya and her family had stormed outside to chase them away, but still they had lost one of their valuable guard dogs in the attack. Pulling the curtain aside to peer outside, she noticed that it was still snowing, but so far, there was nothing else to see. And yet Freya knew the dogs were usually right.

"Freya? Are you coming?" a deep voice resounded from the corridor, and the next moment, Osred looked into the room, a heavy club in his hand that lent his appearance a decidedly aggressive air.

"Aye. Just one moment!" She turned back to her anxious children and gave them a quick kiss. "You two stay in here. I will be right back and tuck you in."

"Is it the wolves again?" Loégar whispered with large frightened eyes, and for once, he did not dare to mock his sister as she clutched her doll to her chest in fear.

"I don’t know; I did not see any. Perhaps it was just a distant scent that set them off. Hush, to bed with the both of you now, and this is where you’ll stay until I come back." Freya turned to go and closed the door behind her, calmed by the though of having another wall between her children and their possible attackers. ‘But what if they are orcs?’ An ugly thought shot through her head as she retrieved her trusted hayfork from the little chamber by the kitchen. Briefly she considered taking the sword she had been given by the Marshal four summers, but despite the special training she had received along with it, she still felt more secure with the weight of the massive fork in her hand.

Osred already awaited her at the front door, where he peered outside through the narrow opening. Fighting hard to control her anxious breathing and remain calm, Freya stopped behind him.

"Do you see them yet?"

"There are no wolves, but I see three horses, one of them riderless." He squinted into the diffuse darkness, his tone mistrustful. Who in his right mind travelled the mountain paths in such weather and after nightfall? Slowly he opened the door wider and lowered the club although he did not yet permit himself to relax. Looking over his shoulder, Freya felt slightly relieved that it did not seem to be another attack. In the opened door of the next building, she saw her brother Halad and his wife Fleadwyn imitate their stance, mistrustfully awaiting their unexpected visitors while their dogs barked furiously in the compound.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" Squaring his shoulders, Osred stepped out of the house and shouted over the din when the riders had advanced enough for him to see that there was something peculiar about them. Why were the four men sharing only two horses while the third one, a strong-boned, dappled grey stallion ran free? And what had happened to the man sitting slumped in front of the first horse, his head lolling with each of the horse’s steps and only held in the saddle by the strength of the rider behind him, whose features were hidden beneath a deep hood? Who were they? No orcs, apparently, but still Osred did not like it, and he jumped when Freya’s fingers suddenly dug painfully into his arm.

"Isn’t that Firefoot? Osred, that is Firefoot! Look!"

"No, it isn’t," he objected, but by now, the riders were close enough to establish that it was indeed the Marshal’s mighty stallion. So that meant that the man in front…

"Forgive us for troubling you at this late hour," the rider behind the unconscious man said, and his voice sounded both gentle and urgent. "We did not mean to frighten you, but this is an emergency." He smoothed back the hood to reveal his face, and his dark hair and beard immediately gave him away as a stranger. At the same time, there was something in his appearance that made Osred feel awkward in his presence although the expression in his intense eyes was one of kindness. "My name is Aragorn, and these are my companions Legolas and Gimli. We are friends of Rohan and were passing through, but then we found one of your warriors grievously injured on the mountain pass and decided to bring him here. I fear that he is not in a good state."

Shoving her hesitant husband aside, Freya stormed toward the halting riders with a cry of dismay.

"It is Éomer! Gods, what happened to him? And where is his éored?"

"I wish I could give you the answer to that question, my lady," Aragorn admitted, briefly gesturing for Legolas and Gimli to dismount and help him with the wounded man. "He was alone when we found him. Apparently he was attacked by a group of orcs, and while he defeated them, he was wounded and somehow tried to make it to your farm on his own. We need to get him warm at once, or I fear that he will not hold out much longer." Cautiously, he let the unconscious Rohír slide from his horse’s back into the arms of his waiting companions.

"Bring him inside, quickly!" Freya gestured toward the door, dismayed by how lifeless Éomer hung in the men’s arms. "Osred, stoke the fire! And please, take Edilda and Loégar over to Halad. They do not need to see this."

Her husband did not appear to hear her as he regarded their unexpected visitors with narrowed eyes.

"You already gave us your names, but who are you? It is obvious that you are not men of the Mark."

"Osred!"

"We are friends of Rohan," Aragorn said in looking up from the burden of the unconscious man whose arm he had around his neck in the combined effort to carry him into the house. His voice was firm, but he did not appear to be insulted by the question. Times were difficult, and it was clear to him that strangers were not easily trusted in the Mark even if they were apparently no orcs. "We are here to help. There is no need to fear us."

Freya glared at her husband in anger as she passed him and led the men inside, motioning them to the living room and the fireplace. Another door on the corridor opened and she looked at the twin girls who had heard the commotion from outside.

"This way. Wait, let me spread a sheepskin under him, first. Willa? Wyndra? It is Éomer, they found him wounded in the mountains! One of you, bring me all the blankets and sheepskins you can find, and the other one, go in the kitchen and heat water. Take a large pot, or several large pots, we will need lots of it. And we will need bandages, and the brandy. Quickly!"

"Aye, Freya." The sisters hurried out.

Overtaking the men, Freya quickly pulled the thick woollen blanket from the bench to spread it on the ground. "Here. Lay him down here." Anxiously she waited as Éomer was laid down, his head lolling in the pit of the dark haired stranger’s elbow, and she stiffened at the sight of his blue lips and the blood on the side of his face.

"Mother?"

"Who are these men, Mother?"

The little ones! Better if they did not see this. Fighting for her composure, Freya turned around and saw Loégar and Edilda standing in the corridor with frightened expressions, hugging themselves.

"They are friends, léofa. No need to be afraid." A deep breath. "Osred, please, can you take them over—"

"I will bring them over immediately, but I can only do one thing at a time, Freya!" Her husband fed the fire with an armful of dry wood while the strangers cautiously freed Éomer of his torn cape. Suddenly, he beheld the strange form of one of them: hardly taller than a tree stump the man seemed, and just as sturdy, with a mass of brown, partly braided hair in his face that was heavily encrusted with ice, and he was clad in thick armour. And the one next to him… Osred paused, picking up an even stranger sensation from the fair-haired man next to the short one. As if the stranger had noticed his unusual attention, his strikingly blue eyes went up to met the farmer’s, and the calm, self-conscious gaze of those strikingly blue eyes was the last straw to tell Osred that he was not looking at an ordinary man. Never had he felt as naked underneath anyone’s gaze; never since his adolescence had he felt more like a child again, and the sensation confused him greatly.

"Osred!" Freya’s raised voice finally woke him.

"Aye," he muttered distractedly, staring at the stranger’s pointed ears. Was that the hint of a smile he saw playing around the man’s mouth? Was his unsettlement so amusing? "I am already gone." Still bewildered, he cast a last glance over his shoulder and then picked up his children. "Come with me, you two. We will go and visit Halad and Fléadwyn. Perhaps they have another goodnight tale for you, hm?"

"Who is this man, Father?" Loégar asked, reluctant to leave. "Will he die?"

"No, he will not die. Your mother knows how to help him, but now we must leave her to it and get out of her path, because she has a lot to do. All right?"

The door cut off their voices, and at last, thick silence settled in the little room. Swallowing at the sight of the deep gashes on the side of Éomer’s head, Freya carefully reached out to touch his cheek. Gods, he felt so cold! ‘Will he die?’ It could not be. Béma, no, not Éomer!

"Éomer? Éomer, do you hear me?"

"He was already unconscious when we found him and did not wake from it during the ride. He still breathes, but shallowly and irregularly. I fear that he has been exposed to the cold for a long time." The dark-haired stranger who had introduced himself as Aragorn knelt down beside them and his hands – long-fingered, strong hands which looked like the hands of a man used to living in the wild – felt for the younger man’s breath, then slid down Éomer’s neck to feel his heartbeat. Piercing grey eyes met Freya’s in an attempt to read her expression as he unsheathed his knife. "We must get him out of these garments."

Did he expect her to leave the room? This was certainly the wrong moment for feelings of propriety, and she told him so with her gaze. Her fingers gently caressing Éomer’s brow and cheek, Freya summoned her courage and looked the man straight in the eye.

"I do not think you can afford to send me away," she said, now feeling the attention of the three strangers on herself. "I am skilled in the way of healing, and I am not easily shaken. Out here, it is I who treats my family in times of illness. I help our animals to give birth, and it is I who slaughters them when we need their meat. I do not faint at the sight of blood, even if it is that of a friend or family member." She pointed her chin at the prone figure. "He is very dear to me, and I want to help him. Please."

"Then I will not stand in your way." Aragorn nodded in satisfaction and looked up. "Legolas, Gimli…?"

"If you don’t need my assistance, I will go and see that our horses are properly tended," the Elf said with a quick glance down. In her concern for the fallen warrior the woman paid them no heed. "And his stallion, too. He was wounded in the fight. Will you accompany me, Gimli?"

"And tend the horses?" The dwarf seemed somewhat less enthusiastic, but quickly caught the hidden meaning behind his friend’s words. "Oh well, I assume it would not hurt to go outside and make sure that we were not followed."

"Very well." Aragorn drew his knife and bent over to cut the wet tunic from Éomer’s prone body. "In the meantime, we will see what we can do for him."

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(**) How Éomer and Freya came to know each other is told in the three parts of "Know Thy Place" of "The Way of a King", also on this site.