Fic, Horsesense, Éowyn/Faramir, 15

[fredbassett]

Title : Horsesense
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : The Lord of the Rings
Rating : 15
Characters : Éowyn/Faramir, Bergil
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Eowyn thinks the time has come to go for a ride with an old friend.
A/N : Written for rain_sleet_snow’s fandom stocking.

Éowyn stroked the horse’s soft nose as Windfola flicked his ears and whinnied softly, seeking out the apple he knew his mistress invariably carried.

“I think the time has come for you and I to ride out again,” she said quietly.

There had been times when she had thought the horse’s riding days were over. Amidst the slaughter on the Pelennor Fields, Windfola had fled in terror of the Witch-King and Éowyn had believed the horse to have been lost, cut down like so many other brave steeds on that desperate day but weeks later, Meriadoc brought her the news that the horse had been found, quivering with fear, eyes crazed and sides heaving, too exhausted to run any more.

Éowyn had brought Windfola with her to the glades of Ithilien, hoping that the horse would find solace there amidst wooded hills and wide valleys of Emyn Arnen. There, halls were taking shape under the skilled hands of stonewrights from Minas Tirith, but for now, Éowyn and her husband lived in simple lodgings of wood, content to work beside the people who were returning to live in their ancestral lands, now that the shadow of fear from Minas Morgul had been lifted from lands east of the Anduin. Work to raze the foul city of the wraiths had not yet commenced, but for now King Elessar had simply set watchtowers across Morgul Vale.

“Shall I fetch his saddle and bridle?” Bergil son of Beregond asked.

Éowyn laid her hand on the horse’s grey neck. “I think he is ready now.”

Bergil smiled shyly. “May I ride with your guard, my lady? I have ridden every day this past month and not fallen once.”

She returned the boy’s smile. “If your father has no other work for you, I would welcome your company.”

Bergil’s had taken to the horses immediately and had lost no time looking for work in the stables. He had spent time, as Éowyn had, working with Windfola to break through the fears besetting the animal, gentling him when he stood sweating, invisible fears tearing at his mind. She had seen men like that after battle. With time, they would often come back to themselves, but for some the road home was simply too hard to follow.

As Éowyn was about to mount, she heard quick footsteps entering the courtyard and turned to see her husband coming towards her, hair sweaty and dishevelled, a once-white shirt now stained and torn. He had been working all morning with the men on the outer wall of what would become their main hall.

Faramir raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I won’t come any closer, I stink like a ferret’s armpit.”

“Ride with us, my lord. There are plenty of streams to provide water for washing.”

Without needing to be bidden, Bergil ran to the stable to fetch Faramir’s horse, a tall bay stallion named Arroch, a horse that any rider of the Mark would have been proud to have as their steed.

Accompanied by Bergil’s father Beregond, Captain of the White Company, and four of his men, they rode out of the stockaded encampment heading up a wide valley into the hills.

Windfola was responsive and relaxed, obeying her slightest command without hesitation, once again the proud horse that had carried her untiringly across Rohan and Gondor. She stroked his neck and urged him into a run. Faramir’s Arroch easily kept pace with her, as did the strong horses that Beregond and his men. Bergil on his dun gelding rode at Éowyn’s side, watching and copying her technique to the best of his ability. The boy was a fast learner.

The wide meadow they were following started to narrow and the trees were crowding close. Éowyn’s slowed Windfola’s pace gradually back to a walk and they fell into single file on a woodland track, with Eowyn at the head of the column and Beregond bringing up the rear. The ground sloped upward, and she was making for a steep sided valley where the water tumbled over a small cliff into a deep pool.

Windfola, who until then had been calm, suddenly threw up his head and whinnied in alarm. Éowyn gathered in the reins, reminding the horse that he had nothing to fear. But he resisted and sidled sharply to one side. A heartbeat later, a black-fletched arrow thudded into a tree to her right.

A cry of pain from behind her told Eowyn that someone in their ranks had not been so lucky.

More arrows flew around them and Éowyn heard Faramir calmly calling orders to his men. Fighting from horseback in woodland was hardly ideal, and as a man rushed at her throw the tress, a curved blade in his hands, she cursed the folly of riding weaponless. Windfola held his ground, despite the yells of the attackers, and struck out with his hooves. The man was knocked to the ground, his blade dropping from his hands, and as he tried to roll away, the iron-shod hooves struck him again. Éowyn kicked her feet free of the stirrups and dismounted, reaching down for the blade. As the man struggled to rise, she hammered the hilt of the sword into his temple and he dropped like a stone.

She swung herself back into the saddle, the sword in her right hand. Controlling Windfola now with knees and voice rather than hands, she wheeled the horse and searched for their attackers. The men wore ragged clothes and looked more than half-starved, but the light of battle was in their eyes and they were giving no quarter. One of Beregond’s guards had a black-feathered arrow in his shoulder and another was on the ground, groaning, his hands clasped around an arrow in his thigh.

“Leave it, the tip might be barbed!” Éowyn instructed as she swung the unfamiliar blade in a wide arc, knocking a long knife from the hand of a wild-eyed youth who had come at her, crying aloud in a tongue she did not recognise.

He looked barely older than Bergil, and she did not have the heart to follow through with the next obvious move and remove his head from his shoulders. Around her, Faramir, Beregond and the remaining guards had closed with their attackers and had no such scruples. She did not blame them but could not find it n her heard to follow their lead.

The youth flung himself at her, teeth bared like a frightened dog. She side-stepped and swung the flat of the sword at him hard. In the same instant, he stumbled, and pitched forward. Bergil let out a cry of triumph, holding up a stout branch he had picked up from the ground that he had slammed into the back of the other’s boy’s knees. Éowyn nodded her approval, as she stood over the boy.

“Stay down, if you value your life,” she told him.

The fight came to an end almost as quickly as it had begun. Four of the attackers lay dead, a fifth – the one first struck by Windfola’s hooves lay insensible – and the sixth lay trembling at Éowyn’s feet.

“Southrons,” Faramir said, as he knelt next to Cirion, the guard with the arrow shaft protruding from his thigh. He quickly snapped the shaft and ripped a strip from the bottom of his shirt and bound the arrow in place. “We’ll let the healers remove that. My lady is right, the arrow may well be barbed.”

“If this is anything to go by, yes,” Beregond said, holding up a shaft he had plucked from a tree.

Éowyn look down at the trembling boy at her feet and her heart wept for children forced into a war not of their making. She knelt by his side and lifted his head.

“Make it quick – I beg you,” the boy entreated, in broken Westron.

“No one else dies this day,” Éowyn said. “Stand up and tell me your name.”

The boy struggled to his feet, under Beregond’s watchful eyes. “I am Lorgon. I am from the East, not the South, but I dared not risk the passage of the marshes. We lost too many there.”

“Why did you attack us?” she spoke softly, as she had done when gentling Windfola’s fears.

“Needed food. They said even one horse would fill our bellies for a week.” The boy stared at his feet, unable to meet her eyes. “They said you would cook and eat us if we fell into your hands.”

“They lied,” Éowyn said gravely. “I have never eaten the flesh of a man, and I don’t intend to start now.” At her side, Windfola stamped restlessly. Eowyn liad a hand on the horse’s rump and he quietened. “Bergil, you are never easily parted from food, what do you have here?”

“Cheese and some bread, my lady.”

“Then fetch it, please.”

When Bergil had done as she asked, Éowyn used the curved blade to cut a slice of the hard cheese and place it within a hunk of dark bread. She handed it to their captive.

Tentatively, he took it from her, his dark eyes wide and fearful.

“Eat, boy,” Faramir said, his tone kindly. “The Lady of Emyn Arnen does not lie. We do not eat those we have vanquished in war. Besides, there would be few pickings on you, were we so inclined. Now do as you are bidden and eat.

The boy took a large mouthful of bread and cheese and chewed hungrily.

“Strap the bodies to one of the horses,” Faramir instructed. “We will not leave the dead like carrion to sully these woods.” He looked over at the man Éowyn had struck with the hilt of her sword. “Bind him too, and the boy, but not until he has finished eating.” He brushed a stray strand of hair back from Éowyn’s face and said. “You have lost done of your skill, my lady.”

Éowyn smiled at him. “Once a shield-maiden, always a shield-maiden, so it seems. But I think I have learned compassion, my lord and prince. Will you extend that to our captives.”

“I do not make war on children, and I do not kill a fallen foe unless in dire need.” Faramir glanced at Windfola, who was standing quietly beside Éowyn. “It seems your horse has well repaid your trust in him.”

Éowyn reached into her saddle bag and drew out an apple. She tossed it casually in the air and split it down the middle with the Southron scimitar, catching both halves in her hand before they could fall to the earth. Her movement had been so fast that the captive boy had no time even for fear. She held one half out to him and when he took it quickly from her hand, she gave the other part to Windfola.

The horse snuffled the apple half and nuzzled warmly at her neck.

She rested her head against the horse’s neck, feeling the flush of battle drain from her.

What they would do with the two captives was a question for later. For now, they must tend the wounded.

She let the Southron sword fall from her hand and was once more the White Lady of Emyn Arnen.