Abduction in Edoras RPG

[piosenniel]

Queen Lothiriel of Rohan strove to be a conscientious ruler. She had loved the wild, verdant beauty of her adopted homeland from the moment Eomer had first brought her here, so many years gone, and had worked hard to gain the respect of these people. They had once been rough and strange to her, but now they were dearer to her than the tall, proud, sea-bent warriors of her youth.

But family was family.

Lothiriel had been thrilled to see young Linduial had arrived. She remembered her cousin only vaguely, as a dark-eyed, serious child, and the poised slender young woman who had presented herself at Court had come as something of a shock. The girl's wit, beauty, and natural charm, however, had won over the older and more mature woman in an instant. Linduial had also brought enough letters, luxurious gifts, and cheerful gossip of half-forgotten names and places to make Lothiriel feel like a girl again herself, as her cousin filled her in on the mundane cycle of births, deaths, and 'who-married-whom's for an hour, closeted in her chambers.

"When did this arrive?" she snapped at the guard standing before her, crinkling the paper he'd given her in nervous fingers.

"Only a few minutes agone, Lady. A child brought it to the door guard, said a man had paid him to deliver it, for your eyes only."

"And was the child detained? Have we a description?"

The man held out his arms sheepishly. "No, he'd run off before anyone realized it was a serious matter."

"I see." Lothiriel glanced down again at the paper in her hand, impotent anger rising quickly in her breast. Linduial was intelligent, sure, but young and inexperienced, still adjusting to life here. And this anonymous man... Lothiriel growled in anger. Eomer had spent the last fifteen years rebuilding his country, painstakingly repairing the ravages of war and treason. A calmer part of the Queen hoped, for the sake of this unnamed offender, that he was not of the Rohirrim, for if he were, she and her husband would be responsible for his punishment.

But there were other failures to deal with first.

~<*>~

Lord Eodwine's Eorling Mead Hall was in chaos. Lothiriel found Eodwine in the front courtyard surrounded by people, all of whom were shouting and talking and milling about. There was a young man whose face was a study in guilt and dejection, another was limping badly, the Hall itself was in ruins. A pretty young woman hung on Eodwine's arm, but he seemed oblivious to her in the face of whatever challenge he faced now.

In the midst of this confusion, Lothiriel finally discovered an outlet for her restless anger. As she strode into the courtyard with her guards struggling to keep up, the company fell silent, surprised at her appearance, waiting expectantly for her to speak. She gratified their curiousity quickly, as she was in no mood to waste time on formalities.

"Lord Eodwine of the Mark," she said clearly, her voice chill. "Where is my cousin?"

Eodwine visibly started. Whatever he had expected to hear, it was not that. "My queen--" he hesitated, knowing that this was going to go badly. "--I do not know. She left for the Fair this morning, and was separated from her party. We were gathered here to go search for her. But how did you know?"

Lothiriel's temper flared. "Don't bother searching for her," she snapped thrusting the letter she held at the confused man. "You won't find her easily."

Eodwine took the paper and read it through quickly, then, with a pale glance at his queen, over again more slowly, before handing it to the young woman at his side, dropping her arm and standing alone, suddenly bone-tired. The woman glanced at her Lord, the queen, and briefly at the distraught young man near her, and as the silence continued expectantly, read the letter aloud with a nervous cough.

"Queen Lothiriel of Rohan,

"Your lovely cousin Lady Linduial of Dol Amroth has fallen expectantly into my care. The expense of her transportation and care are such that I shall require a thousand pounds of gold or I am afraid her safe return shall prove outside both my means and my interest. You shall have three weeks' time before I contact you again, and I will expect payment."

"It's not signed..." the young woman faltered lamely, eyes wide with worry.

"It didn't have to be," returned the Queen, opening her palm with a glimmer of gold to show the slim signet ring Linduial wore on all occasions. She closed her hand tightly around it once more, and returned her attention to Eodwine. "You are sworn to her protection, Eorl."

The man nodded in acknowledgement. "I am."

"One of my men shall be commanding a party to find and rescue her. I shall expect you to join them."

"I will."

"It will also fall to you to inform her father of what has happened. I would suggest you not to delay. My uncle can be a harsh man when his family is threatened."

Eodwine nodded again, and Lothiriel reached out in sudden kindness, gripping his arm firmly as she spoke quietly, for his ears only. "I supported you before my Lord, Eodwine of the Mark, and I do not regret my decision. I hope you do not come to hate me for it. I still see in you what I saw before. Don't be discouraged!"

She straightened and cast a look over the disorganized rubble that had once been the famed White Horse Inn. Where the hearth had been, a new one was rising, and despite her fear for Linduial she smiled to see it. "Your hall shall be great when you have built it, Eodwine," she said. "And your house also.

"My commander shall speak to you of your plans." At a gesture, the leader of her guard stood forth, and she gave him quick instructions to take only volunteers from the eored guarding Meduseld before gathering the remainder of her guard around her and returning to her home.

~<*>~

Linduial awoke to darkness and a feeling of claustrophobia. Her head hurt, but when she tried to lift her hand to rub at the pain, she realized with a sense of panic that she was bound hand and foot. Grunting and straining, she managed to roll onto her back, grateful that her hands seemed to be bound in front of her. She tried to lift her arms in an attempt to sit up, only to realize that the ceiling of her prison seemed to be only a few inches above her. Suddenly a violent jounce sent her body slamming hard against both the ceiling and floor of the tiny cubbyhole she occupied, and through a sudden wave of pain in her already aching head, she realized she must be in a wagon. A false bottom? she wondered.

Another, rougher bounce cracked her head against the ceiling and the world closed into nothing once again.

~<*>~

When she awoke the second time, again to darkness and a rough ride. Lin's emotions quickly ran the gamut from panic to terror to hot fury. She growled deep in her throat and cast around with her feet, searching for the side wall of the wagon. When she found it, she pounded hard on it, twisting her body for the best angle, glad she'd chosen to wear hard-soled boots to the fair. When the kicking got no response, she quickly lost the remaining shreds of her temper. She screamed and shouted, chanting filthy curses in time with her kicking, wracking her brains for the worst imprecations she'd ever managed to overhear her brothers use, uttering them with a perverse sense of rightness.


She was growing hoarse when she was finally awarded by a cessation of the constant noise of the wheels. She refused to fall silent, however, and shouted the words to a particularly snotty children's rhyme in a mocking singsong, all the while listening carefully to the muffled voices outside her prison. There was a curse and a loud thump, and then a sound of footsteps on the wood above her. A click, and bright sunlight filled her prison, leaving her blinking and squinting as rough hands hauled her out of the wagon, bumping her roughly against the wagon walls.


Blinded and bound, a furious Lin refused to be made helpless. She screamed and yelled and struggled, beating her captor with her bound fists and feet. Nothing seemed to do any good. Finally, with hot tears burning her eyes, she repeated a few of the epithets she'd heard her brothers use and bit firmly down on a hand held too close.


He shouted in protest. "Why, you little--" he threw her roughly on the ground and kicked her solidly in the side. Lin moaned in pain, trying to catch her breath and roll away at the same time, waiting in terror for another kick to come.


"Stop!" The message was more welcome than the voice. Lin looked up to see the man she'd approached at the Fair, who'd called all these men to capture her, looking down dispassionately at her heaving, huddled form from the back of a chestnut horse. Her attacker lowered his foot and backed off as his master dismounted from his horse and approached the scared and wary girl.

"Watch out, Lord," he said, taking the reins of the horse. "The little witch bites." He threw Lin a hate-filled glance, which she tried stubbornly to return through a haze of pain, her body throbbing with her heartbeat like one unending bruise.


"That's no reason to damage the goods," the leader chided absently, focused on Lin. He reached out suddenly and sliced through the ropes binding her legs. Lin was operating on her last few shreds of anger, but she reacted immediately, kicking out for his head. It didn't even faze him: he caught her handily and scooped her up gently, placing her on his horse and using what remained of the rope that had bound her legs to lash her hands firmly to the pommel. Lin did not resist, exhaustion and pain finally setting in. Her kidnapper swung up behind her, her slight, slumped frame no great burden to the horse. He leaned down to speak in her ear.


"A brave stand you've made, little lass, making all that noise. A shepherd boy or two might even have heard you. But I would suggest you not try anything further. You're on my lands now, and you won't have a chance of escape."

Lin heard the ring of truth in his mocking voice. "What do you want of me?" she asked dully, exhaustion allowing fear and despair to take an unholy hold on her tired mind.


-- JennyHallu

[Taralphiel]

Taralphiel's post

Sorn blew thin rings of smoke from his long pipe, and eased himself further into his plush chair. In the corner of his spacious dining room, few disturbed him. Smiling in his hidden space, he praised himself over the flawless completion of his mission thus far. The girl had been taken with little noise and effort, and was now in his ‘safe-keeping’ in a makeshift cell in his Hall’s cellar, with a guard to avoid mischief. He had carefully drafted his letter of ransom, and no doubt the Lady Lothiriel would be reading it now. He chuckled at the thought of the ice cracking on her polished demeanour.

'Mother would not appreciate my scheming' he said to himself quietly, eyeing his hired men shuffling about outside the elaborately constructed dining room. 'Nor would dearest Father. But neither has lived to see the times of our house become so…drastic. What little land and weight in title I have needs replenishing. And this fair young maiden has that money all there for the spending.'

Sorn thought back to his performance in leading the girl off to a quiet enough place to bundle her up. He remembered the air of confidence and nobility about her. No doubt she carried herself, as she should, a true pure blood daughter of Gondorian Kings. He knew such composure was chiselled over many years of training, and though with pursed lips over how he’d watched his sister, Hild, taking such courses. Had she been alive, she would have stunned such a little girl with her grace, warmth and kindness. Hild was a true woman of Rohan, no mistake, and Sorn snarled at the thought of the injustice she suffered while she lived. No woman would have suited the King better, yet he chose Lothiriel. A bargain of peace, a gesture of goodwill, surely. Had Sorn known otherwise, he wouldn’t have believed it.

He stretched, letting out an almost feline yawn of boredom. Rising from his plush chair, he wondered what the young girl would try first to escape. He grinned again, at the thought of her pondering her surroundings in the small cell he’d built for her. She’d look for any weaknesses in the bars, and then, any weakness in her Jailor that would give her a hope of freedom. She knew the noble women of Gondor were not entirely helpless, and that she’d have some schooling in defence and strategy. She was a difficult person to keep, but Sorn was yet a few paces ahead of her.

At that moment, one of his hired men walked in, gruffly muttering a complaint. "She’s a noisy one, Lord. She’s not kept quiet since we dropped her down there. Kicking an’ yelping. A right caterwauling!".

Sorn raised an eyebrow, then said slowly "You would too, if you were locked in a cell in a strange place. Do not worry, I shall have a word with her.". A word sounded a lot less pleasant than an average conversation. The gruff man nodded, and walked out as Sorn waved him off.

He walked to a small table, and tapped out his pipe in a polished bone dish, leaving it on a small velvet cloth to be stored later. He gazed slowly into the fire, pondering the journey to his estate. The girl had asked, "What do you want of me?" before drifting into exhaustion. Sorn let her drift in sleep, his horse taking a small path towards the glittering lights of a Hall over a small hill. Before he slowed to be received by his ostler, he whispered in the young woman’s ear.

"I wish to make a little coin, true. You could not put blame for being so tempted, as you are a fine prize. But to be certain, I wish to see that ‘Lady of Rohan’ fail in her endeavours to make a Queen. I will make this as trying as possible before the end. Or, perhaps your end, whichever it may be."


------------------------------------------------------------------------


Hama of the Riddermark's post

Haleth stood outside the mead hall, quietly. His armour shone golden about his large frame and he turned many passing heads as they walked past the hall. He had been briefed by the Queen on this task. Although the Queen had placed special importance on it, it seemed to Haleth like any old kidnap scenario. Some foolish man seemed to think that he could get money by kidnapping someone with powerful relatives, not realising that the people with powerful relatives are the ones that get an entire company of eored hunting you. Unfortunately, this could not be solved by the army. Haleth ascended to slightly higher ground, before shouting loudly.

“People of Rohan! I am Haleth Reidrbrand, Commander of the Queen’s guard! I command silence!” All the talk subsided as Haleth stood tall, proud and striking, his cloak fluttering behind him in the breeze. “Today is a dark day! A relative of the Queen has been kidnapped by a nobleman who is asking for a ransom! This is beyond the mandate of the army to deal with so I ask you, loyal citizens of Rohan. If any here will take up arms to find and help this lady, you will be handsomely rewarded! Any man capable of wielding a sword or a bow, any man who is not too old or too young to ride to battle and victory! Is there any man here who will defend his country!? Is there any man here so cowardly that he will not!? Come to me, and join this noble cause!”

He stopped talking looking around to see what effect his words had had on the people. There was total silence for a few seconds, then cheering started to break out. He smiled and descended. Catching sight of Eodwine in the masses he walked over to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder, smiling widely.

“It has been too long, Eodwine. Now we will fight together once again, and by the grace of the Valar we will win. It’s good to see you again, old friend.” He laughed and drew Eodwine into an embrace, which Eodwine returned. “Blood and swords, Haleth!” he laughed, “I knew you’d be here. Commander of the Queen’s guard now? That’s quite something. It has been too long. Remember us? Two young….well, less old, men under King Eomer’s command, ready to take on the whole Mordor army all by ourselves!” Haleth smiled widely. “It wasn’t that long ago, Eodwine, but you’re right…I feel a lot older, and perhaps a little wiser.” Eodwine chuckled and slapped Haleth on the arm friendlily, “You? Wiser? Time does indeed work miracles, old friend…”

[Folwren]

Deren was the last person to follow the Queen from the yard and start back towards Meduseld. His eyes and attention rested on Haleth who still stood besides the Eorl. He knew at once that he wanted to join in the search with Haleth, but orders, said or unsaid, were orders, and he remained mute and motionless as the Queen swept by him without a glance or word, and probably not a second thought. He turned and followed her and the rest of the guard out.

The people in the streets made way for them with wide, ogling eyes. Deren was used to it, he had been part of the Queen's escort a number of times. At first he had marveled almost as much as the people themselves, though for a different reason, but now, he simply walked on without thought on the matter. It still struck him occasionally, but this was not one of those occasions. His mind was otherwise engaged.

They reached the stone stairs leading up to the Golden Hall and there Deren stopped. He halted at the lower step and stood at attention until the Queen had disappeared into the building. The men who were part of the escort still standing outside immediately fell at ease and two turned and began to talk to each other. Deren looked around him, his hard jaw clamped shut tightly as he thought.

What he wanted to do was go right back to the mead hall and tell Haleth, his commander and leader, that he wished to follow him wherever he went in this mission. What he had to do in order to do that he wasn’t quite sure. On a normal bases, he would go to Haleth for permission to leave Meduseld, but now Haleth was where he wanted to be, and someone else was in charge of him. He could report to the head of the guard. He would at least know who to ask leave of if he couldn’t give it himself. That seemed the best thing to do.

Without further debate with himself, he turned and bounded up the stairs two steps at a time. There was not much searching to be done before he found the man he looked for. Deren presented his case before him and received permission to go and without further delay he went.

This time as he passed through the streets, people did not make quite so much way for him as before. He was alone and mostly unnoticed, though a few did send him questioning glances as he rushed on through the streets. In five minutes of hasty walking he came once again the mead hall, he halted in the yard and glanced about. There were one or two people still out there, speaking in hushed voices, but the Eorl and Haleth were no longer there. He figured they had gone inside. There would be no reason to go anywhere else at the time, he figured. It was pointless to search for her among the merry makers.

Without speaking to anyone therefore, he went towards the dismantled building and entered. Inside, Haleth and the Eorl stood by a table. The young woman and young man that had been there earlier stood there, too. He approached silently from behind his two seniors and then stopped, several paces back, until he was noticed and addressed, or until the conversation stopped and he could make his presence known without interfering.

[JennyHallu]

When Sorn had leaned into her ear and told her, so calmly, of his plans for her, Linduial had gone white with terror. For the rest of the journey to Sorn's rough Hall, she had been completely silent, frozen, sitting like a statue, her body stiff as she tried to pull as far as she could from her kidnapper.

Then, roughly thrown into a dark, dirt-walled cellar roon, she had once again translated her fear into anger. What right had these men to treat her this way? She was the daughter of Lord Farlen of Dol Amroth, brother of Imrahil himself. Her cousin was the queen of this land, and all that she had seen in her short time here had spoken to the love the people of Rohan had for their King's foreign wife. What RIGHT had this man, to harm her for the sake of some petty grudge, nursed for fifteen years? She had done nothing...

Her body hurt. Lin was almost glad she had no way to clearly see her skin...she knew it would be horribly discolored, marked with cuts and scrapes and bruises. She considered with grim irony the effort she had put into the perfection of her skin, gritted her teeth through unfamiliar pain. She had to do something to distract herself. She was already filthy--

The guard stood only a few feet beyond the close-set cast-iron bars delineating her prison. She sat down on the dirt floor with a soft gasp of pain, clawing at the soil with fingernails already chipped from hammering on the wall of the wagon.

"Hey," she growled. No answer. "Hey! You!" She flung her ball of dirt through the cell walls, grinning viciously when she heard a quiet curse, confirming that it had hit.

"Do you feel brave? Manly? Guarding a pampered little girl? Making sure a little girl doesn't try to run away?" He turned deliberately away from her.

She determined stubbornly to keep it up as long as she had strength to talk. But, hoarse, hours later, when she heard footsteps on the stair, her earlier fear returned and she tried desperately to cling to her stubbornness in the face of it. When Sorn appeared, so infuriatingly calm and--amused?, she mustered her courage, spitting at his feet.

"What happened to the man I slashed?" she demanded tauntingly. "I hope he hurt. Are you proud of your little little scheme? Using a girl barely out of childhood to twist people into doing your will? Truly only a very brave man would dare to attack me." She crawled, not willing to rise to her feet, moving limply the few feet to kneel at the bars, inside the circle of the lamp Sorn had brought with him, forcing him--and more importantly his guard--to see her battered body, now that the bruises had begun to color. She caught her breath at the sight of a spreading yellow sore across her slim arm, then deliberately turned away, catching and holding the eye of the guard. Her instincts told her there was little hope in treating with Sorn. He was a dangerous man and barely sane. But if the guards could be moved to pity...

[Alcarillo]

Osfrid walked from the hall where Sorn sat in mock-contemplation, acting so deep and thoughtful about the world. It was another of those little things Sorn did that could drive a person up a wall. Osfrid felt almost like laughing at him as he smoked his fancy pipe and stroked his imaginary beard. It was almost like a joke. Osfrid chuckled quietly as he continued down the hallway, and he turned into a little doorway to the right. He entered a tiny bedroom, not as fancily furnished as the other rooms. The walls were bare of any tapestries and the chest of drawers was less ornate than the ones Sorn liked to use. On the bed sat a little woman, dressed and black and concentrating on straightening the rings on her white, bony fingers. She looked up from her jewelry when he entered and she gave an exaggerated little sigh.

"Oh, Osfrid, where were you? I've been waiting here fifteen minutes at least and I was beginning to wonder where you had gone."

Osfrid walked over to her and kissed her forehead. She giggled. "I was just talking to Sorn about the lady, Muriel," he said, "She's going to bring us a lot of money, you know, and then I can buy you all sorts of nice things. And ah, that reminds me…" Osfrid stuffed a hand into his pocket and withdrew a tiny, shiny ring.

"Oh, Osfrid, it's beautiful!" she snatched it out of his hands and left the bed to examine her present in the light of the window. "Ooh, is that a ruby?" she said. Osfrid nodded, though his girlfriend's back was still turned.

"Oh, Osfrid, I love you!" she said. She turned from the window and rushed to Osfrid to give him a great, big hug. Osfrid patted her on the back and she gently sat back down on the bed. "Wait a minute…" she said, frowning. "You didn't take this from that rich girl, did you?"

"No, honey! I would never!" After all, the rich girl wouldn't wear rings of cut glass and painted lead. "I earned it myself, when we stopped at the horse fair. I traded half of my money for it."

"Oh, Osfrid, I love you!" Muriel bounced back off of the bed and gave Osfrid another hug. He gently removed her arms, and clasped her hands at his chest.

"Muriel, honey, why don't you go unpack our luggage? We might be staying here a few weeks."

"Okay!" said Muriel and she bounced to where Osfrid's and her bags lay on the floor at the foot of the bed. Osfrid waved good-bye and left Muriel to the unpacking. Ain't she cute as a button? he thought.

Osfrid headed through the halls, whistling a favorite tune. He had never before been in Sorn's home, and naturally he wanted to get to know the place. From what he could tell, there was one main hallway, crossing straight through the main hall. Off the hallway were various other rooms, including the elaborate dining room where Sorn sat smoking his pipe. The house wasn't as big as Osfrid's childhood home, but it was very well furnished. All of the furniture was of top-notch quality. The wooden dressers and bedposts were carved out of expensive woods into curving, bulging, decorative shapes. Spotless white curtains covered each window, and tiny ashtrays of ivory or bone sat on convenient console tables dotted throughout the house. Sorn, of course, saved the best furniture for his own chambers. That's Sorn, for ya, he thought again, spending every fortune as soon as he can get his hands on it.

[Celuien]

So it was true. The innocent, childlike Lady Linduial had fallen prey to treachery. Garstan stood to the side of the group around Eodwine and Queen Lothiriel, fists clenching and unclenching in a swirl of emotion, burrowing tunnels into the earth of the courtyard with his eyes. Though used to dealing with the Queen's cousin of late, the presence of the Queen herself coupled with the flurry of thoughts racing through his head sent Garstan into a deep silence.

He struggled to sort through the chaos in his mind. The first thought was anger. Anger at the villains who could stoop to abducting a girl who was barely more than a child. Anger at their treachery to the Queen, to whom they owed allegiance and loyalty. Anger at the image of the frightened girl imprisoned by her captors. For surely she must be terrified; only a few hours earlier, she had laughed under the sunlight, holding Lèoðern’s hand in hers as they started off to the fair.

The trip to the fair. Regret now came to him as he thought of his last conversation with Linduial. He had distrusted her guardianship of his daughter. Unjustly, as it turned out. For Lèoðern was safely back at the Mead Hall, thankfully indoors taking her evening meal with her brother, far away from the announcement of Linduial's kidnapping, while Linduial was taken. Worry for Linduial should have come to him too, and he ought to have joined their party, even if only for his own satisfaction about Lèoðern's safety. Perhaps this would never have happened had another set of watchful eyes been at the Fair.

Grief and tenderness. Lèoðern would have to be told that her friend would not be returning to the Mead Hall for sometime. She would be disappointed, unhappy, and unable to understand. Garstan didn't know how to tell his daughter. The complete truth was out of the question; Lèoðern would be terrified. But if he masked the truth with a tale of a visit to friends or other such pleasantries, she could only see the disappearance as rejection. That would be unfair, both to Lèoðern and Linduial.

Linduial. Garstan suddenly realized that some of the same feelings for his daughter were directed at her as well. Odd, and yet not so. Though his attachments were generally slow to form, the quickest way to earn his trust and friendship was through kindness to his children. Linduial had certainly shown that to Lèoðern. And too, she was cousin to the Queen. Garstan had a deep love of country and loyalty to its rulers. Those so closely allied to the Queen would certainly gain his loyalty as well. Though with Linduial, the feeling went deeper through her personal attention to those dear to him.

What could he do? The impulse to run to Linduial's aid was strong. She couldn't be far away. Only a few hours ride at the most. The letter's language, and the fact that a letter had been written, indicated that her captors were most likely noble. Disgust at their black treachery redoubled at that realization. How many places could there be within a day's journey likely to hold her? Garstan was sorely tempted to seek out Eodwine at once and beg to be permitted to join to rescue party.

And yet, could he go? He had responsibilities. Lèoðern and Garmund could not be left alone and untended at the Hall. Could he leave them in another's charge? Worse, should the rescue turn dangerous, as he knew it most likely would, and should he come to serious harm or death in its course, his children would be left orphans. He couldn't shirk his responsibility to them. He owed the children his protection and care before anything else. Nor was Garstan an expert in battle. While he knew basic principles of defense and weaponry, he was a stoneshaper, and as such, had come to little experience in such matters. Skill would certainly be needed in confrontation with the kidnappers.

His mind torn in two, Garstan felt in desperate need of counseling. Who could he ask to advise him? Lord Eodwine seemed a man of intelligence and wisdom. Garstan determined to seek him out in an unoccupied moment to open the tumult of his thought, and hopefully, to arrive at a decision on his role in the events before them.

[Firefoot]

Of all the tasks Scyld had performed in his many years of service to Sorn, that of guarding the Lady Linduial was rapidly becoming one of the most trying – and, in a rather twisted sense, the most interesting. She certainly was no pampered noble to sit down and cry, begging her captors for mercy. So far Scyld had experienced something much more painful – and interesting. That word again. Yes, interesting certainly seemed the right word to describe this situation. And it positively shone with opportunity. Scyld had no idea what he might get out of all of this, but he had already put his mind to the question and was coming up with some interesting scenarios – some of them rather unpleasant. This was a crime, after all, and no small one. But Scyld figured that so long as he was not killed, he would be able to work his way out of the worst charges. If nothing else, “Sorn made me do it,” might work, and if worse really came to worst, he could always aid the captive to prove his good intentions all along – but only if worse came to worst. For now, the whole situation was the most interesting thing that had happened around here for several years.

Through his thoughts, he dimly heard a “Hey.” He did not respond, but listened in interest for what would come next. “Hey! You!” When he still did not answer, she flung a ball of damp dirt at him – flung it hard. He swore softly – this was just one more small physical injury to add to his list. At that point, she started up a tirade that lasted quite some time until her voice ran hoarse. Scyld pretended not to listen, but he eagerly sucked up any pieces of pertinent information that she offered him unwittingly – anything about her family, her relationship with other people that might attempt to rescue her, her normal life. The pieces were small and scattered, but by the time Sorn came to inspect her, he had sketched out a vague picture of her in his head, matching it up with what he already knew.

He felt rather amused at her spirited defiance to Sorn, and it confirmed to him that this one probably would not be giving up for a long time. From her brief but surprised reaction to seeing a sore on her arm, however, Scyld gathered that perhaps she was not so tough as she pretended – or was not used to being tough. He could see exactly what she was doing, of course; trying to appeal to them – or perhaps to him – with her pitiful physical state. Even Scyld had to admit that she was not a particularly pretty sight, but if this was the worst she encountered – she would live. Now, if Sorn should happen to go into a rage at her… then her chances might slim, and then Scyld might start to feel some pity for her. But like this, her obvious plea for pity instead amused him, and he allowed some of this to play across his features for her to see. She was going to have to work harder than that.

“What do you think, sir?” he asked Sorn deferentially. “Do you have any new orders concerning her?”

[Anguirel]

Before Lord Sorn could answer Scyld, their exchange was entirely eclipsed by a massive, booming report against one of the solid oaken doors leading into the grounds. Both of them apparently could guess what this entailed; Scyld assumed a weary look, and Sorn smiled sardonically.

"Well, my lady," he said, bowing elaborately to Linduial, who had also heard the sound and was looking distinctly uneasy, "it seems that you object to the valiant guardsman I allotted to your services. Perhaps you'll prefer the one who's coming to relieve him..."

A far louder crash sounded, this time as the door had been hit by a falling tree in the midst of a tempest, and the whole stucture shook on its hinges.

"Open the door to Master Gurth," Sorn ordered curtly. "Then come after me and I'll tell you all you need to know." He turned his back on the composition and strode away up into the main part of the house, his smile not once leaving his face till he disappeared from sight. Scyld swore again, rather more loudly this time, after the master was out of earshot, and then cautiously approachd and unbolted the door.

"Raarorghrangkragaa!" A vast stave of knarled oak flew through the air, and probably would have beheaded Scyld had he not been by now quite practiced in dealing with this monster, and bent double.

"Gurth," he wheedled, "nice Gurth. Sorn..."

"Sorn?" the sterterous and stupid voice responded.

"Yes, Sorn wants you to come in, Gurth, yes, like that, and do something, yes, exactly, no, in here, and then you'll get a good horn of mead..."

With desperately careful, quasi-maternal care, Scyld eased the newcomer into the darkened cellar room. The man looked like a vision of Helm Hammerhand from the old tales. He was tall, terrifyingly so, fierce, handsome and proud of glance. But his natural heroic gravitas was hampered by his fool's tunic, of green and yellow cloth, symbolising unripe wit; and by the thread of drool on his chin.

"Drink? Sorn?"

"Yes, yes. Now-you see that woman...there...in the cell..." Scyld spoke slowly, pointing, with extensive gestures. Gurth appeared to lose interest, at last crying out "Urrgh. Grendel!"

A strident bark answered this call, and an enormous dog, larger than any wolf could hope to be, bred from a she-wolf and a Rohirric mastiff, as it happened, loped in. Scyld stopped talking, paced slowly but firmly back up the stairs, and left, his parting words an emphatic command-"Stay. Guard her. Then you get mead..."

[Taralphiel]

Sorn slowly made his way down the rickety stairs leading into the two hundred year-old cellars. Its musty scent, low ceilings, and dank crawl spaces were a refuge of childhood. Now it was the stage to return his family to the wealth deserving of their name. And this far, his entire plan was working perfectly. Save the noise of the captive, of course.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the difference in light in the cellar, and Sorn studied the face of the guard. He seemed to be trying his best at indifference towards the girl, who was calling and shaking at the bars. Sorn walked to the front of the cell, and glared into her holding space.

She immediately met his eye in defiance, and he grinned widely. It was not long before she questioned him. "What happened to the man I slashed?" she began. Sorn crouched slowly by her cell, peering in at her with a strange, off-kilter expression. This seemed to unnerve her a little, but she still continued her questioning.

"I hope he hurt. Are you proud of your little little scheme? Using a girl barely out of childhood to twist people into doing your will? Truly only a very brave man would dare to attack me."

"Oh, I can assure you, Wæveth is very sore indeed. He will not cross you again. At least, not while you have the use of your limbs and a blade. Shall I arrange for him to be your guard? He would appreciate that, I am certain. Brave man that he is..."

Before Sorn could continue his taunting, he heard Scyld behind him. "What do you think, sir? Do you have any new orders concerning her?"

Sorn opened his mouth to suggest a change of guard for a moment, but his ideas came into fruition before he could air them. A loud boom came from the top of the stairs, and a crashing, and a gurgling bellow of a voice made Sorn chuckle.

"Well, my lady," Sorn eased himself up off his knees, and looked down on her coldly. "It seems that you object to the valiant guardsman I allotted to your services. Perhaps you'll prefer the one who's coming to relieve him..."

"Open the door to Master Gurth," Sorn said, turning to Scyld. "Then come after me and I'll tell you all you need to know."

Sorn, in cat-like speed, hopped up the stairs. Scyld followed, and lead the hulking Gurth down the stairs. Sorn stood by the doorway and laughed as Scyld directed the behemoth to guard the Lady Linduial, with the promise of mead as a reward. Sorn looked about the cellar, and noticed the plentiful supply of the liquid most coved by the giant. If he were able to figure out the contents of the barrels, what fun would be had! Sorn continued to laugh at his own thoughts, even when Scyld mounted the stairs and stood by him.

"Lord, is something the matter?" Scyld asked, mildly irritated that Sorn may have gained amusement at his expense. “Nothing, good Scyld…” Sorn smiled, and motioned him to follow along as he walked to his dining Hall. Finally reaching their destination, Sorn again took up his pipe and his fine pouch of pipe-weed.

"The Lady is strong." he began, lighting his pipe and taking a few, dramatic puffs. "She will try to escape. She was trying, even as we stood there, to appeal to your emotions." Scyld nodded, having obviously seen through her talk.

"She will not be deterred, until something greater than her own life is threatened." Sorn narrowed his glance at Scyld. "Bring me Osfrid. He has a lady friend, and I believe the two of them would be of great use to us now."

[littlemanpoet]

"My commander shall speak to you of your plans," said the Queen. At a gesture, the leader of her guard, Haleth, stood forth, and she gave him quick instructions and then returned to Meduseld with the remainder of her guard.

Eodwine knew Haleth from his times as King's Messenger, but before that also when they had been shoulder to shoulder often enough in battle.

"Well met, Haleth, though I wish the circumstances were better."

"As do I," the commander replied as they clasped hands.

"Let's you and I go into my rooms in a moment, Haleth. First I must see to the matter of getting word to Linduial's father in Dol-Amroth." Eodwine turned. "Degas!"

The young man came toward Eodwine, looking none too happy. Eodwine could not blame him. His eye flicked to Saeryn, whose expression was filled with concern and fear for her brother. Eodwine could not blame her either. Why couldn't the boy have kept both eyes on Linduial? It was not like he had not wished to, by all accounts. No. It would not do to blame Degas. There was someone who deserved all the blame, and it was not this young man. Nevertheless, Linduial had gone missing from under the eye of Degas, and that amounted to something.

"Degas." Eodwine pitched his voice to gravity.

"Lord," Degas murmured, his head lowered; but he had the strength of will to raise his eyes and meet Eodwine's. That was good.

"Take your horse and ride to Dol-Amroth. Inform Linduial's father of what has passed here. Tell him that I will do everything in my power to secure her freedom. Go tonight."

Degas nodded and walked to the stables. Saeryn remained standing where she was, but did not look happy; was it over Eodwine's curtness with her brother?

"Lord," said a voice near his shoulder. Eodwine turned. It was Garstan.

"Yes, Garstan?"

[Celuien]

"Yes, Garstan?" Eodwine answered the stoneshaper's tentative request for recognition.

"Lord. The search party for Linduial. When it goes, I should like to go too. But there is something that troubles me." Garstan paused, struggling to find the words to voice his fears.

"Yes?" Eodwine's voice was encouraging.

Garstan's thoughts poured out in a confused torrent. "I want to go. I have to go. I owe it to Lady Linduial. I can't stomach the thought of her being imprisoned by villainous traitors." A deep scowl crossed his face as disgust and revulsion rose in him at the mention of Linduial's abductors. "I owe it through duty to Rohan, as this matter closely concerns the Queen. And I owe you service, Lord, for your aid to me. As the task of her recovery falls to you, I must help you in any way that I can. Yet still, despite all of this, I am held back. For how, Lord, can I leave my children behind? Who can tend to them when all the folk of the Hall are away on this quest?" Though other thoughts for his children still troubled him, Garstan did not go on. He hesitated to voice fear that he would not return from the journey, even if only for his children's sakes. Garstan did not want to be thought a coward; he had not gone to war with the Riders of the Mark when all the world hung upon the brink so few years ago. Though it was through no fault of his own, he still felt shame for remaining behind.

"Not all go," came Saeryn's terse voice. "I will stay behind, and would care for the children, as well as I can, until your return."

Saeryn's presence at the Hall had not occured to him. Of course she would be remaining at the Hall. And though Garstan hesitated to leave his children, he was sure that Saeryn would be able to watch them. Garmund, too, could help check Lèoðern's more capricious whims. Saeryn would not be left with two wild charges.

"I thank you, Lady. If it is not too great a burden, I will be thankful for your aid. If I go. For I still do not know if I will. I need your advice and permission, Lord. Will you have me?"

[littlemanpoet]

"Yes, Garstan, my man," Eodwine smiled gravely, "I will have you with me, and I would be proud to have you at my side." He clapped the slightly shorter man on the shoulder. "Thornden and Garwine will remain behind, and will guard this hall. I would that I had more men at arms, but none other have put themselves forward and the time has been short. Be that as it may, I think your children will be far safer here than you will be on the chase.

"And mark you, though you may have little skill in weapons, there will be other needs along the way that your skills of mind and hand will fit to most rightly. And Garstan, I swear on my honor and lordship from the King, that if only one of us must return to the mead hall, that one shall be you and not me. So I have spoken. Do not say me nay. I will keep you safe with my life."

Garstan's eyes widened and his face reddened with emotion. He bowed wordlessly before Eodwine.

As Eodwine led Haleth to his rooms, Falco Boffin fell in step long enough to say, "That was a mighty fine speech back there to the stoneshaper. You'll make a proper lord yet."

"My thanks for your endorsement," Eodwine smirked.

"I'll keep your larder and spirits under watchful eye while you're away," said the hobbit with a wink.

"No doubt you will! Leave some for others!"

Eodwine showed Haleth into his rooms and they sat down on each side of the small table in his room.

"Would you like some wine and bread or other fare while we talk, Haleth?"

[Firefoot]

As he had often been feeling of late, Scyld found himself feeling both satisfied and annoyed with Sorn’s opinion and treatment of him. Satisfied, because he knew that meant that he was successfully hiding the best of his talents, but annoyed that he should treat him only as a messenger, one to do the menial work. Scyld knew that he could do better than this; the time was certainly coming for him to get out of this place and leave Sorn behind – but first, only if the right opportunity came along, of course, he would let Sorn know just how wrong he had been to underestimate him. But not now; the time was far from ripe.

“Of course, sir,” said Scyld, and took his leave. He spotted Osfrid wandering through the halls and did not immediately approach him; he wanted to see what Osfrid was up to. Sorn could wait a few extra minutes. After a short while it seemed quite clear that Osfrid was only exploring and not up to anything else, what with his carefree whistling and nonchalant walk. Scyld felt slightly disappointed but tucked the information away anyway: Osfrid likes to know his surroundings. He stepped out from behind the corner, allowing the floor boards to creak as he walked, as if he had just found Osfrid.

“Sorn would like to talk to you in his study,” he said. “He has a particular job for you, and your lady friend as well, I think.”

Osfrid looked rather surprised at the latter part but nevertheless responded, “Very well. Shall I fetch her, or go alone?”

“Alone, I think. Sorn said nothing of bringing her.”

“Lead the way, then.” And Scyld did so, although he disliked leading anyone anywhere; he preferred not to have anyone to his back. Not that he necessarily had anything to fear from Osfrid, but…

“So what do you think of Sorn’s house?” asked Scyld.

[Alcarillo]

"It's a fine house indeed. Not as large as my own in my youth, but just as opulent," Osfrid answered. "My Muriel has never been in such a grand house. She's enchanted by it, and says she wants to live in one just like it someday." He stroked his long moustache thoughtfully and grinned.

"That Muriel, she's as precious as any riches Sorn's got stashed away."

Scyld seemed to be listening, though his back was to Osfrid and he only turned his head to catch a glance of him. Scyld was a quiet sort. Osfrid didn't know much about him. He knew Scyld had been with Sorn for a while, and that was about all he knew.

"How long have you been here, with Sorn?" asked Osfrid.

Scyld glanced back at Osfrid again. "About thirteen years or so."

Osfrid's eyes doubled in size. "Thirteen years! Wow…" It was a surprise that Scyld hadn't gone insane yet. Though they usually got along fine, Sorn could drive Osfrid crazy at times. It was just the way Sorn was.

A few silent moments passed, and then the two came to the ajar door of Sorn's study. Osfrid bid good-bye to Scyld and, with one deep breath, entered the study to discover what sort of plan Sorn had in mind this time.

[Taralphiel]

A creak could be heard as Osfrid entered the room carefully. Sorn smiled and waved Osfrid over. "Come, come! I have a small plan I think you shall like to hear!". Sorn tapped out his pipe once more and, upon offering Osfrid a seat opposite him, took his own in front of the hearth.

"That young lady has a troublesome look in her eye." Sorn began, and Osfrid did not argue. "She will try to escape any way she can. While Scyld guards her very well, it will be quite wearisome having to keep up with her antics. Do you not agree?" Sorn pretended to wish the man's opinion, but Osfrid simply gave a mute nod. Sorn leaned forward and smiled, finally glad to reveal his brilliant scheme.

"I want you to take yourself to the Mead Hall of Eodwine. I shall give you a day or two to prepare, if you wish. There, you and your Lady will try to blend as you can, and find out more about the Lady Linduial..." At this, Osfrid looked at him quizically.

"What might we gain from this? Is that what you are thinking?". Sorn didn't wait for him to answer, but leapt up and chuckled "Apart from her pride and vanity, this little Lady of Dol Amroth must have a weakness! I wish to find a person she holds dear. Do not fret, good man, we shall not steal another person! Simply find out someone she would be sore to see hurt..." Sorn winked, certain that he understood his meaning.

"Do you agree to this, Osfrid? I can always send someone else if you object, though I am sure you'd be the best at playing the act, to put it simply..."

[Firefoot]

After parting with Osfrid, Scyld did not immediately return to his task of guarding Linduial. Gurth would be fine for a little while longer. Instead, Scyld made his way into the room adjacent to Sorn’s study, curious about Sorn’s plan for Osfrid. There was a particular spot in this room, about two-thirds of the way down the wall between the rooms… there. By some fluke in the architecture, Scyld could hear everything in the other room almost perfectly if he listened closely. He had discovered this years ago and found it extremely useful.

"…I want you to take yourself to the Mead Hall of Eodwine. I shall give you a day or two to prepare, if you wish. There, you and your Lady will try to blend as you can, and find out more about the Lady Linduial. What might we gain from this? Is that what you are thinking?" At this point, Scyld heard Sorn get to his feet, and tensed, ready to break from the room. He had no business in here, and now was not the time to be caught. “Apart from her pride and vanity, this little Lady of Dol Amroth must have a weakness! I wish to find a person she holds dear. Do not fret, good man, we shall not steal another person! Simply find out someone she would be sore to see hurt..." Scyld nodded to himself. Of course; this made perfect sense and was not wholly surprising. Having found all he wanted to know, he slipped out of the room.

Before going to relieve Gurth, he found a half-full bottle of mead – not nearly enough to make Gurth drunk, or even to make him tipsy. He knew that there was plenty of the stuff down in the cellar and could have saved himself some effort by just getting it from there, but he felt no inclination to let Gurth know where all the beer came from. Scyld had seen Gurth drunk a few times before and did not care to repeat the experience. The idiot was exasperating enough when you could communicate with him; when he was drunk he became downright dangerous. Scyld also found a light this time to take down into the cellar; he did not care to spend all his time guarding Linduial in the dark. He left the bottle at the top of the stairs as incentive to get Gurth out of the cellar and descended once more into darkness.

Both Linduial and Gurth looked up at his descent, but it was Gurth who spoke first. “Mead?”

“Yes, Gurth, it’s upstairs,” said Scyld, as always feeling as if he were talking to a particularly dull child. His lip curled in disgust as he pointed. “Up – stairs.” After a bit more prompting, Gurth figured it out and off he went in search of his mead. His monstrous dog, if dog it could be called, thankfully followed him. While not precisely afraid of dogs, Scyld certainly did not like them, least of all this one of Gurth’s.

He noticed Linduial watching this exchange with a faint smirk on her face. Scyld met her look with a blank stare and commented, “Enjoyed your time with the good master Gurth, did you? Perhaps if you are very good I shall let him get drunk next time. A right little party you two could have down here.”

[littlemanpoet]

The plans Haleth and Eodwine made left much to be desired. Search parties number at least three each would be dispatched throughout the Emnet. Eodwine had insisted that they should comb the Middle Emnet first; Haleth had wanted to send search parties farther afield on the grounds that there was no knowing where a criminal might take a hostage. Whereas Eodwine allowed this, he held that it was a poor use of their limited manpower to send parties so far afield while there was so much area to cover closer to home. Haleth allowed that as well, but cut through Eodwine's argument with a pointed statement.

"Save men all you like, Eorl, but if she's not in the Emnet, searching the whole of it has done you no good."

"Aye, that is so. But I doubt me she is far away. Who that lives afar would have known that Linduial was in Edoras?"

"That, Eodwine, is a good question that would help us narrow our search afield."

"Then I will leave the answer to be found to you. I being Eorl of the Middle Emnet will keep my searching in it."

Haleth rose. "I will think it out. I will pinpoint the folk or places far afield where those who live might know the goings on in Edoras. Then I will go to the queen and king and ask for men."

"So be it." Eodwine rose and opened the door, and allowed Haleth out.

Standing ill at ease in the hallway was a guard from Meduseld. Eodwine recognized his face, but had to think a moment before the name came back. Deren.

"I greet you, Deren." The young man looked expectant and hesitant both at once. "What may I do for you?"

[JennyHallu]

“Enjoyed your time with the good master Gurth, did you? Perhaps if you are very good I shall let him get drunk next time. A right little party you two could have down here.”
Lin's worried gray eyes followed the pair of beasts nervously as Gurth and his dog ascended the stairs, but the look she threw in Scyld's direction was scornful.

"Your master is more a fool than I thought, to use such a creature. No tool is Gurth, but a liability to any task that needs doing." An acknowledging spark in her jailer's eyes told her he saw the truth of her assessment. Lin was feeling curiously--detached. Yelling and screaming and fighting did not work; her pathetic appeals to right feeling could not work: not with that brute, nor with this amoral, logical man standing before her cell, appraising her coolly. If she met someone else...then perhaps.

"You surely know that this cannot go well for your master, in the end?" Lin did not look at the man, but instead used the scant light to examine the wounds on her body, wondering if a request for a healer would be granted by her captors. "It can only end three ways: I am ransomed, I am rescued, or I am killed: and from none of those will you escape the consequences. You are a mere lackey in Sorn's eyes; do you think he will have loyalty to you?"

Scyld smirked at her. "You'll be ransomed, or, more likely, killed. And they'll never know it was us."

Lin fought off the sudden chill that threatened her at his words. You cannot be afraid! If you are afraid you cannot act! "Are you sure? I made a lot of noise today. Are you sure no shepherd or travellor heard, and remembered? And the men Sorn surrounds himself with are not the type that cannot be bought..." And you not least, she didn't say.

~<*>~

Torim Ploughman felt only relief when he topped the last rise and saw the lights of Edoras twinkling in the dark of a perfect spring night. It had not been an eventful trip, but a long one afoot, and it was good to see his goal ahead.


Only one really untoward thing had happened: crossing over-field to make shorter work of his sojourn in Lord Sorn's land, he'd looked down into the road to see a curious site. Sorn and a group of his roughest men were gathered around a loaded hay-waggon, black looks on nearly every face. The expressions were fairly usual for that crowd, but the hay-waggon confused him. Sorn had never shown any interest in the farmers of his land before: in point of fact the man was notoriously neglectful. Why would he be escorting a hay-waggon? And wasn't he supposedly in Edoras for the Fair? Had Torim known the man was in his own lands, he'd have chosen a different route.


Suddenly his mind registered muffled thumps and soprano shouts coming from the waggon and he froze, running over all the blacker rumors he had heard of Sorn. Better he stay out of this one. His own small farm was too close to Sorn's lands for comfort, should it ever come to the Lord's ears he'd spoken of what he'd seen here. He backed slowly down the hill, confident at least that he hadn't been seen by any of the men in the road, and continued on his way.

[Folwren]

Deren waited a long time. He paced the distance of the hall, he thought, at least a hundred times. He began to count his steps as he went, and then he counted the tiles beneath his feet. When the door opened at last, Deren turned and walked forward, stopping several feet off to once side. Eodwine, exiting the room, saw him at once and stopped to address him. Deren was surprised that he remembered his name.

“I greet you, Deren.” There was a short pause, and Deren wondered if he was supposed to say something. Haleth stood behind Eodwine and waited, too. "What may I do for you?" Eodwine asked then.

“Well, nothing exactly, sir,” Deren said at once. “I was coming to tell the commander that I want to be part of the search party, if you will have me.” His dark eyes flicked towards Haleth briefly and then settled on Eodwine again. “I understand that the Queen’s cousin has been abducted and the Queen is anxious to have her back again. I am willing to do anything to help in this endeavor and follow Haleth, or you, whoever is to take the leadership, until our goal is achieved. Will you have me?”

[littlemanpoet]

"You are with us then!" Haleth said, and glanced at Eodwine, who gave no indication of gainsaying him. "Eorl Eodwine outranks me, so it is his choice whom you are with, Deren."

"I will have Deren with me," Eodwine said, "if that does not displease you, Haleth."

"Meduseld has men enough," Haleth replied, and left them.

Eodwine looked Deren up and down quickly. He seemed eager and well equipped. "Tell me, Deren, what is your skill?"

[Folwren]

Deren watched Haleth for a moment as he left and then turned his eyes back to Eodwine. The man glanced him over quickly, before addressing him. “Tell me, Deren, what is your skill?” he asked.

“With weapons, sir, I’m best with a sword. I have a fair shot with a bow and arrow, but I’m sorry to say I’m no good with a spear. I’ve been part of the guard for twelve years now, sir, and have been under Haleth’s command for the last four. I can hold my tongue when asked (though not so well when not asked) and follow orders without question. I’ll go where you lead, even if it be to death. I’ll swear upon my sword that I’ll be true to you so long as you are my commander.”

As he finished, he laid his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it, should the Eorl bid him to. His eyes shone with the loyalty that he felt and he knew that he had not just made a rash promise to man who would abuse his allegiance.

[Alcarillo]

The idea of donning a disguise and worming his way into the lives at Lord Eodwine's hall appealed greatly to Osfrid. To Osfrid, there was nothing better than to create a new identity and play the part, whether it was to scam poor saps out of their coins or, as in this case, to pry into people's private matters. It just like a play to Osfrid, and he was the star of the show.

"Do you agree to this, Osfrid?" asked Sorn, "I can always send someone else if you object, though I am sure you'd be the best at playing the act, to put it simply..."

"Oh, I'll certainly do this, Sorn," Osfrid told him, standing from his seat, "Snooping and spying are my specialties."

"Excellent! How soon are you able to leave?"

"First thing tomorrow, if Muriel can repack everything quickly enough! And I assume we may take the cart with us…?" Sorn nodded yes, and Osfrid clapped his hands together in satisfaction. "Well, then! If you'll excuse me, I have to tell my Muriel about our little plot."

He wheeled out of Sorn's opulent study, with a wide smile across his face. Sorn's plan had not been as extravagantly maniacal as he had expected. In fact, Osfrid was pleased both to escape Sorn for a while and to get to know Lady Linduial's friends and family. And Muriel would like to see the city again. Osfrid and Muriel, along with Sorn and his gang, had only stopped in Edoras for a day. Once Lady Linduial had been kidnapped, they headed out of town as quickly as possible. Muriel had been disappointed not to shop as much as she had hoped to at the horse fair. Another visit to Edoras would make it up to her.

Osfrid came to his and Muriel's small room at the hall's end. He entered and found Muriel laying clothes out on the bed. Her back was turned, but she heard the door creak and his footsteps cross the threshold.

"Osfrid, is that you again?" she said, not looking up from her work. She finished folding a black skirt into nice, square package and then turned around, hands on her waist. "Oh, Osfrid, it is you. I was just folding our clothes. Tell Sorn we'll need another chest to hold all of it." She picked a tunic from a pile of clothes on the floor and folded it in the air.

"No need to worry about unpacking, Muriel dear!" he announced, walking briskly towards her, "We're headed back to Edoras! Just us two!"

Muriel's face immediately brightened. She skipped over to him, throwing the tunic onto the bed behind her. "Oh, Osfrid! Like on a holiday!" She threw her arms around Osfrid's broad shoulders and sighed. "Maybe the horse fair will still be there."

"I'm afraid it might be over, honey," Osfrid said, "But we still can buy plenty of nice things at the market." He wrapped an arm around her waist and guided her over to the bed. They sat down, not minding the clothes arranged across it. Osfrid's voice took on a less cheerful tone. "The real reason we're going, dear, is because Sorn wants us to learn about the rich lady's family and friends."

"You mean like…spying?"

"Honey, it'll be fun! We can invent new names for ourselves, and pretend we're different people!"

Muriel still looked skeptical, "But- but can we still shop in the market?"

"Of course, my dearie," said Osfrid. He leaned across the bed to kiss her on the forehead. "Now, let's start repacking all these clothes! We need to look like travelers. We can leave tomorrow, if you'd like."

[Celuien]

Garstan was left alone in the courtyard, half bowing, his face flushed.

If only one of us must return to the mead hall, that one shall be you and not me. I will keep you safe with my life. So had spoken Lord Eodwine. The words echoed through his head, an incessant rattle to trouble his thoughts. He wandered into the Mead Hall, only half aware of what he was doing, and shut the door of his room behind him.

So I have spoken. Do not say me nay. He could not refuse the oath. Though in a way, it seemed too much to ask. For was Garstan not the servant, Eodwine the lord of the Mead Hall? It should be the place of the servant to defend his lord. Or so thought Garstan. Yet, how could he have refused, even had Eodwine not commanded it? It was a generous deed, and to check the kindness so freely offered to him would have been a grave affront. Garstan bent his head downward, deep in thought.

Then he looked up. There was only one way to repay Eodwine's kindness, though he knew he could not speak of it to the Eorl. Secretly, he vowed to see to Eodwine's safety. If the Eorl could vow to protect Garstan, so Garstan could vow to protect his Eorl. With the resolution made, his mind could rest at ease. Eodwine need not know. He smiled. Surely if they watched for each other's welfare, no harm would come to either of them. There was no need for either to fall in this task.

A battered canvas bag came out from a corner of the room, and Garstan busied himself with packing it with clothing and provisions for the journey. His eye fell on a small kit of tools. He thought for a moment. They wouldn't add much weight to his pack and might be useful. He added them to the bag's contents. Then Garstan opened a small wooden chest. From inside, he withdrew a long dagger, sheathed in a plain leather scabbard. Removed from the scabbard, the blade shone brightly in the room. His eyes glinted as he resheathed the dagger and slipped it into his bag. Let the kidnappers try what they wished, but no harm would come to Linduial, Eodwine, or himself. Not while his arm had strength left to strike a blow.

The door opened behind him. "Father? What are you doing? Are we leaving?" The voice was his son's.

"No. We aren't leaving. I am."

"Why?"

Garstan hesitated. How much should he reveal to the child? He decided to tell Garmund everything. He would, after all, have to take a father's place to his sister while the mission lasted. It was only fair that he understood why.

"The Lady Linduial is held for ransom by traitors. I go with Lord Eodwine and the company from Meduseld to recover her."

The boy's eyes grew wide.

"Do not fear! I will return. We all shall return. Justice shall be done. But say nothing to your sister. That burden should fall to me. Now I charge you, Garmund - take care of her! For you must play the part of father to her while I am away. Saeryn remains to look to the folk of the Hall. You must aid her too, for she will be guardian to the both of you until my return."

Garmund nodded solemnly. "I will do as you say." Then, with a sudden swelling of emotion, he cried out, "But hurry back! We will miss you while you are gone."

Garstan's hands rested on his son's shoulders. "It won't be long. I promise. Now, where is your sister?"

"Away with Kara."

"Then let us go to them."

Garstan allowed his son to lead him to Lèoðern. He dreaded to tell her the news, first of Linduial's disappearance, then of his imminent departure. But the task could not be avoided, and he thought of what to say, his heart sinking within him.

He told her, fumbling for words, struggling to speak past the little girl's tears and puzzled stare. With a final assurance to her - to both of the children - that everything would be solved, that everyone would come home safely, he took Lèoðern on his hip with one hand and held Garmund's hand in his other, and brought them back to their room for their last night together before the journey.

[Firefoot]

“And the men Sorn surrounds himself with are not the type that cannot be bought...”

“And by that you mean me, I suppose?” asked Scyld sardonically. “You might as well say it. Diplomacy, I suppose they call it where you come from, Miss Linduial? Or perhaps it is Lady Linduial? Perhaps you think to win me to your side diplomatically. But I am not a diplomat, and what is more, Lady Linduial, I know where I stand. You do not even completely know where you stand, and diplomacy is best used with knowledge, don’t you think?” He smiled in his smirking way. He had certainly learned a great deal listening in on Sorn’s conversations over the years; let Linduial wonder. “But as I was saying, you need not be diplomatic with me. Perhaps you think I would beat you for that? Then you are a worse judge of character than I thought. Sorn probably would not notice a few more bruises… despite how you like showing them off… but I am not a violent man. I only do what is necessary.”

Scyld could see that he had caught Linduial’s attention with his speech, many more words than he normally strung together at one time. But he had made it his personal duty to find out more about her – and not all of that information would go to Sorn; in fact, most of it would not – and if she found out a little bit more about him in the mean time, that was all right, and it may even help. But there was more to it. Scyld was genuinely enjoying this conversation, and not just sadistically. He had had scarce enough intelligent conversation during his time here with Sorn – after all, who all was there to talk to? Gurth, the great volatile imbecile? Sorn, his unstable employer behind whose back Scyld was almost constantly plotting? The other lesser employees that came and went, few of which were even a close match for his intelligence? But Linduial certainly did not need to know this, and Scyld could not resist another attempt to goad a reaction out of her.

“You know, perhaps in different circumstances we might have been friends, you and I, or I might have ended up in your employ.” He caught her look of thinly veiled disgust before she again assumed a more bland look. “You do not think very highly of me, I see. But that is well, since I do not particularly highly of you pampered nobles, either.”

[Taralphiel]

Sorn smiled as Osfrid agreed, and left his Hall. Seating himself back in his chair, he grinned. Another plan unfurling well and another way to keep the feisty Lady in line. With one eye open and the other lazily closed, he surveyed his room. Fine wood carved chairs, detail tapestries, and even a stone bust of his mother adorned the room. Truly, there were few homes so fine in this land. And from the glimpses Sorn saw of the new Mead Hall in construction, there would be few to grow to match it either.

Sorn completely closed his eyes and yawned, stretching his legs out slowly. Sorn did not afford himself more than a few small snatches of sleep a night. He had come to trust his servants little. His spirit was most at ease around the hulking Gurth. This thought made him chuckle. 'Truly, he would not scheme against his Master' he thought to himself '...though, he would me more likely to crush me with his fist purely on a drunken whim. At least his intentions are laid bare for all to see...'

A creak of the floorboards, and Sorn's eyes snapped open. His dark, clouded gaze draped over the room again, searching for shadows or lurking servants. Nothing but the cold night's winds easing against the wide, solid building. Sorn let himself slip into remembrance of his childhood within these walls. If it were possible, the Hall looked even finer then. He was dressed in a new coloured tunic almost each day. Seamstresses, teachers, gardeners, cellar-servants, and all manner of workers used to bustle about the warm halls. Watched over by his warm and caring mother. He would race about the corridors and rooms, leaving his tutors flustered. He would listen to his father's official 'business', and watch his mothers’ kind instructions to the gaggle of cooks in their kitchen. These things all seemed so harmless to him then.

His mind then skipped forward in strange sequences. He remembered his mother's pale hand being tucked under a thin white sheet, his father's weeping and his newborn sister's cries. He remembered his sister, much older, weeping in front of a man delivering news of their father's fate at Pelennor. He then remembered his sister’s face growing haggard, steely, and empty of feeling. She would wander the corridors, looking over the memories of her father, and feel her soul yearn to know her mother…

Sorn shook his head violently, waking himself from the threads of sleep weaving about him, along with the threads of the bitter past that seemed to find home in his dreams. He stood, and muttered to himself "Something to chase away the boredom..."

Sorn left his Hall, and followed the grumbling and rumbling through his house. Eventually it lead him to Gurth, the hulking servant Sorn had found one night in a drunken stupor. Sorn smiled as the great man turned his way.

"Sorn!" He gurgled loudly.

"Aye, it is I, good Gurth! A grand evening to you, and to you Grendel!" The dog let an indifferent bark Sorn’s way at the mentioning of his name. Sorn sat on a large full keg at the back door of his house. He watched Gurth try to consume the contents of a small barrel of mead, spilling a good half of its contents over his chin and filthy tunic. Sorn cast a glance about where Gurth sat, and noticed three other containers of mead emptied, and another to go! Sorn snarled inwardly. His men had been overindulging with the great Gurth yet again. He would deal with them later. Now was not the time to keep Gurth from his drink.

Picking up the last barrel, he passed it to the drunk slumped man, and he gratefully took it with another wide grin, and a chorus of "Sorn! Mead!". Sorn could not help but smile at the simple joy this man took in his drink. And the bitter realisation that he, of all his hired help, was the most loyal. Nevertheless, he would not be kept from his plans. His men would help him, or suffer the consequences.

Pushing that thought from his mind, he tilted his head at Gurth, and with a playful smile posed him a question.

"Tell me Gurth, did you enjoy guarding the Lady Linduial?"

[JennyHallu]

JennyHallu's post

Lin's face twisted briefly with her scorn when Scyld suggested she might have hired him, and when she replied she didn't even try to keep the emotion out of her voice. "That Sorn would hire you is but another sign of his foolishness. Never hire a man you cannot trust." She paused, thinking. But if he betrays his master, it might run to your good. Then again, it might not. All the same, Lin, do not overly antagonize him. You might need him yet.

Stiffly, Lin walked to a solid wall of her cell and slid down it to sit on the dirt floor beside the bars. She put her weight for a moment on her left hand, lowering herself down, and cried out in pain. She'd thought it only bruised. Apparently it was broken. She cradled it to her chest, wondering anew if she could ask for a healer, or if she could trust any "healer" Sorn might keep in his hall. Hopefully Scyld hadn't noticed her injury, and she could think through what to do about it.

"A pampered noble? That is how you see me, and it justifies this?" She gestured with her right arm to indicate the bars, and the cellar, and her jailor, leaning indolently against a cask of wine.

He grinned at her, a mirthless smile on a cruel face. "Prove me wrong."

Lin shrugged, in the process finding a new bruise on her shoulder. She repeated the gesture carefully. Just a bruise. Good. "I cannot. I am a 'pampered noble'. I cannot help my birth, though, and brothers are just as like to pamper a farmer's daughter as a lord's." She smiled to herself. "It is a poor tactic, to charge a girl of seventeen summers and youngest child of being pampered. It is the natural order of things, to a degree."

Scyld sneered. "The natural order? Have you ever done real labor? Have you ever killed a man in fair battle? Have you ever stood at risk of losing your life and livelihood to a fool and been helpless to defend yourself?"

Lin supposed Scyld referred to the experience of a poor tenant farmer on an unscrupulous man's land, but could not help but laugh a little morbidly. "As for the latter, yes!" Then she turned swiftly serious and her eyes flashed. "And to your first question I answer with my own. Have you ever stood responsible for the lives in your domain through famine and war? Found them food and shelter? Gone without so that others, lesser than you, perhaps, but no less valued, might live?"

Scyld was silent, and Lin ranted on, using her hands to emphasize her words. "As for killing a man, no! I am innocent and a maid, and I hope I never have to. But I have never harmed a living soul, and I have certainly not stood guard over a child. Be proud of your servitude if you wish, and I shall be proud of my nobility, as long as it is true."

She leaned back against the wall, fighting an urge to cry. Her wrist was shooting jabs of sharp pain up her arm, and she finally gave in to it. When she next spoke her voice was soft and almost petulant with pain. She cursed herself mentally for showing her weakness to this man, but had no choice.

"I think my wrist is broken."

~<*>~

Marenil walked stiffly towards Eodwine's rooms, where the plans for Lin's rescue were in full swing. He knocked softly on the door, heard a muffled sound that might have been a "come in" and entered quietly, bowing at those gathered within. "My lords Eodwine and Haleth," he began, tears sparkling in the corners of his eyes. "I find I must trust you implicitly to find Linduial. I seem to have grown old while I wasn't paying attention. But I wish to do summat to help."

Eodwine smiled at the older man. "Will you accompany young Degas back to Dol Amroth, then? He'd probably appreciate having you along for 'protection'."

Marenil sighed heavily and took the chair Haleth proffered respectfully for him. "No, lad, I won't. I've been meaning to speak with you about it, but the opportunity hasn't come up. I've gotten two letters since arriving here. The first was to tell me my wife, Eru love her, has passed away, and the second released me from my service to Lord Farlen. And with Lin here, and the lads all grown up, and me own lad working as steward, there's no place for me there. No work for me. I've been meaning to ask you if you might have a spot by the hearth for an old plowhorse like me. I'm not as spry as I used to be, but you've got plenty of spry lads and lasses about. I'm experienced."

Eodwine looked to be trying to say something, but Marenil held up an age-spotted hand and continued on, eyes fixed on the desktop. "And if ye accepted me into your household, I was going to offer to watch your business for ye while ye were agone. That way young Thornden could run along to help Lin, if he wants, or finish the rounds of all those farms you own now, and you wouldn't have to worry about a young colt under the halter of this cart you're trying to drive here."

Now he stopped and turned his dark grey eyes up to Eodwine, waiting for an answer.

[Firefoot]

“I think my wrist is broken.”

Scyld raised his eyebrows at the abrupt change in topic. He knew that she probably wanted a healer of some sort, but that certainly was not within his power to grant, even if he really wanted to. Which he didn’t, not necessarily. He considered a simple snide, You’ll live, but thought better of it. He didn’t want her to hate him, after all. A little bit of provocation might be enjoyable, but it was not his goal to make her as miserable as possible.

“I highly doubt that Sorn would care much if I told him,” he said instead, and knew it was true. Sorn might laugh, or maybe even punish him for bringing such a trifling detail to his attention.

“Nor do you, I suppose,” she half-whimpered, half-snarled.

Scyld laughed, but not at her predicament as she might suppose. “See now! Already you are learning to dispense with your diplomacy.” He could feel as much as see her glare. “As for caring… well, I guess I have not decided yet. And if I did, there really would not be very much I could do. Certainly I could not – or would not – send for a healer, not without Sorn’s permission, which I would be entirely reluctant to ask. And I doubt you would care for me as a healer. I have only slightly more experience with injuries than with ‘standing responsible over lives,’ as I believe you put it.” Still she did not respond, and Scyld realized that it was very real pain that prevented her from speaking, not just another act. Pain was a difficult thing to deal with, if you are not accustomed to it… Scyld started at this thought. Or perhaps it was not so much a thought as his twelve-year-old self talking to him. He had been a different person then.

“Listen,” he said. “I can’t get you a healer. Your skirt is certainly long enough; why don’t you rip of some strips of that and try to wrap up your wrist? I can’t help you; Sorn would notice of the knot was too neat, and right now…” He shrugged. “My life over yours.” He considered the vast supply of wine and beer kept in the cellar. “But maybe if I’m feeling charitable, or if you beg enough, I’ll slip you some wine – or something stronger, perhaps? – with your next meal. It might take the edge off the pain, anyway.” And to even his own surprise, the jeering edge had disappeared from his voice.

[JennyHallu]

Lin looked up, the change in tone enough to pull her attention away from her hurts. "I--I would be grateful." Her voice was soft, and she met Scyld's eyes for the first time without defiance. "I will try to wrap it...but I do not know how. Perhaps..."

She fell silent, trying to think of a way to get her a healer that would appeal to Sorn's selfishness. "If I am ransomed, and it has healed wrong, it could be a reason for my family to continue to search for Sorn, and my father's resources are great. Could that perhaps sway him?"

Scyld seemed to be thinking about something, and while his gaze was intense, his answer was non-commital. "Mayhap."

"And it wouldn't take any great skill." Lin winced, forcing herself to examine the break with her other hand, manipulating the ends of the bones--only one of the bones in her arm had broken, and it seemed to be a clean snap--Eru! that hurts! "Just a bone-setter. Someone with experience of battle-aid..." She realized suddenly that she was begging, and cut her words short, schooling her face back into its usual calm, with only a tightness about her mouth to reveal that she was, truly, in a great deal of pain.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Firefoot's post

“So you do beg. Very well; wine or some such you will have with your meal,” he allowed, “but I would not count on any kind of bone setter.” He said no more, and he thought he heard a soft sigh from Linduial.

After a while, Scyld heard the soft ripping of fabric and saw that she was indeed trying to wrap her arm, though it clearly caused her a great deal of hurt. She might be doing only what she would call necessary, Scyld mused, but there were some who would not have done nearly what she had. She called herself a child, and in many ways she was, naïveté not least, but she was resourceful, too. Altogether an interesting person.

[littlemanpoet]

It was morning. Eodwine led Deren and the others toward Meduseld, where those who would search for Linduial were gathering. He thought about his exchange the previous night with Marenil.

"It shall be so, Marenil," Eodwine had answered, and thusly Marenil had become his second steward for the time being. The old man had thanked him with a bow, and betraying how deeply moved he was over Lin's absence, he wiped at his eye with his thin hand, and had left the room.

Eodwine had offered for Thornden to come with, as Marenil had offered to stand in his stead while they hunted for Linduial, and Thornden had been eager.

So it was that they marched to Meduseld, where they were met by Haleth's men. He also thought about Saeryn and the words they had exchanged even later last night. He still felt her hands in his, and remembered his words to her, that they might help each other find those they had lost. In the bright light of morning, such imaginations seemed like dreams. There was a job to do.

They approached Meduseld. Eodwine was surprised at the number of men that had accepted the call to find Lothiriel's cousin.

[Anguirel]

Gurth and Grendel usually slept together in a vast hut, like a kennel made for some great and terrible Warg. Here they laid themselves down upon pallets of straw, and Gurth laid his cudgel as a bar across the door so that nothing would disturb their sleep.

This was their usual custom. But on the night after Linduial's arrival, Gurth had, as was occasionally his wont, exhausted himself by his drinking and unwitting jests before Sorn. His massive form had collapsed in stupor before the lord of the dilapidated farmstead, who had watched with some fondness as well as diversion the subsequent events. Grendel's hackles had risen as he prepared himself for a trial of strength, and he had firmly, yet gently, dragged his enormous master from Sorn's hall 'till he reached the stone corridor. Then, with a whine, the wolf-mastiff had settled himself on Gurth's prone form and also settled to sleep.

Gurth thus woke up with his physical sensations-that was, his main paths of commerce with the puzzling life dominated by those smaller than him-in some disarray. His neck ached from sleeping in his involuntarily odd position. His head did not so much ache, as coruscate, not that Gurth bothered trying to articulate the pain. He picked himself up with some initial difficulty, but soon regained surprising balance and grace, avoiding smashing his head against the disagreeably low ceiling.

"Grendel," he uttered hazily, and heard the answering bark. Some half-entrenched form of communication prompted him to nod slightly in reply. Then he looked around for his oaken weapon, and when he had found it, man and dog hurried, without another thought, outside. Outside no restriction was upon them, and they gambolled, ran, barked, grunted in total innocence. True, others stayed out of their way and wisely so; but when Gurth killed on his meanderings over the grounds, as he often did, it was never out of malice.

And so they wandered, and Gurth let out strange sounds that sounded almost akin to song, and were echoed in the uncontrolled barking of his companion.

[Folwren]

Thornden was shocked and appalled when he heard of Linduial’s kidnapping. He had learned of it the evening before when, after saying goodnight to Lys, he had gone in search of Eodwine to give him his day’s report. The Eorl had sat at a table, a single candle lighting the room about him, his head resting in one hand looking more dejected than Thornden thought any man had a reason to. But when Eodwine told him the news in his quiet voice, even more soft than ever for the weariness in it, Thornden understood entirely.

He had been quick to offer his help in the search for the lady, and Eodwine had smiled. “Yes, I knew you would want to come,” he said. “Merenil did, too.”

“Merenil!” Thornden said, puzzled by the statement. “What do you mean? What did he know?”

“He has offered to stay behind and act as steward in your place as well as mine, so that you would not have to remain behind.”

Thornden didn’t know quite what to make of that, but he hadn’t argued. He did want to go, and yet, it was his responsibility, really, to stay behind. He voiced the opinion, but Eodwine put his fears to rest and told him that he wanted him by his side during the search for Linduial.

So the next morning he had risen before dawn, as did Garstan and Eodwine. Thornden was pleased that Garstan would be with them. He was a level headed man who’s wits and experience would be welcome. They went to the Golden Hall and there met up with the rest of the search party. Thornden sat his horse to Eodwine’s right and a little behind and there waited for things to begin to take place.

“Well, Thornden, I’m glad to see you here!”

Thornden turned and looked and saw approaching him Deren, one of the guards with whom he had an acquaintance. He nodded his head and smiled a bit. “Hello, sir,” he said. “Are you coming with us?”

“I am, indeed! But I had thought,” he said, stopping by Thornden’s mount and placing his hand on the horse’s shoulder, “that you were lord Eodwine’s steward.” He sent him up a rather piercing and questioning glance. “Why aren’t you staying back at the Hall and acting like one?”

Thornden’s smile became a little larger. “The Lady Linduial’s man offered to take my place. I don’t know exactly why, but he has and so I’m free to join in the chase. Who’s leading?”

“Haleth and Lord Eodwine,” Deren replied, turning about and looking towards the two leaders. They were speaking together a few paces away. “Together with united efforts, they should be able to track down the kidnapers, bring back the lady, and punish the villains quite thoroughly.”

Thornden looked at him, an eye brow raising “Anxious to see justice done, are you?” he asked. Deren’s naturally sharp features became sharper still as his jaw clenched momentarily and his little eyes flashed fire.

“When I think about the girl in the clutches of any man, I can not help but be anxious to see justice done. Petty deeds happen all the time and the poor brutes are hanged or punish otherwise, but no act of theft or breaking into a house and burglarizing it is half so bad as this. Can you imagine, Thornden, what she might be going through?”

“I don’t want to,” Thornden said, wishing he had cut him off sooner. “She’s practically just a child,” he said, catching Deren’s eyes. “She doesn’t deserve this, even if she is royalty.”

“Even if! You speak as though it were a crime!” Thornden rolled his eyes heavenward momentarily and sighed. He didn’t answer this accusation and instead asked:

“When do we start, do you know?”

[Firefoot]

Scyld awoke the next morning feeling stiff from the awkward position he had fallen asleep in against the cellar wall. He had been intending to bring down some kind of pallet for himself but had never gotten around to it and had felt too lazy to go and find one the previous night. He regretted it now, as he had fallen asleep with his back to the niche between the wall and one of the many wine kegs adorning the cellar. The lantern had eventually gone out and Scyld could not see whether Linduial was awake. Without checking he stood up and climbed the stairs; he was relieved to find that it was still early and he had not overslept in the darkness of the cellar.

Scyld took his own breakfast in the kitchen. The overworked cook had clearly already been up for a while, and would undoubtedly be busy all throughout the day. If it wasn’t cooking, it was cleaning, and Scyld did not envy her job one bit. When he had completed his own meal, he put together a small meal for Linduial on a tray: a portion of eggs, a slice of bread with a scant amount of butter, and a glass of water that he would spike with mead in the cellar. Scyld had received no specific orders concerning her meals, only that he was to bring them to her, and he figured that moderation would be the safest bet in case he ran into Sorn.

And he did just that. On his way back to the cellar, he walked past Sorn’s office and was stopped by his voice. “How are you faring with the Lady Linduial? Has she quieted down any?”

Scyld took this as an invitation to step into the room, and he saw that Sorn had a few unusual items out and was looking at them: a knife, a doll, a basket… of course, those would be Linduial’s. Scyld averted his attention, not wanting to show too much interest. “She had quieted down considerably and has been little bother; she seems to have realized that she will get nowhere by struggling.” After a pause, he added, “There is one thing that she seems rather stuck on, however.”

“Oh?” Scyld could not tell whether Sorn was really interested or not.

“She is convinced that her wrist is broken.” Scyld smirked as if this was quite the joke, and in a way it was - any healer who came around would obviously ask questions, something certainly to be avoided. Scyld knew Sorn would not agree, but he wanted to see how he reacted. Besides, now he would be able to tell Linduial that he tried – marks in his favor; he did not have to tell her how he had asked. “And she actually thinks that you ought to get her a healer to set the bone.”

[Taralphiel]

The morning had eased itself in, and Sorn had retreated to a small study that used to be a haven for his father. He had rushed in there late on the night before, and deposited the Lady Linduial's beongings. Locking the door behind him, he had made sure none of his minions gained a wandering hand on the items. They could be useful for bargaining a price.

Sorn ran his eyes over the items. A small straw weave basket, only part filled. In it were a small rag doll that looked of humble but kind craftsmanship. Surely this was not the Lady's posession. He concluded it could only be a gift. This made him smile. He would mention it to Osfrid before he left. He picked up the next item - a knife. He nodded, noticing the small brown stain of dried blood. The Lady had fought to get free with this blade, and Wæveth had unluckily caught it. Sorn had let the man brood with a small keg of ale overnight, and would get him back to his duties today.

Sorn picked up the blade and studied it carefully. It was of good workmanship, strong and cold. Linduial had no doubt picked it up at the Horse Fair, where many craftsmen showed their wares on the past day. He wondered again where this item was intended to go. Gondor made truly fine blades, and this woman had no need for them. These items turned thoughts around in Sorn's mind, and he made intention to question Linduial about them.

At that moment, he heard movement by the door. Scyld was walking past, and Sorn saw he was carrying a tray of food. He neednt ask who it was for, instead letting out another quick enquiry.

"How are you faring with the Lady Linduial? Has she quieted down any?"

Scyld paused, then walked slowly in, still carrying the tray. "She had quieted down considerably and has been little bother; she seems to have realized that she will get nowhere by struggling." Scyld seemed to stop and think a moment on the past night, then began again. "There is one thing that she seems rather stuck on, however."

"Oh?". Sorn did not look up, still eyeing the blade. He deducted Scyld must have heard something from the Lady, and finally gotten the courage to mention it. This amused him greatly, but he did not show it.

"She is convinced that her wrist is broken. And she actually thinks that you ought to get her a healer to set the bone."

Sorn raised an eyebrow, and gave a small smile. He placed the knife gently on the table, and stood up. He looked at Scyld squarely, and over the meal he had prepared for her. Did he detect sympathy under his smirk? He hoped not.

"Well, that is certainly a pity. You shall tell the Lady Linduial that if it hurts her so deeply I shall set the bone for her. See how she reacts."

[Firefoot]

Scyld chuckled. “Very good, sir. I shall.” With that he took his leave. As he continued down the hallway, however, he mentally reprimanded himself. He did not like the measuring sort look Sorn had given him with the last remark. He should not have said anything. He would have to remember to keep his own amusement out of the picture of keeping his own skin whole throughout this kidnapping, especially while he was figuring to be playing both sides. You play a dangerous game, and you had best play it with care…

But the exchange had not been entirely detrimental – the knowledge of Linduial’s things could prove useful indeed. If they proved valuable enough to her – and the knife had certainly appeared fine – the news of her things given at the right time just might tip the balance in his favor.

Speaking of knives… he checked to make sure the one hidden under his right sleeve was loose in its sheath. Although Linduial had made no escape attempt the previous night when he brought her dinner, he did not like opening her cell door, and would not be caught unprepared should she try to make an escape. After talking with her, he would not put it past her, as foolish a move as it might be.

He reluctantly descended once more into the cellar. He saw that Linduial was now awake and looking alert.

“I have a message with breakfast for you,” said Scyld conversationally, the words accompanied by his wonted smirk. “How did Sorn put it, now? Something like if your wrist hurts so badly, he will come down himself and set the bone. And I would not count on Sorn’s skills as a healer.” As he talked, he took her glass and added some wine to it. He then set it and the breakfast tray down before standing to unlock Linduial’s cell, and he wondered briefly why Sorn had not thought to make some sort of slat meant for the exchanging of meals. It would certainly be easier that way. He heard the lock click as the door opened. “Breakfast is served,” he said mockingly.

[Alcarillo]

Osfrid woke before Muriel did, and to his disappointment found that the sun had already risen. The journey to Edoras and back would be long, and daylight was valuable. At this rate, they might even need to spend the night in the city. But at least that would give Osfrid more time to investigate the residents of the mead hall. Osfrid dressed, and afterwards crouched near the bed to awaken Muriel.

"Wake up, Muriel," he whispered, shaking her gently, "We have to get ready for our big trip today to Edoras. Don’t you want to go buy some jewelry in the markets?"

She woke and groaned, but rolled over and began to sleep again. Osfrid patted her on the head. "I'll be in the kitchen eating breakfast. You just come when you're ready."

He left the tiny bedroom and entered the hall. He spotted Scyld darting far down the hall with a tray of food in his hands, but the rest of the house was empty in the early morning. He walked down the hall to the kitchen, in the part of the house that once quartered dozens of servants. He passed by a few doors of those rooms, now only housing Sorn's henchmen when they stopped by. The entire hall was horribly silent.

Osfrid reached the kitchen and entered. It was long and high-ceilinged, with an enormous hearth at one end. A giant cauldron hung over the coals, though they were cold and the cauldron empty. The only servant present was the cook, a very fat woman chopping carrots at one of the kitchen's long, juice-stained tables. She glanced at Osfrid with a look of disgust and swung her knife at the carrots more fiercely.

"Hello, there," Osfrid said, smiling and inching forwards. The cook grunted. Osfrid continued, "My special lady friend and I are in need of some victuals for a long journey we'll be making today. Once we dine on breakfast, we would very much appreciate it if you could prepare some food for the road."

The cook grunted again and turned her enormous back to Osfrid as she began to prepare breakfast. Osfrid took a seat at one of the tables nearer the door, but immediately stood when he heard the door swing open. It was Muriel, dressed in one of her black dresses and yawning loudly.

"Oh, Osfrid, I had such a funny dream last night!" she said, "There was a winged cat and everything!" She took the seat next to Osfrid's and saw the cook down at the other end of the kitchen. "Is she making breakfast? I'm hungry."

"Yes she is, dearie, and I'm hungry, too. She'll also prepare some food for us during our travels. It's a long trip you know." Osfrid sat down beside Muriel and watched the cook's back for a few moments as she waddled around the tables. "You know, Muriel, we will need false names while we're at the mead hall."

"Oh, yes. It's a spying mission," she said, winking and giggling.

"Yes, dearie, and we need to be very careful that they don't discover our true identities. I was thinking late last night about this, and I've decided to go by the name Bertwald. You must call me Bertwald the entire time we stay at the mead hall, okay? If you call me Osfrid accidentally, bad things will happen, dearie, and Sorn will be angry with us."

"Yes, Osfrid," said Muriel, but at that moment her eyes looked away, "Oh, look! Our breakfast is ready!"

The cook waddled forward, with two plates of eggs in hand. She slid them across the table and cast Muriel a dirty look before waddling back to her side of the kitchen. The eggs were, to be truthful, not completely cooked, and a bit cold, hinting that the cook had prepared them earlier in anticipation of hungry lodgers. Muriel and Osfrid took only a few bites before deciding to push their plates away.

"Ew," said Muriel.

"Now, dearie, don't say that! Those eggs were delicious," Osfrid told her, casting a glance at the cook, "But we have more important things than eggs to take care of. Firstly, what do you want your false name to be? I was thinking of Cyneburg. It's a pleasant enough name, but not too fancy or too simple. What do you think?"

The cook, from across the room and with her back turned, said "My name is Cyneburg." Muriel furiously shook her head.

"I want to be called… Hilda." she said after a few moments of thought.

"Hilda it is, then!" exclaimed Osfrid, "Now, Hilda, if you're finished with your breakfast, I'd like you to find one of Sorn's men and have him prepare the cart for us. I saw Scyld headed toward the cellars. If you find him down there he may be able to help you. As for me, I have to inform Sorn that we'll be leaving soon." He and Muriel stood, and headed for the door.

"Oh, Cyneburg!" Osfrid said, "I'll be back soon for the food you're preparing for our journey." She grunted, and Osfrid and Muriel exited the kitchen.

[Firefoot]

Haleth emerged from Meduseld to find the company of his men that he had gathered to find Linduial waiting. Standing on the steps so that everyone could see him, he held up his hand for silence. He had done some research since he had talked to Eodwine, and had come up with some ideas for at least starting to find the filth that had kidnapped the Lady Linduial.

“First of all,” began Haleth, once the crowd was quiet, “I extend the Queen’s and my thanks to you for showing up today. Your willingness to serve in this venture is appreciated. However, before we can go riding off to rescue the Lady Linduial, we must have some idea of where she is being held. To do this, I require two things of you. First, I would have a couple of men stationed at the gates to Edoras; all travelers entering the city should be questioned about whether they have seen anything suspicious on the road. Secondly, word must spread through the city of this vile kidnapping; it should also be known that anyone with word of the kidnapping will be rewarded handsomely.” After going into further detail and divvying up roles, Haleth sought out Eodwine, who he had spotted near the back of the crowd.

“I have gone through the records of the king,” said Haleth after they had greeted each other, “and have come up with this list of perhaps ten men who might have been stirred to commit the kidnapping.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Eodwine. “A couple were eliminated almost immediately either by myself or the queen or king for various reasons. I believe there are five or six names left? I thought we might start here in looking for our kidnapper. Have you any suggestions?”

[littlemanpoet]

Eodwine was quiet as Garstan, Thornden, and Deren talked among themselves. There was much his mind was turning on.

Eorl of Middle Emnet who can't even keep a guest out of harms' way. It was a good thing the Queen had turned the search for Linduial over to the capable hands of Haleth, for Eodwine was at a loss. He had talked with great confidence last night to Haleth about what they must do, but now that he thought over what had been said, he realized that Haleth had probably just been picking his brain and been playing trickster's advocate. Eorl of Middle Emnet who can't organize a proper search party, who freezes with indecision and shock at the cropping up of bad news. Something bad happens, Eodwine, and you lose all your mien. You fake. You belong on the open road with good Flíthaf, not in a Mead Hall playing at lording it. Fool of a Messenger. You should have kept to your lore keeping. He sighed and kept a bright appearing face so that his three cronies would not notice his foul thought.

He had dreamed of Kayðra again. He wished he knew surely whether he had found her corpse, or whether he had merely dreamed it fourteen years ago. He saw clearly the charred remnants of the farmstead, saw burned into his thought the blackened bodies three, of wife, daughter, and son. Surely he had not dreamt it?

He barely felt that he could put his mind properly to the search for Linduial, so weighted he felt with two nights of dreams in a row of Kayðra. Was she alive, telling him to come find her? Or was she merely a ghost suddenly haunting his dreams? If a ghost, why? Were the dead jealous of the living? Was she warning him away from Saeryn?

Haleth was speaking. Words of thanks and the piecings together of a plan.

"What?" Eodwine said, "He's calling me?"

"Yes, lord," said Thornden.

Eodwine made his way forward through the crowd; the other three were close on his heels. It seemed Haleth had a list of names. It was something to do with the search for Linduial. Likely kidnappers? Haleth was asking for suggestions as to what to do? Eodwine's thought was too far flung. He hardly knew what he was being asked. He cleared his throat.

"I defer, Haleth, Eoredlord, to your wisdom in the matter. I am yours to command as you see fit."

[Folwren]

Thornden followed Eodwine forward to where Haleth stood waiting. He listened in silence as Haleth pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Eodwine, explaining what it was. He watched Eodwine carefully as the Eorl numbly unfolded the piece of paper and hardly glanced at it.

“I defer, Haleth, Eoredlord, to your wisdom in the matter. I am yours to command as you see fit.”

Thornden remained still, standing upright and rigid as a couple of years as a guard had taught him, but in his mind, he wondered what troubled Eodwine. He knew, from the wall toppling down the past week, that Eodwine took much blame upon himself when something went wrong, but it was also his way to take the responsibility in recovering what he had lost, or setting to rights what had been damaged. Now he appeared reluctant to do so.

No, not reluctant. Thornden looked quizzically at Eodwine’s face. Not reluctant. He wanted very much to get Linduial back. It was something else. But Thornden didn’t know what.

Thornden pulled his thoughts away from Eodwine. Whatever the problem there, it could not be addressed now. He had to think on the kidnaping of Linduial now. His eyes riveted to the paper in Eodwine’s hand. As he perused the names, he turned over in his mind what Haleth had said.

‘I thought we might start here in looking for our kidnapper. . .’

Someone touched his shoulder and he turned his head sharply.

“I’ve been added to list of people going to the gate,” Deren said, jerking his head towards a group of men preparing to leave. “Tell lord Eodwine, won’t you?”

Thornden nodded. “I will. Good luck.” He watched as Deren walked away. Deren joined the men and then the entire group went off down the street, towards the gate. Thornden turned back towards Eodwine and Haleth. Haleth was speaking to another man, answering some question. “My lord Eodwine,” Thornden said quietly, close to Eodwine’s ear. Eodwine looked up. “If I might be so bold to make a suggestion - I don’t think that we would accomplish much if we walked up to these men’s homes,” he indicated the paper, “openly hostile and demanding to search their place. They’d jump to the defensive at once and we wouldn’t be able to learn anything.” He stopped a moment. He had not thought of what they could do instead of that.

“I don’t know what we’d be able to do, though,” he added after a short moment of silence between them. “I think that it would be a good idea not to rile anyone up before we have any evidence against them.”

[Celuien]

So there was a list of possible suspects. That was encouraging. Garstan had been puzzling over how go about finding Linduial. He was certain that anyone daring to play a game of kidnap and ransom with the Queen would also need great cunning. A man that clever would be hard to unearth without leads. More fascinating - and disturbing - was the idea that a list would exist. Disloyalty among the nobility of Rohan? Not all of noble blood, it seemed, were of noble mind, and sadly, this was not limited to the kidnapper.

Still, Garstan was certain that the guilty party would be on the list. Anyone treacherous enough to attempt this plot must have been noticed in a time suspicious enough to generate lists of potential troublemakers. Indeed, not all evil came to an end with the War.

Five or six names. He wondered where the owners of those names lived. Garstan remembered the short space of time between Linduial's disappearance and the ransom note's arrival. She must, he reasoned, already have been secured in the kidnapper's lair when the note was sent. To wave such a letter under the Queen nose before the victim was well hidden would have been foolhardy. Lothiriel would surely react by sending a search party as soon as the letter arrived. She had done so. And the kidnapper must have accounted for that in his plan. The more he thought upon the matter, the more Garstan was convinced that Linduial was already locked in the kidnapper's prison when the letter started on its way. That meant she couldn't be more than a half a day's journey, by horseback at least, from Edoras.

Thornden and Eodwine stood close together, speaking in low voices as Thornden pointed to the list. Garstan, thinking that he might have hit upon a point of some importance, went to join them. He felt more comfortable with them than the Haleth. All made him uneasy to an extent, as he was keenly aware of his lack of military experience and lower rank compared to the rest of the party. At least he knew the Eorl and Thornden from his stay at the Mead Hall. But still, he was uncomfortable with the thought of interrupting their discussion, and so stood a little to the side, far enough from them to avoid unintentional eavesdropping, and close enough to attempt to interject his thoughts when an appropriate chance came.

[Firefoot]

“Scyld?” A woman’s voice drifted down to the cellar from the top of the stairs. Before responding, he gave Linduial a sharp look that glanced from her to the glass of wine-water and back. The meaning was clear: If anyone finds out, you will pay.

“Yes?” he replied, walking to the bottom of the stairs to see who it was, since she didn’t seem to have any intention of coming down. Then he recognized Osfrid’s lady friend – Muriel, he recalled. She was looking down into the dark cellar with a peculiar expression on her face – a mixture, perhaps, of fear and distaste.

“Osfrid said to get you to hook up the cart. I don’t know how,” she explained.

“Very well,” he answered, contrary to his thoughts: Too good to hook up his own wagon, is Osfrid? He ascended the stairs and led Muriel out to the stable without attempting to strike up a conversation. He noticed that Muriel’s nose wrinkled as they entered the stable, confirming his opinion of her. Osfrid did have rather poor choice in women – there wasn’t any fight in this one at all – simple-minded, liking her comforts… Scyld thought of how very dull his job of jailer would be if Linduial were like Muriel. In fact, he realized, if Linduial wasn’t the pampered noble she was, she might actually be a rather nice sort.

Scyld went about hooking the horses up to the cart wordlessly and efficiently. He had no particular love for horses in themselves, but he had done enough stable work in his years here to know his way around the stable and be comfortable with the horses… unlike Muriel, he noticed, who appeared to be half-expecting one of the horses to tread on her foot or take a bite out of her any minute. When the cart was ready, he decided it would not be a good idea to leave her with the horses and settled himself in to wait for Osfrid to appear.

[JennyHallu]

Lin woke from a restless slumber to faint sunlight slanting down from a high vent in the opposite wall of the cellar, and falling with little warmth across the bars of her cell. She reached blindly for the pitcher of water she kept beside her bed, her hand grabbing at empty air before she remembered where she was with an unpleasant start.

The cell was spring-morning cold, and the air coming through the vent blew fitfully against her body, still clad in the light linen gown she'd donned for the fair the day before. Glad no guard seemed to be around, she used the cracked chamberpot that had been provided for her, and shoved it carefully under the cot, making sure not to spill. No one had yet come to clean it out, and she hoped they would soon, before it began to smell.

Wrapping the thin blanket around her shoulders she sat on the edge of the cot, using the wan light to inspect the bindings on her arm. She hadn't done too bad a job the night before, actually, but she untied the knot and unwrapped it, inspecting the damage. Her wrist wasn't quite straight, and this worried her. If she did get out of here, she wanted the arm to be usable still, after it healed. She tried to ignore the dark purplish welts swelling to prominence, aware that there were far more hidden under her gown, and a certain tightness around one eye spoke to yet another. She wondered briefly if she could set it herself, remembering her painful examination last night had shown her the breaks were clean. She had once watched her father's surgeon setting her brother Farahil's broken arm, though, and remembered how he'd bound the arm to straight bits of wood to hold it steady while it healed. She had nothing like that...unless...

She turned, searching under the bed. The floor was dusty, but bare. With a sense of disappointment she started to turn away, but the corner of her eye caught and held on one of the slats holding the straw mattress. With a strong heave she managed to lift the mattress onto a shoulder, reaching down awkwardly to pull at a slat. The weight of the mattress made her usual graceful movement impossible, but, getting her fingers under the edge of the slat, she lifted it and knocked it awkwardly onto the floor.

Too long. The slat was too long. Gritting her teeth she slipped her fingers firmly under one end of the slat and stepped down hard near the middle. Lifting with a grunt, she fell back unbalanced onto the bed as it broke. The short fall jostled some bruises, but she looked down at the slat in triumph. Now all she had to do was set the bone, and bind it tight.

Lin was trembling in anticipation of this coming pain. She grabbed the bar of the cell tightly with her injured hand and pulled very very slowly back, feeling her progress with her good hand. To her surprise, the pain really did not much increase as she did so, and as she carefully settled the bones back where they properly went, she felt almost a feeling of relief. It hurt, by Eru it hurt, but she could bear it. If she had to. She placed the arm firmly but gently against the bed slat and bound it firmly down with yesterday's wrapping, using her teeth to tighten the knots, making sure she could move and feel her fingers. As she straightened up, she heard the footsteps in the cellar behind her and spun rapidly around. Scyld stood there, with a tray of food. Eggs and some cold ham, it seemed.

“I have a message with breakfast for you,” he said smirking, but it couldn't quell her triumph in this moment. “How did Sorn put it, now? Something like if your wrist hurts so badly, he will come down himself and set the bone. And I would not count on Sorn’s skills as a healer.”

Lin grinned thinly, humorlessly, lifting the set and splinted arm to Scyld's gaze like a challenge. "Tell that yrch he can fall on his sword," she said, answering the smirk.

Scyld did not answer immediately, entering her cell to set down the tray. He took her glass for a moment as he left, and when he handed it back to her through the walls of the cell, she could smell the wine that had replaced most of the water he had brought her. She gripped his hand for a moment as she took it, aware of the risk he ws taking.

"Thank you," she murmured sincerely.

A feminine voice at the top of the stairs called Scyld's name, and they both turned towards it like children caught out of bounds. Scyld threw her a warning look and left before the woman could come down.

Lin watched him go with a half-smile on her lips. No need to fear this getting found, she thought, knocking the glass back and gulping down the contents before setting ravenous to the cold and ill-cooked meal as though it were a feast in her honor.

[Taralphiel]

Sorn sat a while longer after Scyld left. He studied the dagger Linduial had used again, smiling before placing it gently back in her basket. He stood, taking a key from his vest pocket, and locked the door to the study. He kept all of his finest things in there, and in better times, all of his land titles and fortune. Placing the key back in his pocket and patting it down, he decided to go for a walk.

The long hallway where the study sat was a central of three long passageways in Sorn's estate. The first had a larger room at it's beginning, so that one entering would be lead to the left, and to Sorn's long hearth that stretches almost the width of the front of the House. At the end this first hall connected to the outside, and a path to the stables. This hallway also had the one entrance to the cellar where Linduial was being kept.

Sorn walked to the front of the central hallway, cutting through the hearth and taking the long route to the back of his house. He enjoying casting an eye into his servants rooms, making sure they were well kept and nobody was up to nonsense. Reaching the end of this first hallway, Sorn stepped out into the chilly air.

Looking forward, Sorn could see some bustling in the stable. The door was heaved wide open, and he could make out people readying a cart. 'Ah, Osfrid is preparing to leave' he thought, and stepped onto the stone path to give the man and his woman a few last orders.

On his way, he saw a figure, lumbering slowly through the cold. He grinned. Gurth rambled along, his dog barking at his heels. It seemed that the drink of the night before had yet to clear Gurth's thick head. Sorn stopped and smiled at him.

"Good Morning dear Gurth! You were given too much last night, I fear. You should set to the kitchen and get some bread for you and your hound. You look to sorely need it!"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Degas rode with a bitter resignation to his fate as messenger, his entire being aching, rather, to be a member of the rescue team.

He would find the tip that would lead them to the very gates of the fiend's home. That way blocked, he would use his copious amounts of wit to discover a hidden entrance. Moving silently as darkness, he would guide his team through torch lit halls crawling with potential doom. Making their way to the cavernous dungeons, he would spot Linduial. As he'd move toward her, the fiend himself would jump from the shadows and engage him in battle. Swords would clash, daggers would lash out, and Degas would end the battle in a way that legends would later depict as marvelous and kind, disarming the cruel beast that had stolen fair lady and arresting him for the crime with no injury to him. It wasn't, after all, for Degas to meter punishment for the crime. He would look up, Linduial, clad in flowing white, would meet his eyes... He would take the keys from the monster's belt and move to her. Her shackles would fall and she would throw her arms around him and--

Degas hit the ground with a resounding thud. His horse was dancing nervously, stamping at the ground, whinnying. Degas rolled to his feet quickly, rotating the shoulder he landed on and rubbing it as he circled his horse carefully.

She'd never bucked him in her life and he'd raised her from infancy. There, before in the road, was a large snake, coiled and hissing. He shivered at the sight of it, glad there were none present to see what he was about to do.

Grasping her firmly by the reins, Degas led a wide circle around the serpent. Move it? He shivered. He'd only ever dealt with snakes when Caelyn had asked of it. Saeryn had no fear of them. She was fascinated by their sleek scales, the quick darting motions of their tongues. Degas would rather they did not exist, but for the sake of his pride, he would pretend no fear in the presence of others. He rubbed his horse's nose softly, whispering soft reassurances as they avoided the snake together. Once further, and certain of her calm, he mounted once again and continued to ride.

Perhaps a few more hours before his arrival, he thought. He reached into a pack for some dried meat and an apple, guiding his mare with his knees. A few more hours before he informed Lord Farlen and his sons, all of whom Linduial spoke of with great love, that she was missing and the fault was his own.

[Folwren]

Deren walked with three other men down the sloping streets towards the gates. Two of them carried spears. Deren and one other, both of which had never acquired the ability of using a spear well, walked behind, their swords and daggers by their sides. They said next to nothing as they marched. People silently made a way for them, staring with wide eyes at the grim and stern faces.

They found the gates opened, as usual, and the two guards left to watch it sitting on a great rock just by the wall. They both leaped to their feet as they saw the four men approaching and stepped quickly into their places, suddenly in rigid attention.

The formost of the men, Lystholn come with Deren walked to one to explain their appearance. "You've heard of the kidnapping of Lady Linduial?" he asked. The man nodded stiffly. "We've been sent to add extra guard on the gates, to try to spot any questionable characters coming in or leaving."

"Are we being kicked off duty, then?" the man asked, a flash of what may have been eagerness darting over his face.

"No. We've merely come to add men. We're to question every person who comes into the city about whether or not they have seen anything suspicious out on the road or anywhere."

"Ha. Not like they'll answer if they've a hand in it!" the guard scoffed.

"Perhaps," Lystholn answered coldly. "People who don't have anything to do with it, peasants, rich travelers, anyone, will speak up if they know anything. That's all I hope to acquire. Yet we might hope for some good luck. I think that if anyone does know something about it but doesn't choose to tell we may be able to notice some. . .discomfort while we put the questions to him. Take your posts. Fyn and I will stand outside."

He was obeyed. The two original guards stood back and allowed Lystholn and Fyn to pass through to take up their place outside the gate. Deren and his other companion stationed themsleves opposite the first two guards. Now all they had to do was wait until the first traveler came seeking to enter Edoras. Deren leaned his shoulders back against the wood of the gate post. All they had to do now was wait, and no one knew how it would be, or how many people would pass through, before they gained any real information or something they could use.

[Anguirel]

Gurth ceased his strange attempts at song as the Master hailed him, holding up a massive hand in salute. At his feet, Grendel also slowed, panting in a gargantuan manner, its great pink river of a tongue lolling out from between its daggers of teeth. Gurth assumed a solemn...practically noble...expression as Sorn addressed him.

"Good Morning dear Gurth! You were given too much last night, I fear. You should set to the kitchen and get some bread for you and your hound. You look to sorely need it!"

At the sound of "kitchen" and "bread", Gurth nodded gratefully, like a drowning man thrown a line or an invalid offered a cure by a doctor. He yanked Grendel along by the scruff of his neck, who came willingly enough, quite tolerating treatment from his owner which would have been instant death to any...less proportionally sized. The giant shook his head, his yellow locks tumbling back impressively, and he smiled widely.

"Sorn," he remarked amiably as he passed his lord, who returned the gesture with an almost fatherly smile. When the colossal Fool reached the farmstead's pantry, he found a fine breakfast laid out for him; bread, certainly, but also a specially huge flagon of goat's milk and a wheel of goat's cheese, as well as a haunch of ham to be shared between man and beast. As the loyal retainers felt the food settle in their stomachs, they stretched contentedly, knowing that never would there be any such Master to treat them so kindly.

But Gurth was not unaware of the meaning of duty, and once his repast was finished, he set out to the door at the house's left end which led down to the cellar. The time had come for him to assume the guard duties of that weakling sneak Scyld, and protect that strange creature beyond the bars, whose gaze inspired a feeling with which he was uncertain and confident.

It was, did he but know it, guilt.

[JennyHallu]

Torim wandered the Fair rather aimlessly, picking at the roast-pork-on-a-stick creation he'd bought from a vendor. It was steaming hot, and good...but his enjoyment of the event was severely curtailed by the thoughts racing through his head, brought on by the rumors racing just as quickly through the crowds. The Lady Linduial, cousin to the Queen, has been kidnapped. And Torim feared he knew exactly where the young woman was.

He stepped quickly aside as a group of grim-faced guards rushed through the crowds towards the gates, his mind seething with indecision. Should he find who was searching for her, and tell them what he had seen on the way, or should he protect himself and his family and keep his mouth shut?

Sorn was a character whom Torim knew well, at least by reputation. Vicious and amoral, the man never gave up a grudge or forgave, and no matter the slight, punishment was brutal. Torim's personal opinion was that the lord was truly a coward, but a coward in power could be a fearsome thing. Silently he wrestled with his conscience, thinking of his young wife and two small children, defenseless on their farm all too close to Sorn's borders. Sorn is overconfident. He'll make a mistake, and they'll find him on their own. But if Sorn hears you were the one to betray him...

Besides, you don't know who to talk to or anything, and they'll probably hold you for further questioning and all that, and you'll get home late, and everyone will worry...

But they say Linduial is little more than a child.

I'll wait. I'll wait a little while, and then go tell them what I saw, if they're still looking for the kidnapper. Maybe you were wrong, anyway. If they're still looking for the kidnapper before I planned to leave, I'll talk. If they promise to keep my name secret...

~<*>~

Lin shuddered when the giant Gurth plodded down the stairs, with the large dog again at his side. However, her new sense of self-reliance was still with her, and she knew that she needed everyone at her side she could finagle around. Her plate was wet with the juices from her meal, and she nervously tipped it sideways through the bars, moving slowly so as not to startle her guard, and placed it down on the floor.

"For your dog," she said to Gurth, pointing at the plate and the dog, and being careful and distinct with her words, not sure how much she needed to do for the man to understand her. She was thirstly still, though the wine had admirably dulled the pain, and if Gurth seemed less frightening now than he had last night, perhaps she could find the courage to ask him to fill her now empty cup with water.

[Anguirel]

Gurth's eyes grew large and bright when Linduial extended the plate with its meagre remnant of a consumed meal. The vicious Grendel, also, stared brazenly at the captive woman. What did that gaze mean? Anger? Pity? Anticipation?

And then, in the same moment, the creatures' mouths slid open, and as Gurth laughed, and laughed, Grendel barked, and barked, running about in circles, wagging his tail, as Gurth beat his feat and slapped his thighs. It was a stunningly...well, almost majestic...outburst of vulgar mirth.

When dog and master had recovered themselves from their overpowering fit of amusement, Gurth turned to Grendel somewhat sternly, though his eyes still shone.

"Sit, Grendel."

The wolf-mastiff gave a short whine and then a staccato bark of consent, settling itself in front of the cell, its eyes alert. Gurth turned away, striding rapidly out, giving no indication where he was headed. Linduial made an occasional overture to the dog, but without its only friend it was peevish and gave out a low and distinctly discouraging growl in response.

At last there was another clatter against the door, and Gurth entered. (It seemed he was not physically incapable or cripplingly clumsy, for when possessed of the key he opened the door and locked it with ease. He proceeded down the stairs, a deep frown engraved on his features. Grendel caught the giant's mood and growled louder, almost as if he was restraining his every muscle from leaping upon Linduial, smashing apart the bars, and gobbling her every morsel up. The captive noblewoman, understandably, edged back against the wall. She could see that the massive oaf seemed to have a new, and rather larger, club, as well as some indistinct object behind his back. He approached, nearer and nearer...

And then it became clear. Gurth was carrying no weapons, but a quite enormous joint of ham in one hand, and a pitcher of goat's milk in the other. Grendel pranced about, his tongue flapping up and down, though he emitted no noise, relying on imploring eyes for his appeal. Gurth chuckled.

"Grendel", he said, in the tone of a wise arbitrator, rending off one slab of meat and chucking it to the dog, before pointing to himself, saying something indistinct in a low voice, and ripping off another chunk.

"Munch!" he concluded happily, bending down in an awkward position and pushing the remainder of the ham and the jug of goat's milk through the hatch into the cell. He waited proudly for Linduial to react with pleasure, looking tremendously pleased with himself.

[JennyHallu]

Lin looked at the haunch of meat and the pitcher for a moment in confusion. Why had he brought her food? She had been offering...a paltry offer, she knew, but Gurth had treated it as a request. Why?

Her eyes travelled to the empty plate still sitting outside the bars of her cell, and then naturally to the large dog greedily devouring its portion. Grendel...there was her answer. Gurth was simple, that was patently obvious. But though words were useless, he was not entirely incapable of communication. Relief flooded Lin's heart, and she laughed happily aloud. Words were her refuge and her strength: only when communication failed was she truly helpless. And with Gurth the difficulty was merely a language barrier. Many times had Lin watched her father's dogs nosing at their dishes. Lin had pointed out to Gurth her own was empty, and he had filled it, with foodstuffs of the same quality as he gave Grendel, whom he clearly loved.

Cautiously, but with an open smile on her face, Lin crept forward, eyes locked on the big man, alert for any sign of movement. Did she but know it, she looked not entirely unlike a beast herself, for a moment, before she straightened by the food, carefully picking up the meat in her good hand and tearing at it neatly with her teeth. She was not really hungry, having just eaten, but she took a few good-sized bites to show her gratitude before turning to the milk.

A whole jug, all to herself! Lin smiled happily and poured some into her glass, sipping the rich liquid with hearty appreciation. This gift she would savor, and she sat crosslegged to drink it, her eyes still on Gurth, but now thoughtfully. He'd rewarded her as he would the dog, but Lin was not at all insulted. Rather, she was inwardly almost elated. If Gurth thought of her as a pet, as a lesser member of his own pack, perhaps he would feel protective towards her.

[Firefoot]

As Haleth finished answering the question of one of his men and was turning back to Eodwine, he overheard the comment of the one speaking to Eodwine, “I think that it would be a good idea not to rile anyone up before we have any evidence against them.”

“An excellent point,” put in Haleth. “I doubt we would accomplish much by knocking on people’s doors and asking about a kidnapping. Those innocent would probably be annoyed, to say the least, and the guilty one would almost undoubtedly lie. Rather, I think it would be better to send some men out into the city to ask some subtle questions. Perhaps you, Eodwine, and your two men here would be one of those search parties? You'd probably attract less attention than armed guards... Try to find out if any of these men have been in the city recently, I suppose, and anything else you might be able to find out - use your discretion.

“I suppose that will be all for now… if none of this works, I’m about out of ideas. If you come up with any, I’d be happy to hear them. If anything interesting turns up, I’ll be in touch.”

“Very well,” responded Eodwine, and with that, Haleth set off to find a few more men to send out into the city. The queen was counting on him… but how did one go about finding a kidnapper? It would be luck indeed if anything turned up…

[JennyHallu]

Evening settled with deceptive peacefulness over Rohan, its beauty unnoticed by the tired and subdued party eating a late supper in the Mead Hall. Most of the Hall's residents were busy with their own tasks, but those involved in the search for Linduial were still awake, recapping their failures and successes over the day. Haleth and Eodwine sat, closely attended by Thornden and Garstan, quietly discussing the events of the day and plans for the morrow. Marenil sat in the corner, too worried to go to bed, but nodding in his chair. Deren was still stationed at the gates, for there was yet another hour before they closed for the night, late due to the Fair.

~<*>~

Lin sat on the threadbare cot, wakeful and wary, one eye on her guard, and her mind fixed on the cold light of Earendil, shining strongly through the vent. The day had been long and weary, but successful, and she felt she'd established some sort of rapport with her two guards. A start at least, and tomorrow another day. The light of Earendil seemed especially close, warming her despite its silver chill, reminding her of its promise of deliverance. She sighed in a contentment at odds with her surroundings, her fears calmed for at least a little while.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Degas sat in a tall backed chair by a roaring fire, listening to the sound of rain pounding the roof and trickling through the ceiling to tap its way musically into pots. He could smell a simmering stew and strongly wanted a bowl or two to fill his complaining belly as he stared into the flickering flames.

"I'm sorry, young lord."

He looked up into the deeply etched face of the innkeeper's wife. She'd spent the last hour with the boy, feeding him broth and keeping him warm until he fell asleep.

"Is there no way?"

"Unfit for work as he is, we just can't afford another mouth to feed." She gestured toward the dripping ceiling and the patchwork furniture, all comfortable and worn with long use, no one piece matching another.

"But he will be fit! He's sick and weak, but you can tell by the sight of him he hasn't always been nor will he be for long."

"I am sorry."

Degas tried to look through the thick glass of the window. It would still be light had the storm not come. Clouds had moved in as Degas rode, covering the sky and bringing dusk hours early. He'd rode onward more quickly, hoping the storm would hold off. He'd been yet a half hour short of the next town when the rain began to pour in slanting sheets. The road flooded with small rivers of mud from the saturated fields along it and Degas dismounted to lead his horse more sure-footedly. He'd stumbled over the boy, sprawling into the muddy road. His horse, finicky though she could be, had remained calm. Degas rolled over, wiping mud from his face and opening his mouth to the sky, expelling both dirt and water with a disgusted spit.

He'd groaned when he saw what had tripped him and knelt beside the boy, wiping mud from him as best he could, being himself covered. He'd been breathing, but he was cold, and his breath came short. Degas had given him a mouthful or two of fresh water before tying him to his horse. They'd walked for twenty minutes in the pouring rain before finding a small cottage with lit windows.

"Ye'll find The Roadside yonder, down that road a bit." Degas had followed the direction in which the old man's finger pointed, turning off of the main road and walking through ankle deep puddles for a half mile or so before finding the rickety inn. He'd hoped to find lodging and food for the night... though he was only an hour or two from Farlen's lands, the weather was nowhere near passable for travel. The only light on the roads came from flickering lightening and the ditches were treacherous, running heavily with water and plant debris. He would continue on in the morning after finding a caretaker for the boy. Or so he had hoped.

Now... the innkeeper and his wife had discussed it at length. They couldn't keep the boy on and no-one in the area had the means for it any more than they did.

He'll have to come... but he can't ride. Degas considered the implications. He could not, in good conscience, leave the boy to fend for himself. He could not even leave him, sick and helpless, with money in his pocket and call that passable help. It was his duty to help and protect those who had need... Degas wondered at the boy's story; why he had been travelling alone, how he had fallen sick, how long he had been on the road before Degas had found him. No, the boy needed help and Degas could offer it.

Eodwine would understand the delay... he hoped.

[Alcarillo]

The baggage was loaded onto the cart, and once Osfrid had ran inside to retrieve a basket of food from the cook, he and Muriel rode off down the dusty road to Edoras. Osfrid smiled and wrapped an arm around Muriel's shoulders. It was good to be on the road again, out of Sorn's musty house and away from his shifty henchmen and servants. It was just like the days before he had met Sorn… He basked in his joy while he could, until Muriel pulled him out of it with her questions.

"What did Sorn tell you, when you and he spoke before we left?" asked Muriel.

"What? Oh, just a little thing about a doll," Osfrid said. "The rich lady had a doll with her when we took her from the fair. Sorn thinks it must've been a gift for somebody. He wants us to investigate if we can."

Muriel pursed her lips and considered this bit of information for a moment. "Does she have a younger sister, maybe?" she suggested, "Or maybe a young friend?"

"I don't know. We'll have to wait and see." He smiled at Muriel. She was beginning to think like a spy. He leaned back, casually holding the reins, and resumed his daydreaming about the good ol' days when he once traveled all across southern Rohan, committing all sorts of mischievous crimes, before he had even heard of Sorn.

The rest of the journey to Edoras was rough and bumpy. Though Osfrid didn't mind it, Muriel complained that her legs were sore, and so she and Osfrid would often rest by the side of the road for a bit. When noon came, they stretched a blanket at the roadside and had a picnic. The cook had prepared a rather bland meal of bread and cheese, but Osfrid and Muriel were grateful after their scant breakfast earlier that morning. Once Osfrid had hitched the mules back to the cart, they continued their journey. They passed through rolling farmlands mostly, and occasionally passed through a few tiny hamlets. They traveled long into the afternoon, and Muriel soon began to complain of boredom.

"Oh, Osfrid," Muriel said, turning to him from where she sat gazing at the countryside, "When will we reach Edoras? There's nothing to do here but sit and watch the scenery!"

Osfrid shifted in his seat and dropped the reins from one of his hands to stroke his moustache. "Well, Muriel dear, I'm afraid we won't reach Edoras for some hours." Muriel slumped her shoulders in disappointment. "But we can pass the time by embellishing our disguises," Osfrid continued, "False names won't be enough! We need complete false identities, histories, and reasons for traveling!"

Muriel sat up, eager to pick a new history for herself. "Oh! I want to be a noblewoman!" she said.

Osfrid chuckled. "I'm afraid I had something a little more simple in mind," he told her. He turned his head for a moment to take a quick look at the luggage loaded into the back of the cart. Nothing that would indicate a specific occupation… An abundance of cloth, for example, would let them become cloth merchants, or carrying barrels of apples could give them the disguise of orchard-tenders. Osfrid sighed. They would need to be traveling for non-commercial purposes. "Now, listen here, Muriel," he continued, "I'm afraid we can't even disguise as merchants if we don't carry any possible merchandise with us. We can be…farmers, possibly? Traveling to visit your ill mother east of Edoras?"

"I suppose…" Muriel said. "Must we be farmers? Can't we be anything…um, richer?"

"Well, dearie, our luggage isn't the stuff of luxury. Just the bare essentials, and rather simple essentials at that..." He paused to stroke his big, blond moustache again. "I think we can best be farmers on our way to your ill mother. Bertwald and Hilda, traveling farmers."

Muriel shrugged and turned back to watching the countryside go by, a little disappointed that she had became only a farmer.

The journey continued as before. The sun headed west, and they spent afternoon riding. Muriel still sat in absolute boredom, while Osfrid contented himself with driving the cart down the seemingly endless road. The afternoon became early evening. The stars appeared, and still they rode on. Muriel, feeling tired, had rested her head against Osfrid's shoulder and tried to sleep, but the jolting of the cart kept her awake. Just when she finally felt at rest, Osfrid nudged her in the ribs.

"Look, Muriel," he whispered to her, "We're here."

She sat upright and leaned forward to peer at Edoras in the dim light of the evening. There it was, the long-awaited city. "Finally!" she muttered.

Osfrid drove the cart up to the wooden gates, where a soldier stepped forward with his hand upraised, indicating that they should halt. Osfrid slowed down the cart. The soldier was unexpected. Was this because of the kidnapping? Undoubtedly. "Remember our disguises, Muriel," he told her as the cart rolled closer, "I'm Bertwald and you're Hilda. This is especially important now. The guards must be here to question travelers." Osfrid turned from Muriel and took a deep breath, grinning amiably as the guard approached.

"Hello, there, friend!" Osfrid called from the cart, "We weren't expecting guards. I don't suppose some urgent matter of safety has come up now, do I?"

[Folwren]

Darkness was beginning to fall. In a few minutes, they would be able to shut the gates and return home to a warm supper and bed. Deren yawned a huge yawn that nearly split his jaw. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. Another few minutes went by and he stood up to go to Lystholn to express his thoughts on going home. Lystholn turned towards him as he approached, but before Deren could say a word, the sound of carriage wheels came out from the darkness. The clopping feet of a tired horse sounded out in the night, and then the shape of a cart and horse came into view.

Lystholn and Deren glanced at each other and then Lystholn gave a great sigh and began to stand up.

“Don’t worry about it,” Deren said, placing his hand on Lystholn’s shoulder. “I’ll deal with this one, then we’ll be able to shut the gates for the night.”

He turned and walked forward, his hand up, and his face set. Inside his head, he ran through the questions that they had asked all the people entering the gates. The driver pulled back on the reins, uttering a low ‘woah!’ to his horse. It came to a stop and stood chewing on its bit.

“Hello there, friend!” he called out as Deren walked closer. “We weren’t expecting guards. I don’t suppose some urgent matter of safety has come up now, do I?”

Deren filed that quickly away in his mind as he finally stopped near them. He laid his hand on the horse’s high back. “You might, if you like, but if you would choose not to, then don’t,” he answered him.

“Don’t rightly know what you mean, sir!” the chap said, sounding amiable enough.

“Something did come up in yesterday’s proceedings. You can understand, I’m sure. . .lots of people, some of them not altogether honest. We’ve been sent to make sure no further villains entered the gates. What’s your name, sir?”

“I’m Bertwald, and this is my wife Hilda. We’re from the Middle Emnet on our way to the West to visit Hilda’s mother. She’s sick and they don’t think she’ll live long. From what we’ve been told, she may not be alive even when we get there!”

“What are you doing in Edoras?” Deren asked, disinterested in the woes of Hilda’s family. “Where are you going?”

“You wouldn’t expect us to ride all night, could you? We have to rest sometime. I was planning on going to our lord’s Hall to sleep tonight and break our fast in the morning before we leave again.”

“You’ll be leaving in the morning?”

“I imagine so!”

Deren looked at him sharply. In the dark, he had no doubt that Bertwald could see little of his face or expression, and he dearly wished he could. It might have made the man tremble a bit. More than that, if Bertwald could see his face, he could see Bertwald’s face, but as it was, he found it extremely difficult to tell if the look on the man’s face was the simple honesty that most farmers’ faces bore.

“I hope so,” he said, stepping away from the horse and cart. “We’ll be watching for you. Good night.”

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Degas watched the boy as he slept, knowing that he must wake him, knowing also that any information gleaned from the boy would do little to help his sour mood.

Pretty Lin is missing and I'm to blame; Eodwine lets me salvage my name by bearing ill news like a messenger boy rather than saving her myself like a man and now... now I'm trapped in the rain at an inn with no tenants with a boy that can't walk and that I must protect.

He looked the boy over... he looked smaller clean. There were no bruises... he hadn't been beaten, or at least not within recent memory. That meant either good behavior or a good master as his attire, before the innkeepers had found him clean garb, had placed him as a servant... but to whom? The old woman had combed his jet black hair and it lay flat and straight, even dried. What was it about Gondor that made being blonde or red-haired such a marked appearance? Degas blended in nowhere with his flaming locks. He wondered, not for the first time, where his parents' parents had originated... surely not from the land of the forgoil. He grinned lopsidedly at the insult... to insult a person for the way they looked? Why did it matter?

He looked back at the boy, noting his pale skin. Not an outdoorsman, then, unless he'd not been outside since the spring rains ceased. Degas glared half-heartedly at the window once more before resuming his activity.

He was small... not scrawny, just small. He looked quick. Degas gaze fell upon the boy's left ear; a tiny hole pierced the center. He laughed and knew without asking that the boy admired the sailors of the south. A dreamer, or perhaps an adventurer of the making. Yet the hole was closing... a master and mistress not so keen, perhaps?

At Degas's laugh, his eyes fluttered open and he looked afraid.

"Where'm I?"

"You are safe."

"Who are you? You've got red hair... 'nd yer accent's all funny."

Degas grinned and refrained from rolling his eyes. "My name is Degas. I am from Rohan, perhaps a day's ride from Edoras. D'you mean t' tell me, boy, that my Westron's gone foggy with Rohirric?"

"No, sir." He pushed himself up against his pillows, eyes wide and face earnest. His teeth were mostly straight and one was missing, right in front. His nose was tip-tilted, but it seemed to suit him well. Degas had to admit that the boy was cute. Had their been a wager, he'd have placed money that bullies loved this one and that they'd been taught a swift thing or two that size isn't everything. "Just that I could tell you ain't from these parts, least not from birth like me."

"Is that so?"

"Uh huh."

He was growing on Degas. The young lord tried to harden himself... it was much like stray dogs... they could tell when they found a good candidate and spent inordinate amounts of time looking utterly lovable and helpless. He'd raised countless strays as a boy. He's not a stray and I can't raise him.

"What's your name, boy?"

His face fell. "They've called me Hefigtyme since my master and mistress fell from favor and released me from service."

"Well, no burden are you to me, so a new name must be found. What name was yours before then?"

"My parents called me Feowertyne because they'd already had thirteen. My papa said my mama was tired all the time when I came along."

"I can see how that could happen." Degas chose not to hope. It was cold by the window but he saw no nooks that might conceal extra heat and he would rather be cold than cold and disappointed. "What happened to your thirteen brothers and sisters?"

"Most of 'em died when we were little." Degas eyed the boy's small frame and held back a quick grin. "A coupla the boys grew up and turned into blacksmiths and stuff, but my papa said I'd get crushed under the weight of my own hammer so I'd better not even hope it. And my sister Fyrmest..." he looked around as though half-expecting to see a reprimanding older sibling or parent. "They don't talk about her now, which 's a shame, 'cuz I liked her real much. She fell in love and ran off to live in the wild with a Ranger. A real Ranger, and my parents were ashamed. Can you imagine the adventures she must be having?"

Degas was beginning to regret his question. The boy had slept and apparently recharged while Degas sat next to a fire; his limbs were falling asleep without him.

"I can imagine. Feowertyne, I found you on the road while I was travelling. Do you remember it?"

"No sir, but I remember travelling well enough."

"Why were you travelling alone and on foot, Feowertyne?"

"Just Feo, sir. My brothers said I was too lil to get strapped down wi' such a big name. And I was travellin' a'cuz I had nowhere else to go."

Degas had been afraid he'd say that. "By nowhere, you mean--"

"My master and mistress got caught doing things that I guess they shouldna been. I don't know what it was, but they made medicines and stuff with herbs I picked 'em 'cuz they said I'd fit real well into all the places the good stuff grows and so I'd pick 'em the plants and find 'em the mushrooms 'nd all and they'd brew up medicines and all and then sell it. But I guess they did somethin' that the King didna like and so they couldn' do it any more and they turned me out."

"They didn't." Degas was curious about the story and surely enough:

"They mos' certainly did." Feo was indignant and to place a look of adult indignance on the petite face of a small boy child of maybe ten, with a missing tooth and a hole in his ear, was a sight that would stay with Degas for quite some time.

"And your siblings? You could not go to them?"

"No, sir. See, my brothers tol' me that I'm too small to work for 'em and that they don't want me." There was no trace of sorrow or resignation, just acceptance that his size was reason enough for family to cast away family. Degas thought of Saeryn and Caeli, conveniently forgetting Fenrir's temperament. The three of them had always been close. "So they said that I oughta travel east and north and go up to Minas Anor and get a job there, so I started walkin'."

"And how far did you get?"

"Well... it was two days ago that I started walkin' 'nd then it got real cold out while I slept." Degas notice that while the boy's voice was enthusiastic, his body was mostly still, and he clutched at the blankets that were over him. "And then I walked another day and slept in a barn while nobody was watching and I know it was wrongful for me to sneak in like that, but sir, it got so cold..."

"I believe you." Degas heart was softening despite all of his attempts otherwise. You're the younger son of a house that fell out of favor with the death of your parents. You've not the depth of purse to pick up a stray bigger than a small cat. You're on a mission! You have to face Linduial's family. You can't drag a boy child, and a sick one, across Gondor! "And today?"

"Well... I woke up when a little girl screamed and I got outta there real fast 'nd ran pretty far but it was cold out today and I was real hungry 'cuz I forgot to pack food 'nd even though I slept in a barn, I wasn't hungry 'nuf that I'd steal from decent hard-workin' folks."

"Would you steal from lazy folks that weren't decent?"

"No, sir!" The answer was emphatic. Degas was glad to hear it. No, fool, you don't care. Do not care. It's simple. You have a responsibility to the man in whose home you stay. He's your sister's friend and protector, and you owe it to him. No strays. Not this time.

"Feo, the rest of the day?"

"Well, I walked for as far as I could, and then I... I don't really know. But then I woke up and I was all wet and someone, was it you?, was carryin' me and then I was here, and where is here?, and there was an old woman and now there's you and did you tell me your name?"

"Perhaps not. I am Degas, and it was me that brought you here. Here is a small inn, about an hour's ride in dry light south and west of Minas Anor."

"Sir, if you don't mind my askin', why'd you bring me?"

"Because it was cold and wet and you lay napping in the road. That is not, I might add, the most comfortable or safe place to lay. I found you by tripping over you and thought it best to find you a safe place."

Feo's nose was running and Degas pulled a clean kerchief from the pocket of his breeches and handed it to him. The boy started coughing.

"Now, none of that. No getting sicker than you already are."

"Why not?"

"Because, boy, it seems there's nobody to take care of you, so you're going to have to" Degas screamed at himself silently once more, but even as he did, he knew that he'd never have left the boy. "Come with me."

"Ride with you, sir?"

"Just Degas, please, Feo, and yes."

"Where're we going?"

"Back toward where you came and further. I ride toward Dol Amroth bearing news. But we cannot ride until you are well, so sleep now. It is late. We will speak more in the morning."

Degas rose and felt his joint crunch. He winced a bit and bounced a bit on the balls of his booted feet before feeling that his legs were his own and he could use them properly. With a wave as he shut the door, Degas made his way back to the common room where the old man and woman still sat over mead.

"He will ride with me in a few days. I'll need food and lodging for us both, and a second horse. This should pay for the first two," he set a bag of gold pieces on the table between them, "and can you tell me where I can find him a mount? Nothing fancy, just a horse or pony that can bear his weight and a few packs over distances. Speed matters little, but endurance is of the utmost importance."

The woman looked at her husband and he nodded. "We've a small pony in the stable. Her name is Gehola and she is old, but she is sweet and patient and can go far, as long as you don't ask of her what she can't give."

"I will look at her in the morning. Until then... a room?"

The old woman rose with as much internal creaking as the doors upon the hinges that she pushed through back toward Feo's room. She unlocked the door next to his and opened it, the lantern in her hand swinging gently, the light lazily beating away shadows.

"Thank you, lady, for everything, and good night."

[Alcarillo]

Osfrid drove the cart through the gate. "And a good night to you, sir!" he called. Once through the gate, he slumped down into his seat, his smile wiped away. He cast a nervous glance behind him to check that the guards were well out of earshot and that the street was empty before speaking. "What sort of twaddle was that?!" he complained to Muriel once he knew he wouldn't be heard. "Something about something happening in some sort of proceedings, and having to watch out for villains! Not a straight answer out of him. Somebody told him to keep the kidnapping a secret, I'll wager. Ha! Those fools might try to hide information from me, but they can't!" He quieted his voice as they passed a shadowy group of ruffians near an alley. "But if the guards won't talk," he whispered to Muriel, "There'll be plenty of ordinary folks who will."

Muriel wasn't interested in Osfrid's speech. "Oh, yes…" she said back to him. She leaned against his shoulder, with her arms hugging one of his arms, cuddling close. He called me his wife! Thoughts of marriage ran through her head. Her parents would be so proud of her, that she would marry this handsome outlaw instead of those dull farmers back home. And all the girls would be so jealous…

The cart rolled up the hill, past the group of ruffians at the alley's mouth, and up to the mead hall. Osfrid spotted the stables and drove the cart forward. A boy with a lantern, undoubtedly an ostler, emerged to guide them. "Remember our disguises," Osfrid whispered one last time to Muriel.

The ostler greeted them, and Osfrid introduced himself as Bertwald and Muriel as his wife Hilda. "We're travelers from the Middle-Emnet, and we heard we could find a place to stay at this hall."

"Certainly. Lord Eodwine will be glad to have you as guests. I'll handle your cart for you."

"Thank you, son," Osfrid said. He climbed out of the cart, and helped Muriel step daintily to the ground. Osfrid clapped the young ostler on the back and tossed him a silver coin before the two walked across the courtyard and entered the mead hall.

The hall was warm and bright. A fire had been lit in a great hearth at one end of the long hall. A few people sat at the tables nearby, chatting casually. Osfrid and Muriel could smell something meaty cooking in a kitchen somewhere, probably behind the door near the fire. Osfrid even heard faint, jovial laughter from down a hallway. Despite the warm surroundings, Osfrid and Muriel stepped forward cautiously.

"Alright, Muriel dear, let's find out as much as we can, but be careful. Don't let anything true about us slip out. This is the hall of the eorl. There are sure to be dozens of guards and search parties crawling through here daily."

She nodded in understanding. Osfrid smiled at her, and turned his head to the hall. "I've heard my wife and I can find a good meal and a place to stay here!" he announced. "Now, where is the eorl? And the cook, too?"

[Celuien]

Garstan sat wearily by the fire. The party had walked far on their first day of searching, though they had not yet left Edoras. There were many places to seek news, to ask if anything had been seen, to find out if the kidnappers had let drop a careless word of their plans.

Eodwine gazed absently into the flames. "A long day, Haleth," he said. "Though I fear we have nothing worthwhile to show for it. No news of Linduial was to be had."

Haleth gave his assent. "No. Not a word. It is strange, though, that a woman could be taken from the streets of Edoras, with the crowds of the fair all around, and without one bystander to have been present to witness it."

Eodwine made no reply, still staring at the flickering light. He seemed distracted, yet intent. Garstan studied the Eorl's face, wondering what was troubling him.

He tried to draw Eodwine back to the conversation, "But, my lord, surely we have learned something today. We learned that several of those on the list cannot have been involved. Æfic has been away to trade his horses, and Eadric with him. Pehthelm has been ill these last weeks and still is tended by the healers. That leaves only Sorn, Cuichelm and Fenrir."

"There are others on the list, Garstan, whom you have not mentioned. Why?" Haleth held the stoneshaper in his gaze.

Garstan returned Haleth's look. "Because they are too far from Edoras to have taken Linduial, written a letter, and had it delivered all on the same day. True, they might have sent notice of the deed before the lady was secure in their keeping, but it would be foolish to raise the alarm before she was well hidden. I do not say that we should not give them our notice, but I do say that the three I have mentioned are more likely to have been involved than those more than a day's journey from here." Garstan, more keenly aware than ever of his unequal experience, hoped that he had not pressed the issue too far.

"You speak wisely, Garstan." Haleth clapped him on the shoulder. "Then we go next to seek word of Fenrir, Sorn, and Cuichelm. What say you, Eodwine?"

Eodwine gave his agreement to the plan and lapsed back into his musings on the fire.

Garstan joined him in staring at the light, wondering how they would investigate the remaining three suspects. It had been simple to inquire about those with nothing to hide. But how much harder would it be to gather information on someone with a secret to keep?

Secrets. The word brought Garstan back to Eodwine's face. The Eorl was intent on the embers, seemingly lost in thought. He hoped that whatever troubled the Eorl would soon pass. This distraction would make Eodwine an easy mark for the kidnappers, should they be discovered while Eodwine kept his mood. Garstan would keep watch for the both of them.

The hall door opened, and two strangers, a man and a woman, entered the room.

The man spoke and his voice echoed over the room. "I've heard my wife and I can find a good meal and a place to stay here! Now, where is the eorl? And the cook, too?"

"It seems that we have visitors, my lord," Garstan said.

[littlemanpoet]

littlemanpoet's post


Eodwine stared at the fire. It had been a pointless day. He knew that they wouldn't find anything out in Edoras. The kidnapper would not be so careless. Not as if he had put his whole heart into it, he confessed to himself. His wife was alive! She was a captive of Dunlendings, probably forced to wife to some ill-begotten rat-herder, no less. No. She had only come in dreams, but so vivid! Her sweet and beautiful face, her expressive eyes, even her slight overbite lent to her winsomeness, and it had all been there in his dream. But she had not appeared to him as the winsome young wife of fifteen years ago, but as a woman of forty years, gray in her blonde tresses, lines of sorrow outlining her face, crows' feet at her eyes, and other signs of the passage of time. Surely his dreaming mind was not that creative! She must be real, and alive!

Eodwine looked up. Visitors. Asking for the Eorl.

He let out a breath of resignation and stood up. "I am the Eorl. How may I and my Hall host you?"


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Alcarillo's post


Osfrid bowed to the Eorl. "Thank you, lord, for your kind hospitality. My name is Bertwald, and this is my wife Hilda-" here Muriel curtsied, "-and we seek a good meal and lodgings for the night. We've traveled a long way, you see, we're on our way to visit my dying mother-in-law, and we would appreciate it if you could spare us travelers a room here…"

"That I can," the Eorl told them. "I will see that Kara brings two meals to you." Osfrid and Muriel sat down at his table, and the Eorl walked to the kitchens. Osfrid smiled encouragingly at Muriel. She sat uncomfortably in her chair, casting glances all around at everybody, acting nervous. "Don't worry," he whispered to her, "Just let me do the talking and nobody will suspect us of being anything more than a farmer and his wife on their way to a dying relative."

The Eorl returned, and soon after came plates of breads and cheeses and meats, and mugs of frothy ale. Osfrid dug in immediately. The picnic lunch by the roadside had hardly been enough to tide him over till dinner. He made conversation with the Eorl as they dined, hoping to probe his mind about the kidnapping.

"Lord, something has been troubling my mind ever since I entered the city. Now, I pass through this town often, always on my way to sell my goods at faraway markets, but today was different. There were guards at the gate this time. They stopped my cart, had to ask numerous questions and whatnot, gave my wife quite a scare, you see, and I've never had to be troubled like that before. Has something happened lately?… I've heard rumors something's happened."

"I would that you not worry overmuch. The guard on the gates is tripled at the order of the queen. I am sorry that your wife has been frightened, but it would be worse that she came to harm at the hands of those we would find...."

"Yes, my wife thought they were robbers at first… These guards don't have to do with the abduction of that princess, does it?" Osfrid said, hoping the change in subject would help him learn more. "I've heard rumors that she was kidnapped at the fair, but I was skeptical. Could've been false. I live far from Edoras, you see, and most of the news we get is mostly hearsay, usually twisted in some way or another. But when I saw the soldiers at the gate, I knew it must've been true! Isn't it true, lord?"

The Eorl seemed unsure what to say. "You have guessed right, though I wonder that your wife thought the guards were robbers, wearing Eorling markings at the gates of Edoras! Be sure that we are doing all we can to see to the matter. Excsue me, please, and I'll have a word with the guards; we do not want them to be overzealous in their duty..." He stood and bowed to his guests and left the table.

"What's he telling the guards?" Muriel asked when the Eorl was gone. "What if he knows we're spying? What if the guards will kill us in the middle of the night?"

"They're not going to kill us!" Osfrid told her. "That'd be ridiculous…" He reached a hand out to squeeze her shoulder comfortingly. "He doesn't know…at the worst he'll tell a guard to keep an eye on us. And I wouldn't blame him after his most important guest was kidnapped." Muriel nodded, and resumed dining, feeling a little better.

A little blonde girl came running around the table, giggling madly. A boy a few years older chased her around and around the tables. Osfrid watched the race, and couldn't help but smile at how adorable the little blonde girl was. As the little girl ran near, Osfrid reached out and caught her in his arms. "Gotcha!" he said, and she shrieked gleefully as Osfrid swung her into the chair next to him. She giggled again and squirmed in her seat. "Well, well," said Osfrid, "Who do we have here? What's your name, little girl?"

"Lèoðern," she told him, "And that's my brother Garmund."

Her brother came and tried to share the chair with his sister, causing more giggles and mirth. Osfrid sent him away with a special task. "Here, Garmund, I must send you on a special quest." The boy's eyes grew wide. "You must venture deep into the blazing hot kitchen and fill my ale mug with the cook's secret elixir! Go, be swift!" He gave the empty mug to the boy and pointed him in the direction of the kitchens. Garmund saluted like a soldier and bravely marched off to achieve his quest.

Alone with Lèoðern, Osfrid could begin questioning. "Well, Lèoðern, my name is Bertwald, and this is my wife Hilda." Muriel waved and Lèoðern waved back.

"Have you been to the horse fair yet? That's why my wife and I are here: to see all the horsies and buy things from the vendors." Osfrid told her.

"Yes! I went there. The fair was fun."

"Really? I think it will be fun when I go there, too. Who'd you go with?" He thrust a hand into a pocket to see if he could find some candy to loosen the girl's lips.

"With 'Egas and Linduial," she said, carefully pronouncing Linduial's name.

Osfrid nudged Muriel. "You might want to hear this!" he whispered. "Now, Lèoðern, you went with Linduial, eh? And who's Egas?"

"Degas!" she said, correcting him. "He's my friend. I rode on his shoulders."

"Rode on his shoulders, eh? Like on a horsie? He must be a lot bigger than you, then, to have carried you through the fair like that."

"Oh, yes. He's Linduial's size!"

Osfrid found some candies in a pocket. He had bought them for Muriel the last time he was at the fair, the same day they abducted Linduial. He passed one to Lèoðern. She giggled and swung her short little legs joyfully through the air. "So, it was just you, Linduial, and Degas at the fair?"

Lèoðern nodded, preoccupied with sucking on her candy. Her brother returned carrying a full mug of beer. "Kara didn't have what you told me to get, so I just got beer." Osfrid smiled and patted the boy on the head. He gave him a candy, too, and the boy took the seat next to his sister, eavesdropping casually on the conversation.

"Now, Lèoðern, does Linduial have other friends?"

"Oh, lots. Like Saeryn and her grampa."

"What's Linduial's grandpa like?"

"He's old. He's sitting over there." She pointed to an old man sitting by the fire. Osfrid thanked Lèoðern for her delightful conversation and told her and her brother to run along. They did, probably to tell everybody about the nice man with the candy, Osfrid realized with chagrin.

"Come, Muriel, let's go pick out a room for the night." She was unhappy to stand, being more comfortable sitting. To pass by all those guards and friends of the Eorl made her nervous. Osfrid smiled at her and wrapped an arm around her waist, and she forced a smile back. Osfrid would keep her safe. They walked together toward the hallway at the end of the hall, but Osfrid paused a moment beside a guard, and asked him quietly, "Who is that man by the fire? Isn't he Lady Linduial's grandfather?"

"No, sir, that's Marenil. He's a guardian of some sort. He came with her when she traveled from Dol Amroth."

"Thank you, lad," Osfrid said, and he and Muriel disappeared into the dark hallway beyond.


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littlemanpoet's post

Eodwine reached the gate of Edoras and found Deren with the other guards.

"Greetings, Deren! I hope your thankless chore at the gate has paid you in some bit of news. What know you of this Bertwald and Hilda?" Eodwine smirked. "The wife seems to have mistaken your King's Markings for robbers' crests, if you can believe it! Do you remember the pair?"

"I remember the pair," Deren replied, walking forward. He placed his hand on the horse's shoulder and looked up at Eodwine. "They came through not long ago, just after dark. Said they were on their way to see the woman's dying mother and had to stop here on their way. Why do you ask? Has something come up?"

Eodwine wondered at that: the woman had spoken nothing of a dying mother. Had the man? Eodwien could not remember that he had. It was suspicious. Then again, anything and everything seemed suspicious these days. Eodwine scowled, not liking that he was suspicious first.

"They have come to the Mead Hall seeking shelter for the night. What think you of the pair? Tell me all your mind about them."

“Well, I do not rightly know, sir,” Deren replied. He knit his eyebrows together, wondering if something had happened and asking himself all the while why the Eorl had come all this way to question him on the matter. “This job has made me question everybody, for real and in my mind. I did wonder that they came so late, but I do not suppose we can really hold that against them too much. He spoke strangely, sir, to tell you the truth. All day we had people coming through here and they did not know why they were stopped by guards and most of them didn’t say much. They just answered the questions straight and went on. He. . .well, he talked, but without making his point quite clear. But maybe it was only my imagination.”

Deren scratched his head. He was talking in circles and that certainly would not help in the matter. “I would just keep an eye on him, my lord,” he finished. “If he fails to leave tomorrow morning early, then there would be real cause to worry. He told me that they were only stopping for the night, and when I asked him if he’d be leaving tomorrow morning, he said ‘I imagine so!’ and I let him pass."

"My thanks, Deren. I will watch these two and see if they leave early tomorrow. If we could spare men, maybe we should have them followed. I will give the matter thought. Good night to you!"


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Firefoot's post

Upon his return to the Mead Hall, Eodwine went directly to Haleth and asked him to his own rooms for a talk in private. Once there, Eodwine went straight to the point.

"I know not if you heard Bertwald's own words as to the greeting he and his wife were given at the Gate. I spoke to Deren who was the very guard this Hilda claims to have mistreated her; or I should say, this Bertwald claims that Deren was, shall we say, overzealous. Deren told me that it seemed this Bertwald talked more than need be. That suggests to me that he may be crafting a bed of lies, as they say. I admit that I have no other call to think ill of the man, but these are bad times. So I would ask of you that the couple be watched. Maybe they will lead us to the fiend who has taken Linduial."

Haleth hesitated. Where did one draw the moral line? "In normal times, such would not even be thought on," he answered slowly. "As like as not it is simply an innocent couple staying here the night. Would not watching them be near the same as questioning those nobles on our list simply because they meet our guidelines?" But then what had been the point of guards at the gates of Edoras if Haleth was not going to take their word when someone seemed suspicious? "I would be loath to have them followed in the case that they are innocent people. But if they do not leave the Mead Hall in the morning, then yes, have them watched. If they leave, let them go."

Eodwine was unsure of Haleth's thought, but Haleth was the ruler in this matter. He nodded, "Aye, that is well."

[JennyHallu]

Marenil leaned back in his chair. Exhaustion and worry were evident in every line of his body, and he drifted quietly off to sleep in his corner of the Hall, unable to focus on Lin's danger any longer against the needs of his body.

His last waking thoughts, however, were of her safety, and in his troubled dreams she cried to him for help and he could not find her.

~<*>~

Lin slipped into a light, but serene slumber, the starlight, the sense of accomplishment in her splinted arm, and even the presence of her guard providing her with something she hadn't expected: a sense of security, however tenuous.

~<*>~

Two days passed with little progress towards finding the missing noblewoman, except for a frantic sense of urgency rapidly spilling from the high halls of Meduseld down into the Fair. Entertainments and song took on a certain hectic quality, young children virtually disappeared from the proceedings, kept at home by parents frightened out of security, and there was a low undercurrent of worry underneath every bargain driven. The royal couple were well loved, and yet there was no missing the cold, grim anger on the faces of the frustrated searchers, as they went out through the Fair, questioning any who might have or claimed to have seen the woman during her stay in Edoras.

Torim firmly settled his pack onto his back, heavy now with the goods his family needed, and a few little gifts for his wife and two small children. It was the day he'd meant to leave, and Linduial had not been found. He sighed, thinking of his wife's pretty face. She'd understand missing him a day; wouldn't worry too much. He turned away from the Gate, and trudged resignedly up the hill toward the Mead Hall. This early in the morning, no few of the searchers would still be there, choosing their course for the day, and a duty begun is sooner done...Torim pushed his fear of Sorn's petty vengefulness to the back of his head. There were great things at stake here, and he meant to see them through.

[Firefoot]

Life for Scyld had fallen into a fairly straightforward routine, watching Linduial most of the day, fetching her meals, and receiving a break now and again when Gurth came to watch her. Scyld knew that Gurth sometimes brought down extra food for Linduial, and he doubted that Sorn would be pleased if he knew, but nevertheless Scyld had kept silent about it. If cornered over the topic, he could always say that he had assumed Gurth was feeding the food to his great dog – most of it was meat, and he certainly fed the dog enough anyway.

Today had so far been no different. Scyld now sat in silence, watching Lin eat her breakfast. His guard on her had grown laxer; never once had she attempted to escape, leaving Scyld to assume she had realized it would be smarter not to, and he had stopped loosening a knife blade every time he opened the cell door; and already she had grown on him enough that he would be hesitant to use a knife on her anyway, except to just show as a threat. She intrigued him. While clearly wanting for many things, she had asked for nothing more since that first day, nor had he given her anything save for the continued wine in her glass at meals. They had talked only a few more times, just enough to leave Scyld wondering occasionally what sort of person she was outside of a prison cell – other than the pampered noble he still half-way took her to be.

In other words, if worst came to worst and a search party came here after her and he came out badly… would he be able to rely on her at all for some level of vindication? Or would he simply be thrown in with Sorn? And even if he did manage to somehow escape, he did not want to be hunted down. He had to face the truth… eventually she would return to her family, one way or another, or be killed. Scyld would not partake in her killing – he had nothing to gain from such. Therefore… he might eventually need her on his side, or at least not against him. And he knew the next step to take.

“Linduial” – she looked up – “those things you had with you in the basket at the fair… were they important?” His tone was completely neutral; she would have no clue from that whether he meant the question for good or ill. Let her manner of response be part of the test.

[JennyHallu]

Linduial glanced up in surprise, the bite she had been about to take poised midair on the dull knife she was allowed. "Important? This something Sorn wants to know?" She'd relaxed greatly in Scyld's presence over the last few days, and some of the lighter bruises were starting to change color as they began to heal. Unfortunately this made her look somewhat more battered rather than less. The garish splotches of yellow and green only made the deeper bruising more glaringly obvious.

She didn't wait for an answer, but popped the bite of bland 'sausage' into her mouth and continued, speaking around it with no trace of her old, polished manners. "I don't suppose anything there is terribly important to anyone but me, really, but even so it's a shame to lose them. The basket I borrowed, and the other things were meant as gifts to some people who mean a great deal to me, but they didn't even know about them." She threw Scyld a quick glance, her next comment surprising him again with the depth of viciousness this seemingly mild little songbird was capable of. "Just one more thing to fantasize eviscerating Sorn for."

She laughed a little at the look on his face. "If you think I'm bad, you should meet my brothers. They wouldn't wait to talk or fantasize about it--and I wouldn't do it myself. I'm far too much the pampered child to get my own hands dirty." Her expression was wry, but her eyes glinted with a genuine loathing when she spoke of Sorn, quickly supressed as she changed the subject.

"So why do you ask about my things?"

[Firefoot]

Scyld shrugged. “Curiosity – wondered if I should keep them in mind or not. I’ve no doubt Sorn would like to know... but I have no reason as yet to tell him.” He watched her for a moment more, still thinking about her impassioned outburst against Sorn. Her hatred of him – not surprising in itself, really, but the depth of it – that was a bit surprising, but good – good for him. It was time to let her know some things…

He looked her in the eye and spoke quietly and with feigned nonchalance; he had been an eavesdropper far too long not to give heed to being overheard himself. “I caught sight of Sorn with them the other day – admiring the knife, I think – and I know where they are… and how to get to them.” He watched her face as the implications of this settled in. “I know a lot of things that Sorn would probably rather I not knew – at least, things he would never tell me…” Scyld paused, still not sure how much she ought to be told. She would certainly want to know about Osfrid’s mission. Actually, presented in the right light, that would be the perfect thing to tell her. But first, he glanced around to make sure the door at the top of the stairs was closed. He had much more to fear from Sorn than any potential rescue party at the moment.

“For example,” he continued in the same deadly quiet tone, “perhaps you remember Osfrid? No matter. But Sorn has sent him and his lady friend on a mission to Edoras. He never told me why, but I could tell you.” He had gotten her attention now and was thoroughly enjoying drawing out the suspense. “He wants to find some weakness of yours… a person you wouldn’t want to see hurt.”

[Firefoot]

As the fourth day of searching for Linduial’s kidnapper began, Haleth was beginning to feel rather resigned. On that first day, they had narrowed it down to just three likely possibilities, but since then they had made very little headway. Their information, the few bits that they had anyway, was inconclusive and circumstantial. None of the three suspects looked more likely than the next.

Perhaps it was worst for him. Others, they could do things. Ask questions at the gate or in the city, mostly. But he always had to be available in case there was news – people had to know where to find him. That meant he had been spending a lot of time doing very little or nothing at the Mead Hall, which had become the unofficial headquarters of investigation.

He was preparing himself for another long day when a man stepped into the Mead Hall. He looked to be a traveler, but not one come from a journey. He did not see Eodwine at the moment, so he approached the man himself, trying not to feel too hopeful. Surely if the man had information, he would have come to them before now.

Trying to keep the tiredness out of his voice, he asked, “Can I help you, sir?”

[JennyHallu]

“He wants to find some weakness of yours… a person you wouldn’t want to see hurt.”

Lin turned her eyes away from her breakfast to meet Sorn's gaze. Fury rose gleaming darkly in those eyes, and her face closed off, leaving her with a cold, blank look that was almost frightening in its lack of intensity.

"There is only one person on this earth I would wish to see hurt, my friend," she said flatly, anger letting her make the claim she'd been dancing around with Scyld. A cool, detached part of her marvelled a little over it: she had truly begun to trust Scyld. She hadn't expected that. And she wished no harm to Gurth, who was merely a child, with a child's fervent desire to please, and a tool dangerous in the wrong hands. She found she did not particularly care about Osfrid's fate. "And that is Sorn."

Scyld said nothing, seemed to be thinking about something, but he did not break her gaze.

"What exactly does he plan to do with this information? Kidnap another? Add murder to his many crimes, if it isn't there already?"

~<*>~

"Can I help you?" A tall and powerfully built man stood before him, by his build and grace obviously a warrior.

Torim nervously scratched his head, already uncertain of the wisdom of his actions. "Actually, m'lord, I thought...mayhap...I might could help you."

The man looked at him expectantly.

"Th--that lass ye've been a-searching for. I maybe know where you could find her."

The warrior's eyes lit up fiercely, and he near dragged the frightened Torim toward a table, where sat three or four other men, in various states of dejection and discouragement. Torim realized one was his own new Eorl, Eodwine, and his knees went a little weak. He wondered belatedly if he might have a chance to run away.

With many stutters and false starts, and so quietly that the men had to lean far in in order to hear him, Torim described what he had seen on his journey to Edoras: the battered young woman standing up to Sorn, and his further mistreatment of her.

"But why didn't you come to us earlier?" one of the men demanded harshly. "It's been three days, she may have been killed already!"

"I-I--I was a-feared, m'lords!" Torim stammered wildly. "I didna wish the lass harm, but I am a simple man, and my bit o'land lies far too close to m'lord Sorn's than is my liking. He's vicious, and my family's there, my wife and th'littles, and if Sorn knew I spoke to you, 'e'd kill th'littles quick, and m'wife...Aren't you, lords, aware of what manner o'man he is? I fear him greatly."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"Come lad, catch up. We're nearly there." Degas called over his shoulder to Feo and grinned. He had sight of buildings on the horizon and thought them to be, though was unsure, buildings in the care of or belonging to Lin's family. Feo rode a dozen or so yards behind Degas, looking at the world wide-eyed. All that was left of his sickness was a barking cough when he did too much, and Degas kept him calm, though it was harder than most anything to keep the boy sitting still once he had the energy to move.

Feo trotted his sweet-tempered pony up next to Degas. It had taken all of about thirty seconds once they had left the inn for Feo to become comfortable with Degas. Degas tried to sound gruff and distant, but he mostly failed, and Feo learned quickly that if he pretended that Degas was tough and unapproachable in front of anybody, Degas would laugh and play games during much of the ride when there was nobody looking. He couldn't, of course, be seen as a soft noblemen, willing to take in stray children and treat them as his own younger siblings... he must appear distant! He grinned at his own bad illusion. What was the point? The world knew perfectly well that he was about as firm as pudding... they merely took their cues from him and pretended that he was tougher than he really was. It was all a game to him, and he knew that Feo understood it as such.

"Degas, what happens to me when we get there?"

"I'd recommend that you run off as soon as you're able."

"You'd leave me alone?"

"Shall I put it clearly? If I'm drawn and quartered, I assume that you'd prefer not to be seen associating yourself with me. Am I right?"

Feo's eyes widened and he grinned, showing the gap where a tooth had recently been. Riding in the sun, dozens of freckles had suddenly appeared to complete the image of a rascal. "You can be sure, lord, that if you are met with bad favor, I will deny ever having known you."

Degas laughed aloud, fascinated by this boy child. His speech had hints of education, most especially when he was joking back and forth, and he adopted many of Degas's words quickly, but when he spoke fast, or nervously, it carried far less annunciation. It was as though he chose not to reveal most of what he knew. Degas wondered why. Feo seemed more comfortable with an uneducated drawl than anything else, though he was clearly confident with other words. It was much like Degas speaking Westron and Rohirric; he was comfortable with both languages, and knew them well, and only a well trained ear could catch a lilt in his voice born from interchanging them so frequently, but he would always prefer Rohirric. He wondered if Feo considered both forms of speech in the way that Degas thought of the languages that he had mastered and decided that it would be a good thought for a rainy day.

"That's a boy. Self-preservation." He laughed and reached across the distance between mounts to clap Feo on the shoulder.

"So what's it I'm keepin' myself safe from?" He spoke as though he and Degas were old friends of the same age, and Degas liked his attitude. Travelling became lonely, and Degas was used to the silence of the road. It was more fun to sing with an audience, and having somebody to banter with as he rode did not upset him him in the least.

Degas was comfortable enough with the lad to be candid. He decided to tell him straight what their errand was. It was unfair to drag him along without warning, and Degas was surprised that Feo had not asked before why they rode. "I've been sent to tell a noblewoman's father and brothers that she's been kidnapped and it's my fault. On top of that, I plan to ask their permission to court her."

Feo looked as though Degas had told him that he meant to ask Lin's father to hand over his estate and work as his servant. "You mean t'tell me that yer gonna tell 'em you lost ther girl and when you find 'er agin, you wanna handfast with 'er? You've gone crazy!"

"Perhaps I have. We'll see what their reaction is. I have visions of being thrown into the ocean... she tells me her brothers are seafarers."

"That would be a proper adventure!" Feo's eyes lit up. "Do they battle pirates?"

"One could guess, perhaps, that they have done so. Why not ask them when we arrive? If you like it there, and they are willing, you could stay on with them for a time and work for your keep. They might teach you to sail." Feo's eyes took on a dreamy quality and Degas knew that his guess had been right.

"So that's where we're goin'? Up ahead?"

"So it would appear."

"Think we'll get there fast?"

"Fairly quickly, I would think. Our mounts are tired though, and an extra few minutes will not harm my errand, and will help our dear friends that have done well to carry us so far."

"So we have t'wait?"

"A bit longer, yes. Our four-legged friends have been kind to us. We must return the favor."

"But then I'll meet these sailor brothers?"

"Yes, I believe you will."

"And I get to see you drawn and quartered?"

"You sound so enthused about it."

"I sound what?"

"Excited. You sound as though it would be enjoyable to watch."

The talk continued thusly until Degas and Feo reached the walls of Farlen's land and the pair were greeted by a rather strong looking man with a good natured face.

"Greetings, my good man," Degas spoke politely. "I have business with Lord Farlen, and with his sons... it is important that I speak to them quickly."

"I can see you to Farlen's home, but you will perhaps have to wait. Farlen is at field and his sons are an hour's ride or more from home. I will see to it that they are found. Please, follow me."

Degas dismounted and motioned for Feo to stay ahorse, taking his reins and guiding both mounts behind the man that led. He schooled his face into one of business, trying not to let the world see his pure terror at the prospect of reactions to his news.

[Firefoot]

“I do not know. Not another kidnapping,” answered Scyld in a quiet, strange tone. My friend. Not since he had come to Sorn’s house thirteen long years ago had anyone deigned to call him friend: none of Sorn’s other employees or acquaintances, and certainly never Sorn himself. But this woman – this noblewoman he held prisoner and from whom he withheld all but the barest kindnesses – she did?

He had been trying to make her into an ally, or even something less than that: a tool to be used for achieving his own ends. Never in his wildest schemes had he thought to make her a friend. A friend. She trusted him. He had never sought her trust, only her good will. He should have been elated. Her trust could be his trump card – only able to be played once, perhaps, but to astounding gain.

Instead, her friendship terrified him. He had no experience with it, no past experience from which to judge. How could he in good faith even contemplate betrayal? Wait – in good faith? Scyld could not remember doing an honorable deed in the past decade. Why change now? Because of two words: my friend. He could not return the favor, nor could he forget it or let it sit. He did not want this burden.

“Perhaps murder is his intent,” Scyld continued harshly, “and if it is, I care not.”

[Folwren]

Thornden sat with Eodwine and Garstan as Haleth stood behind the stammering and terrified peasant waiting until he finished speaking.

"I-I--I was a-feared, m'lords! I didna wish the lass harm, but I am a simple man, and my bit o'land lies far too close to m'lord Sorn's than is my liking. He's vicious, and my family's there, my wife and th'littles, and if Sorn knew I spoke to you, 'e'd kill th'littles quick, and m'wife...Aren't you, lords, aware of what manner o'man he is? I fear him greatly."

What was Thornden to think? The man had reason to fear, that was true, and who wouldn’t want to protect his family? But to actually know that some helpless girl was in the grasp of someone as Sorn (and the man knew very well, clearly, what sort of man Sorn actually was) and not do anything about it for days, was hardly short of cowardice.

‘We can’t all be heros, though,’ Thornden said to himself. He averted his gaze away from Torim’s face and looked at Eodwine. Surely there would not be any more sharp words towards the fellow for his silence. Yet should the lady have suffered much because of the three days’ delay. . .Thorndin didn’t feel so sure that any one of them sitting there would feel very kindly towards Torim.

He leaned slightly towards Eodwine, but said nothing as the pause grew longer and into one of those horrible silences. What would he say? And what could they do - now that they knew who had her and maybe where she was to be found?

[JennyHallu]

Lin's eyes flashed angrily towards Scyld. How could he say such a thing? And yet...something did not ring true. He was too angry with her, when ordinarily his response would be dry laughter or scathing scorn at her...naivete, I suppose. And it's fair. I am naive, though I am rapidly learning.

Her anger receded rapidly, and she leaned back thoughtfully. When she spoke her voice was gentle, and that in itself seemed to startle Scyld. "Perhaps it is his intent. But you should care, Scyld. Adding murder to his crimes does you no favors."

He recoiled, as if in expectation of some righteous lecture, and Lin laughed softly, with only a trace of bitterness. "I mean when he is caught. Whatever happens to me doesn't matter, whether I live or die. He will still be caught, and made to answer." She looked over and caught Scyld's eyes with her own. "And so will any who aided him, or served him. You know this. Adding the murder or harm of an innocent, and to no purpose other than to cause me pain...even if I lived and argued for you, I do not think I could save you, if you knew of such intent and did nothing. And certainly no one else is like to try."

[Firefoot]

"It is not up to me whether anyone else tries." Scyld was becoming increasingly baffled, and his fear had not abated one bit. He did not understand her, and his dry wit availed him not at all in this situation. He wished she would fight back, yell at him, or even just say nothing and sit there in sullen silence. Instead, she seemed to be trying to help him. Help him! Even if I lived and argued for you… Why? Why was she doing this?
"But whether you try is," Linduial replied.

“But technically I do not know anything. No one, Sorn least of all, ever told me these things; I only overheard that he was sending people to Edoras to find people you wouldn’t want to see hurt. He gave no orders for them to actually be hurt; perhaps he only means to find out who they are and threaten you about them. I don’t really know anything about what Sorn intends to do.” Now Scyld was starting to hit his stride once more. Everything he had said so far was true, if of questionable morality, but now it was time to start riding the fine line between truth and falsehood.

“And in truth? I am not sure I want to know. The less I know, the less that can be held against me. What Sorn chooses to do is his affair.” This was not wholly true; Scyld lived by the motto that the more he knew, the better off he was – as long as no one knew that he knew. He would have to be careful with how much he told Linduial. “And it will do me even less good if I try to stop him and he kills me. I am no fighter; that is certainly not a skill Sorn ever taught me. I have no doubt he would not hesitate to kill me, and if he decided to, he probably could.” The lie came easily to his lips, despite the nagging feeling of guilt that was beginning to tug at his mind. But why should he feel guilty at all? Why should he feel any moral responsibility towards her whatsoever? How did she make him feel this way?

“I do not know why I tire myself explaining these things endlessly,” he cut himself off. He was venturing into dangerous territory again. “Or why you pretend to care. You try to lead me on with honeyed words and expressions of good will – but for what reason? Surely,” he mocked, “you have no honest reason to care for one of your captors. You only lead me on so that I will help to save your friends.”

[JennyHallu]

Lin raised a delicate eyebrow. He sounds so...defensive. An amusing switch, really. "My friends are equally out of my reach and yours," she pointed out reasonably. "Neither of us could do anything from here to help them. And they have many to protect them and now--" she made a sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass herself and the iron cage she sat in. "--they will be most careful.

"You've already taken risks to help me," she continued, raising her cup to him through the cell door. "Not much, but Sorn is a dangerous man. I'm not sure he's--quite sane. Which means his reaction to even the little you've done for me could be unpredictable, at the least.

"All I mean to do is make you an offer. You know as well as I do that no profession of ignorance will protect you in this case. I am beloved of the Queen. When Sorn is caught, he will be tried by an angry populace, and punishment will be both swift and harsh. If I yet live, I say that you may call on me, and I shall speak for you. For Gurth, as well, for he does not know what he does, and should not bear the consequences of it, and he has been surpassingly kind to me, in his own way."

A dark bitter voice in her mind erupted in protest to this offer, made on a hunch and a whim.

What are you saying, Lin? He's done the bare minimum to help you, every step of the way.

But he's done that.

Murder is probably already one of his crimes. He is not to be trusted! Why, you fool, do you trust him?!

I must trust someone. And it affects him that I do, it confuses him. He's thinking about it, I know he is.

You don't have to trust anyone. And you run the risk that all you do is infuriate him.

I choose to trust him, and I will bear the risk.
The bitter voice subsided, and Lin settled back against the cell wall with a sigh, watching for his reaction.

[Firefoot]

Haleth’s initial annoyance with the man had subsided, and he wished now that he had not been quite so rough. After all, the man had come now, and that was the important bit. Now they could actually move on to finding Linduial – and he would have something more to report to the queen than “no progress”.

“Peace, man,” he said, realizing that the panicked man had never given his name. “What is done is done, and while I wish you had come forward earlier, that cannot be changed. We will see that neither you nor your family comes to harm because of your service to us and the queen; indeed, you shall be rewarded handsomely should your information prove correct. Now, your name, please?”

“Torim, m’lord.”

“Now, Torim, could you describe Sorn and the men who were with him?” Haleth probed.

Torim seemed to seize up again at the mention of Sorn, but spoke in a reasonably steady voice, telling them first of Sorn, then of a thin, average height man with short blonde hair, and finally of a sturdy blonde man who he seemed to recall had a mustache.

Haleth nodded. “Your help is very much appreciated.” He looked to the others. “Can any of you think of anything else?”

[Firefoot]

Scyld’s confusion outweighed his joy at this pronouncement. “I have already asked you to speak plainly once,” he growled.

“The offer seemed quite clear to me,” Linduial answered.

“The offer, yes, but not what you want in return. Surely no one in their right mind in your position would make such an offer without wanting anything back. What do you want of me?” This was Scyld’s last attempt to make sense out of her. Bargains, he could understand. Offers born of trust or friendship… not so much.

“Well, obviously if I am to testify for you, I must be alive,” she said.

“That is all?” asked Scyld warily.

“Did I ask for anything else?”

What was this, some kind of fool’s bargain? Could it really be possible that there was no catch? If so, how ever did people who thought like this survive and do well for themselves? That such people existed had never truly occurred to Scyld. Unless… there was one other possibility. “How do I know that if I let you or help you to survive, you will really speak for me and that you are not just bargaining for your life?” She just looked at him. “I do not understand you,” he said finally, annoyance creeping back into his voice. “Not at all.”

[JennyHallu]

Lin shrugged, also confused. Had his dealings always been with men of such poor faith that he had no trust in her?

"It's in your own best interest for me to live. You know it is," she said, irritation rearing its ugly head in her own voice as well. "If you are caught, call on me, and I will come."

"And when you do not?" he snarled at her.

"I keep my word!" she snapped. "If I do not come, it will be because I cannot, and you will be out nothing anyway. The offer stands, even if you are too dense to accept it!"

A footstep sounded just outside the cellar, and she fell silent, eyes blazing with irritation even as she fervently prayed no one had heard the whole of their discussion.

[Celuien]

Listening to Torim's story made Garstan uneasy. The man did not seem craven (or so Garstan hoped, thinking that had he been completely without courage, he would never have come forward at all), yet he had held back his knowledge of the kidnapping for three days. Sorn must be a brutal man, far worse than the half told rumors the search party had been somewhat uselessly told. Three days, and those days had passed without word that the kidnapper's demands would be met. He feared for Linduial, trapped as she was under the ill guardianship of her probably increasingly frustrated abductor. They had to hurry.

Torim described Sorn's companions. The description of one, though it started as a picture that might have fitted most any man of Rohan, began to catch Garstan's ear. Middle height, but strudy. Blond hair to his shoulders. Then came the difference. A large mustache, brown coat, and black boots. Garstan had seen this man. And heard of him in a way that now caused to to jump forward in alarm and anger as Haleth asked, "Can any of you think of anything else?"

"Indeed, my lord, I can." Garstan looked from Haleth to Eodwine, seeing his own thought mirrored in their faces. Both seemed filled with consternation, though he could not tell who held more frustration with their lost chance to follow the suspicious visitors to Edoras. Eodwine, whose suggestion to shadow the visitors had been rejected, or Haleth, who had made the error of rejecting the plan. "Do not fear, Torim. He is gone now. But not two days ago, the second man you speak of was under this roof as a guest." A grim laugh, devoid of humor escaped him. "And I might have known it then, had I but a little more wit. The man spoke to my daughter and questioned her about the fair. I thought nothing of it then, setting it to the curiosity of a passer through Edoras, but I see it now. Though, mayhap, I should have suspected then. I know that you suspected them, Eorl. Had their actions been known, perhaps they would have been followed as you intended, and we would be nearer to finding Lady Linduial."

Garstan paused, taking in the frustrated silence, puzzling over the questions they had put to his daughter. "Lèoðern spoke freely and told him of Linduial their ill-fated trip to the horse fair, as he asked. This Sorn must have sent him to gather word of our doings here." He scowled, furious that his children had been in such close contact with the villianous schemers, worrying that they would now be in danger from the kidnappers, wondering what the purpose in their questioning had been.

"I fear too that my own children are now in the view of the kidnappers. Though they have no rank or wealth to make them objects or ransom, Linduial took some interest in my daughter. I do not know why else she would have been chosen for questioning, and I do not know what the kidnapper's intent was in doing so.

"I have but one question more for you, Torim. Where is this Sorn and where did you see him last with the lady?"

[Taralphiel]

The cold air left a comforting burn in Sorn’s throat, and made him shiver a little. He gave a light pat to his horse, which was enough to set him at a canter down further into the valley. The vast lands by Sorn’s estate were not all his, but few would mind or notice him riding through it. The stray farmer would not dare to challenge him. He’d earned a reputation that had such benefits.

Sorn studied the steely mountains, and they reflected in his vacant eyes. He passed his mind quickly over the past four days, and all his…‘precautions’. By now Osfrid would have made his way well into the Hall of the new Eorl, and be returning with all the information he needed. This would be another key to keeping the fiery young Lady from making a movement while in his keep.

Sorn then began to dwell over his current list of minions, servants, and housekeepers. It was at this point that all knew the stakes of his ambitious endeavour, and the consequences should it fail. Sorn knew he could do only little to keep loyalty, and so he would have to simply hope to barricade the rising streams. Some, like Gurth, had simple loyalty and little way to make coin or advantage from betraying him. Others like Scyld...

Sorn fidgeted, thumbing the leather rein as he remembered the expression on Scyld’s face whilst he stood in the study. He needed to be watched, carefully. Many in his troupe would not think twice to act on Sorn’s orders. Scyld obeyed, but he also thought on his orders. Sorn knew that was a great sign of trouble.

The sun began to rise over the peaks as Sorn rode towards his home. The windows flickered with warm candlelight from the previous night, and Sorn could see the kitchens were active with signs of the first meal being prepared. Being out for almost over a two days had left Sorn’s stomach restless, and his kitchen hand knew of his like to wander away for days without notice.

As his horse leisurely slowed into the property, a startled stable-hand peeked from behind a barrel. Sorn gave him an easy, even look as he nervously took the reins. With another pat to his horse, he dismounts and makes a long stride to the kitchen.

Entering the hall, Sorn could feel the immediate wafting warmth, and smell of roasting meat. However, as his steps lead him past the entrance to the cell, he sensed something less than welcoming. Voices.

Sorn stopped, his lips curling into an ugly grin. Was Scyld talking to the prisoner? That would be an unwise move. Sorn stepped closer to the door, his keen hearing drowning out the other bustle.

Carefully he detected someone’s voice...

[Firefoot]

Foolish, foolish, foolish! Scyld heard the footstep at the same time as Linduial, and knew it would be easy to blame her for being the one loud enough to catch attention – but he, too, had thrown caution to the wind… and he also knew it was not now the time for blame.

He had been on the point of cautiously accepting her offer – or at least not fighting it, as he had argued his way so far as to not back down easily – but if someone was listening – someone who in all likelihood was Sorn – he absolutely could not do that. His plans were too far from ripe to have to face off Sorn now, but even if he did get off now, the damage would be done. The seeds of suspicion would be planted in Sorn’s mind, and he would be watching for any slip of Scyld’s, however small. Scyld had been careless, far too careless.

“It is useless and foolish for you to try and plead your case with me as you obviously have nothing more to offer than empty words and threats,” he said. “I am as unsympathetic as Sorn and understand you as well as simple Gurth might. I tire of hearing you yammer at me all the time; be quiet or I will shut your mouth for you.”

[JennyHallu]

Lin was furious, and made no attempt to hide it. "The offer stands," she hissed at him, before favoring the man with a truly wicked smile. A deep breath, and she launched full-voiced into the furious tirade she'd not been in since the first night of her kidnapping. "I demand to see Sorn!" she exclaimed between streams of rude invective directed at Scyld. She took the tin plate with the remains of her breakfast still clinging to it and flung it as hard she could with her good arm towards her jailor, viewing the moist eggy mess it left on his face and shirt with satisfaction. "Slop! Scraps! I am not a dog, and I am not to be served such a horrific excuse for food!"

Why am I doing this, she asked herself, having acted on instinct. The answer came quickly. So Sorn won't wonder what we were talking about, and question Scyld's loyalty.

She didn't know if Scyld would realize her motivation for throwing this tantrum, but it was the best thought she had. At least she'd never protested her meals before, so it was not likely he'd consider her to have suddenly began to be petty.

If it makes him worry a bit, though, I don't mind, she thought, a bit vindictively.

Scyld had been clear that he considered Lin a pampered highborn brat. She thought she'd at least challenged that notion in Scyld's mind, but Sorn likely felt the same way, and there could be little danger in fulfilling Sorn's low expectations of her. Probably less danger than there had been in setting her arm--she was safer if Sorn underestimated her.

He'll quit feeding me for a little while, most likely. The thought worried her little, however. Gurth's daily 'snacks' had been getting bigger and bigger, and were certainly better fare, if less balanced, than the food she'd been given. She'd be all right.

[Firefoot]

Scyld had no idea how much of Linduial’s tirade was for show and how much was genuine, but he nevertheless felt entirely relieved at it. At least he knew how to deal with this. His wonted smirk had lodged itself back on his face, and not even the soggy, disgusting eggs she hurled at him wiped it off; shock him though it did, he was much more amused than annoyed. Rubbing his face on his sleeve, he mused that this part of her irritation was almost certainly genuine. He did not know why this did not bother him, except that he figured that if she really was as honorable as she claimed, a bit of annoyance with him would not cause her to revoke her offer.

“You are hardly in a position to make demands,” he answered, “but I shall inform Sorn of your wish.” He stood up, and as he walked past her he picked a stringy bit of egg off his shirt and flung it at her face. “Although you may wish to blame the cook for the quality of the eggs…” he murmured to her.

He tramped heavily up the stairs as if he truly were fed up with her and pasted an exasperated look on his face. He deliberately left the cellar door open as he went to find Sorn, and unsurprisingly found him rather close to the door, confirming Scyld’s guess that it had indeed been Sorn who had heard them. Sorn obviously did not know much about eavesdropping, Scyld thought with contempt. Not only had he let himself be known, but he had also not made a show of doing something else.

“The Lady wishes to speak to you,” Scyld announced without preamble. “And I do believe she was ready to throw her glass at me next if I did not find you.”

[Anguirel]

The whole farmstead billowed and span like the waves of the Sea-though, never having seen the Sea, Gurth did not apply the simile himself.

"Gerraaarn, Grendel," he muttered, and when the beast stayed where it was, gazing up with an almost solicitous glance, he aimed a savage kick at it. But he was unsteady on his feet, and the dog dodged. Gurth collapsed sideways, falling into the filth of the estate's midden, yet he could not smell any of it, so strong was the cloud of mead with which he had thoroughly deadened his senses.

Unpaid with limited quantities of the golden liquid he adored for some days, Gurth had gone reifing and reaving on a neighbouring cot and taken a barrel by force. After he smashed the skull of a labourer who thought about barring his way, the rest had known better, and the giant retired with his prize. He had poured it down his gullet then, uncaring as much of it splashed over the front of his livery or washed over his hair and beard, drinking on and on till the flicker of consciousness he possessed ceased to trouble him.

Emerging from the midden now, not bothering to brush off the dirt that sprang, he grabbed Grendel by his scruff, dragged the whimpering creature to its kennel, and locked it in, winding about the iron chain. Then he turned and lurched carelessly towards the farmhouse...the side entrance...the cellars.

In such moods in the past, only Sorn had succeeded in calming Gurth's rage. Now the question was...would that be sufficient?

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Ennahir son of Marenil handed the reins of the visitors' horses off to a young stablehand, and called a page over. "Go get Lord Farlen, lad, he's in the west pasture."

"The one with the sheep?" the lad clarified, and at Ennahir's nod was off at top speed.

Ennahir led the man and the boy (Must be a brother, ages are wrong for a son, he thought) into the solar, bidding them have a seat. "The Lord will be a while coming in from the fields, but will see you as soon as he may."

A maidservant brought in a tray of cheese, bread, and early spring strawberries, leaving it on a table and whisking out without a word. Ennahir, too, left, to prepare some hot water and fresh clothing for his lord. Several ewes were near to birthing today, and Farlen would be as sticky and dirty as anyone else. The young man could easily wait an hour or so.

"So we have to wait to see the pirate chasers?" asked Feo with a mix of disappointment and enthusiasm. He could barely sit still for having been on horseback so long. For all that the pony was small, so was Feo, and he'd fidgeted more than he'd ridden quietly, it seemed. Degas couldn't fault him... he was no Rohirric youth, raised as much on four legs as his own two.

"Yes, boy, we do. They've not even been summoned; only the lady's father has. I wonder at the exclusion."

"Do you think they're not at home?"

"I think that they might be anywhere, though it is planting and birthing season both, so it could simply be that they are more needed than Farlen in the fields."

"And Farlen--"

"Lord Farlen."

"And Lord Farlen the lady's father then? You said her name was Linduial?"

"That I did, and yes he is. Please, Feo," Degas added, quietly, his stomach informing him that the tray of snacks could not suffice to staunch either his hunger or the nagging feelings of guilt and worry. "Say nothing in his presence unless he asks it of you. You will not, I am quite sure, want to be the subject of his focus."

It was indeed a full hour before Lord Farlen, brother to Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, was announced and stepped into the room, his powerful presence instantly arresting the attention of his guests.

Farlen was a tall, imposing man, with eyes like steel and dark hair peppered prematurely with gray. It was no sign of age or weakness, and one who knew Linduial marveled at the relation between her delicate beauty and her father's forceful countenance. He was dressed simply, in a snowy white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow and dark breeches. His resemblance to his brother was striking: they were as like as twins, though Farlen had never had Imrahil's interest in statecraft, despite his understanding of it. He had a mind like a trap, and when he looked Degas over quickly before meeting his eye, it was evident.

"Degas of the Folde, eh?" he said sharply. "A long way to come from Rohan for a social visit. I'm assuming you bring news of my daughter."

The boy he ignored, for now. It had been a long day; they'd already lost a ewe and her lamb, and the cursed sheep seemed even more clever than usual at getting into ridiculously inaccessible places to give birth. He could think of no good reason why someone would be bringing news of his daughter, and no other reason for an emissary from Rohan to come to him, rather than to the city, and his already strained temper growled low under his voice.

"Your assumption is correct, Lord Farlen. I will speak plainly; I am of the Folde, more recently of Minas Anor, and am currently residing in Lord Eodwine's halls, the very place in which I am sure you know that Linduial stays with Marenil as guardian. Linduial has been kidnapped." Farlen was silent and Degas continued, waiting for the outburst he was so certain would come. "Her abductor has issued a demand for ransom. Queen Lotheriel has issued a search party that Lord Eodwine and members of his household have joined. It may well be that she is returned to safety even as we speak. My journey was long and I met with unavoidable delays."

Degas fell silent and waited for response, wondering if Farlen would ask how Linduial was left unprotected. His vision of his own honor dictated that he should offer the information, but he was unsure what to say. He had never before acted as messenger and did not quite know where to begin, save where he already had.

Farlen immediately gave the man his full attention. "She was what?" he barked, not waiting for an answer. "Ennahir!"

The young man appeared immediately at his lord's elbow, and Farlen wasted no time in issuing his orders. "Send someone to the city after the boys. Someone fast." Ennahir nodded and disappeared.

"We'll have a while before my sons arrive. Tell me everything."

"Where should I begin, Lord? There was a well-sized horse fair in Edoras several days ago. The city was full and it was an event of much excitement. I escorted Linduial and a small child of our shared household. In the market, we were separated. I blame myself; I never should have looked away, even for a moment. A moment was all that it took.

"I turned and did not see her. I gathered up the child and searched the immediate area with no luck. Nobody appeared to have seen her and nor could I. I made my way back to Eodwine's hall, hoping that she had wandered, lost sight of me, and made her way back to meet me there. When I returned, she was not there.

"It was not terribly long after that Lotheriel arrived, bearing the letter from her captors and a number of well-trained men. I rode out shortly after. I have told you what I know and remember, though it is possible that I know and have not thought of details that you wish to learn."

Degas went silent, meeting the eyes of Farlen.

Farlen returned his gaze with a stony expression. The lad had been careless, that was clear, but he had owned up to his responsibility for the incident, and was certainly brave in coming here. And yet...

"It stands greatly in your favor that you come to speak to me of this, but that may not stead you well should lasting harm come to my child," he said carefully, not wanting to say anything in the heat of the moment he might regret later. His heart felt like it had sunk to his feet, and he knew he would not be able to focus on the lambing any more today. "Lin's brothers will be here in an hour or two, though, and I can not promise they will see it that way."

He wanted to threaten, to shout, to ride off at the head of an army as he had done in his youth, not so very long ago, and find and protect his daughter, and yet he could do nothing. He called another servant, and realized with another jolt of age and helplessness that he didn't know the name of the lad who answered. So many are gone...they go and new ones take their place, and by the Valar in their glory, I'm tired. I begin to see what they meant by the gift of Men. There will come a day when it will be a relief to set this by...and I probably have another fifty years of strength ahead of me, at least.

He left instructions with the lad to offer his guests a place to wash if they desired, and a full meal. He wondered briefly about the young boy with the messenger, but it didn't seem important, and didn't concern him. He was too tired, just now. He left the room without another word to either of them.
"So he didn't kill you."

Degas heaved a sigh of relief even as he glared at Feo. They followed the servant and Degas looked ahead to see if the lad had overheard; he made no move to show that he had. "Boy, watch what you say."

"My nose is in the way."

Degas raised a hand, not really intending to hit Feo, and the boy knew it and stuck out his tongue. "You are a hooligan and deserve a good thrashing, boy."

Feo calmed and walked next to Degas. "So we're being fed?"

"Yes."

"Do I have to pay for it?"

"Only in that you will thoroughly wash before touching the food. Hot water, soap. Scrubbing. Much though I appreciate the smell of horse, I like to smell it on horses, not boys."

"But Degas--"

"You will wash yourself to the point of pinkness or I will do it for you. I'd rather you save me the effort; I am tired. But do not think, boy, that I will not dunk you in a tub until you sparkle."

Feo walked silently now, moping. Degas walked silently, pondering. The servant showed them where they could find cleaning items and left to bring them food.

[Anguirel]

Meandering on his way to the cellar, Gurth sat down, and, like a heap of flesh turning by degrees to stone, his aggressive drunkenness became maudlin. He wept preposterously, ruddying his already bringht complexion, rubbing dirt into his face.

Then he picked his frame up and dragged the length of his body back to the wooden keenel which kept Grendel, though he still did not think on the dog itself. Before the chained slat-door to the kennel, he threw himself down and snored, gaseous mead pouring from his nostrils.

His rough sleep was punctuated by stirrings and flailings. He ripped off most of his green and yellow garments as if boiling with heat and cast the rags aside. Then he pulled the kennel open by force, fracturing the chain, and whistled Grendel to him, who followed without question.

Taking up his cudgel, the giant walked from Sorn's lands as quickly as possible, some mysterious wanderlust driving him. He would be his own man, such as he was, for some time hence. Perhaps he had been contented enough with Sorn, but Gurth had his own strange yearning for a higher part in the web of Fate, though he usually did not realise it.

He did not know when he would come back, nor greatly care, though something in him did register that it was a pity to leave that poor bitch-pup in the "care" of the weakling slyster Scyld. Perhaps he would return and retrieve her. Perhaps he would find a better source of mead.

[Taralphiel]

Sorn took an uncomfortable moment looking at Scyld, studying the lines in his face, deducing what was masked in his expression. He liked these developments less and less. Scyld was plotting something all to his advantage, and none to Sorn’s. But that was Scyld.

Sorn’s demeanour quickly changed to an odd smile, and he clapped a hand onto Scyld’s shoulder, gearing him towards the stairs.

“Well, let us see how we go reasoning with royalty! I have not conversed with the Lady in a while, I am beginning to miss that sour expression!”

Scyld looked wearily at Sorn, tired of his theatrics no doubt. But he had more to lose than he knew. Walking carefully down the steps, Scyld stopped a few paces before the cell, but Sorn stood almost pressed to the steel bars. Linduial bore a look of thorough disgust, which only served to amuse him.

“I see you do not approve of the meals provided. It seems to suit Scyld rather well to have it dripping from him, but it does also look such a waste!” Sorn unclasped the sheath of a small dagger on his belt, and watched Linduial pale slightly.

“I am afraid my Lady, that if I must eat such a breakfast, so must you. I believe in being equal, at least in that respect…” Sorn knelt down, peering through the bars at the young lady’s eye-level.

“But I feel that there are matters more pressing than your breakfast. Perhaps you wish to complain that Scyld is not a fair discussion partner? You seem to enjoy talking to length with him, or am I wrong?” Sorn continued to fiddle with the edge of the dagger, sliding the blade against the leather sheath. The young lady did not have a chance to reply, as Sorn’s voice took a louder and more menacing tone.

“Perhaps you feel wronged to be here, is that the case? You feel you should be set free to enjoy the pleasures of MY land, my people’s land, with your wonderful Queen? AH! That MUST be what you are thinking! But you are young and have much to learn, My Lady…”

The last words came out with a jutting and icy glare. By now the dagger Sorn had been thumbing was cut clean through it’s thin sheath and was pressed to Sorn’s strained thigh. The Lady watched the blood pool and spill down Sorn’s calf. Sorn seemed oblivious to it all, and kept his eyes on Linduial.

“I am not simple, much as you would like to think so. The people of this land will not bear subjugation through marriage to your lands! Pity keep the fool that thinks such a marriage be for good will between our cities!” Sorn’s register was dropping and rising in an uncomfortable way, and Scyld had begun to shift on his feet behind him. By now Sorn’s dagger had sunk almost a half fingers length into his thigh, and without a grimace he plucked it out. Standing, the blood ran over his boots. Sorn looked down and regarded the small wound a moment, before suddenly turning and moving to Scyld’s side.

“Good Scyld…a good worker. ALWAYS performing his duties, nary a word against anyone. Oh, would you enjoy me thinking that? I know you think ill of me…wish it to me. I do not blame you. You’ve been here altogether…too long…”

Sorn did not even know what he meant by those words, but his dagger was still in his hand, and his finger twitched violently. He did not know what was stopping him sinking the dagger into Scyld, cutting his life to pieces. Maybe it was the looks in the Lady Linduial’s eyes. He felt some strange emotion arise out of the look the young woman gave him. Hate, disgust, indifference were all another matter. This Lady looked at him as if he were a man with no control of his senses. A madman. Sorn put on his most charming smile, though his voice still sounded erratic.

“Do NOT talk to the Lady under any circumstances.” With a sidewards glace at Linduial, he said softly “She does not wish to be responsible for my outbursts, and wherever they leave you…”

It seemed then that Sorn took an entirely different tangent, deciding to try to frighten his own employee. Scyld did not move as Sorn then whispered in his ear.

“Remember the last one? Remember the foolish family and their brave son? Perhaps he lived, though it would be in a great deal of pain. How many limbs of his did I break? You did not seem to like his piteous cries. I saw the look of grief on your face. It is still there…”

Sorn moved away just as quickly, not even a limp from the cut in his flesh. Bounding up the stairs, he strode back into his study and produced a thick cloth. He roughly tied it around his leg to stop what little bleeding was left. Rolling his shoulder and pacing, he felt he had more ‘energy’ to exert, but few to exert it upon. This vexed him, and with a sudden growl his stuck his bloody blade deep into the wood of his desk.

Staring at the blood sinking into the veins of the wood, Sorn battled with the fact that no matter how hard he might seek it, complete control of his plans would be utterly unobtainable.

[littlemanpoet]

Garmund and Léoðern in danger from the man who had taken Linduial for ransom? Fear for the children and rage at the man grew together within him, and all thought of a ghosted past or present was set aside. The moment his head had cleared from such thoughts, Eodwine felt shamed that he had been so careless of Linduial, so filled with dreams and wistings that served no use.

He paid close attention to Torim as he described the location of this Sorn. Eodwine tried to think if he knew the man, a landholder about a day's ride from Edoras; well within the confines of the Middle Emnet. I am this man's Eorl.

When Torim had finished describing the way to Sorn, Eodwine turned to Haleth. "Do not blame yourself overmuch, Haleth. Your choice may seem ill, but maybe fate will show that it was for the best that they should be free just now. Who knows but that they may not aid us e'en though it be against their will?"

Haleth cleared his throat and gave back gruff words. "My thanks, Eodwine. I'd have that choice back nonetheless." He rose. "The day is young! Let us ride within the half hour! Mayhap we can meet this Sorn and have the lady freed before night falls!"

Eodwine rose. Fresh horses would need to be borrowed along the way, more than once, but the need was great. He feared that they were already too late. The men rushed to the stables, Eodwine calling for Léof.

[Alcarillo]

Osfrid's cart rumbled down the old road to Sorn's home. Muriel sat curled up next to Osfrid, wrapped in a new shawl. He bought it for her at the horse fair after it struck her fancy. It's price was ridiculously expensive: the equivalent of many laborious hours' wages. But Muriel and the stall-keeper were both vigilant as hawks; Osfrid could not steal the shawl without notice. He was forced to thieve from a blind beggar. The trick was to act as though you were giving coins as you bent down, perhaps even placing one or two into the man's bowel, but once your fingers gently grazed the coins' surfaces, you would pluck out another worth twice what you gave. If people happened to be walking by you as you did this, you might fumble around in your pockets for a moment before the crime, pretending to reach for a hidden coin. But as soon as their curious eyes had disappeared around a corner, you would shamelessly commit your act of petty thievery. Osfrid did this many times to the same man, and was able to buy Muriel her shawl. Besides, those coins weren't the beggar's anyways. They belonged to the good people who donated to the poor. If he wanted money he should've earned it.

Osfrid had no qualms about stealing from the beggar; it was his nature to steal. He was a thief, a swindler, a con man. Once, while on his own many years ago, before he had ever heard of Sorn, Osfrid happened to find a pile of bricks left unattended beside a house. He simply loaded them into his cart and sold them in the next village. A man shouldn't leave a pile of bricks laying around like that. Another time he relabeled bottles of cheap wine with the labels of much more expensive bottles. He sold them for a profit ten times as great as what the original labels would've given him. All the great vineyards did that. If they could get away with it, so could Osfrid. And besides, he had done that only once. There were men, rich men, who had gained all their wealth that way. It wasn't fair to the poor man that the rich man stole from him. And so the only way to beat the rich was to play their own game.

Sorn's house appeared as the cart rolled over the last hill. It still sat imperiously among the fields of lesser estates, despite its decline over the years into a den of criminals. Osfrid drove the cart before the doorways of Sorn's home.

"Muriel," he said, stepping out of the cart, "Find one of Sorn's men. Have him take care of the cart and the luggage. I'm off to find Sorn." Muriel shrugged and daintily stepped out to find somebody, Wæveth, maybe, or a servant. Osfrid, meanwhile, bounded up the steps to the door and quietly entered the house.

Sorn was always in his study, usually brooding or plotting. Osfrid walked down a hallway and knocked on the door before entering, not wanting to interrupt Sorn if he happened to be busy. "Come in…" Osfrid heard Sorn say.

Osfrid entered. His heart leapt when he saw that a bloody knife had been stabbed deep into the desk. Sorn sat behind it with a dark and sour expression on his face. "Yes, Osfrid?" he asked. Sorn had wrapped a hand around the knife hilt and gently began to massage it between his thumb and index finger, rolling it between his fingers, worming it into the wood menacingly.

Osfrid tried not to look at the knife. He would ignore it…Sorn was in one of his moods, and…had he stabbed someone? "Um, yes, I've returned from Edoras," Osfrid said. He reached into a pocket and withdrew a tiny black notebook. "I've written down, um, what I've found out…" Osfrid inched forward, holding out his little book. He stretched his wavering arm across the desk, and Sorn grabbed the book, giving Osfrid a dirty glare. Osfrid stepped back as soon as he could.

"It's all, um, in there…names of friends, guardians. The like." He tried to look neither at the knife nor into Sorn's eyes. He shifted his gaze uncomfortably to the walls, but he considered that Sorn might find it rude that he was avoiding eye contact. He fumbled for some time, glancing from Sorn to the walls and to Sorn again.

"Thank you, Osfrid," Sorn said. Osfrid shivered at the calmness of his voice.

"Erm, yes, sir,". He exited the room quickly. He normally wouldn't have addressed Sorn as sir, but these were exceptional circumstances. Anything to appease him. Osfrid walked back down the hall, wiping sweat from his temples. He should find somebody who could tell him about the bloody knife. Did Sorn stab somebody? He wouldn't do that… would he? Maybe he had just taken a few stabs at some raw meat to release some anger. That still didn't give Osfrid much comfort…

He would find Muriel first, though. The silly girl was probably wandering through fields of barley right now.

[Folwren]

There was almost always a handful of men about the hall who had volunteered to help find Lady Linduial. Haleth called to them as they passed through the building and yard to the stable and as Léof came hurrying out in answer to Eodwine’s call, Haleth explained to them what was happening and what they had heard. He and Eodwine then for a moment stood speaking together and finally, Eodwine turned to Léof.

“How many horses are there?” Eodwine asked him.

“Fifteen, sir,” he replied at once.

“Good. We’ll need twelve saddled now.”

“Aye, sir,” Léof said, turning immediately and running back into the stables.

“Some of you go and help him,” Haleth ordered. Thornden and three others went into the stables after Léof.

Léof already had four horses out and tied in the aisle. None more could be brought out a present, and he was in the tack room fetching the saddles and bridles. The horses, under Léof’s good care, were all well groomed and entirely prepared for saddling and riding. No one spoke as they worked. In minutes, the four horses were saddled and led out, and in another moment, four more were led out and tied as well.

In ten minutes twelve horses stood in the hall’s courtyard. Thornden led Flíthaf to Eodwine. Thornden then mounted his own horse and glanced around. Everyone had mounted and the two extra horses’ reins were tied to two men’s saddles. They started out immediately, going two by two. Haleth and Eodwine rode in front, Garstan and Thornden rode behind them and the six others came behind.

At the gates they halted. Haleth dismounted to speak with Lystholn. When he had finished explaining, Lystholn spoke.

“So. . .you are going out after this Sorn fellow?”

“Well, I am not. I am going to the Queen, but Lord Eodwine with the men behind him now and you and Deren are.”

“I am, sir?” Haleth nodded. Lystholn paused briefly. “Very well,” he said. “That is why you have two extra horses, I suppose?”

So it was. In a moment, Deren and Lystholn were up on their horses. Eodwine and Haleth bid each other farewell, Haleth wishing Eodwine good speed. Eodwine nodded and turned his horse’s head towards the gates.

Deren fell into line at the rear of the party. Beneath him his horse pranced and tossed his head, full of spirit, energy, and excitement. That same excitement pulsed through Deren’s veins.

‘Finally,’ he thought, ‘we are on the scent. Days of waiting have finally pulled off and we’re onto something.’

The wind was fresh in their faces as they left the city walls. One of the horses whinnied. Flíthaf’s head came up and he gave a great, trumpeting answer before leaping forward and leading the way over the wide open grass land.

[littlemanpoet]

The riders settled into a smooth galloping pace that was meant to save the horses. At first Eodwine had thought to run until the horses tired, stop at farmsteads and demand fresh horses, but he thought better of it. Best to have their own mounts beneath them. It was not as if Sorn knew they were coming.

By nightfall they had covered much land so that in the morning there would be only a few hours' ride left to go before they were at Sorn's farmstead. It gave Eodwine great relief to think that this matter might be closed by the following night. They made camp under a stand of larches and elms near one of the many streams that flowed through the plains.

They sat around a camp fire, for they had no fear of being found out, sure that none from Sorn's camp had the least notion that they were hot on his trail. Whispers went back and forth about what kind of man Sorn must be to imprisone a princess for ransom. What desperation? Or what evil? Or what madness? The words were whispered on the breeze and caused Eodwine to wonder as he settle on his sleeping mat for the night.

They had set up a watch, two hours at a time, just as a precaution, and Eodwine wanted to get in some sleep before his turn in the wee hours before dawn.

[Firefoot]

I am in danger here. This phrase pulsated through Scyld’s mind even as Sorn ascended the stairs and left the cellar. Sorn had become a madman, and he no longer trusted Scyld, if ever he had. How much did Sorn suspect? How much did he know?

He’s ready to kill me. Scyld knew Sorn had no conscience; he would hardly pause at murder. Well, Scyld had always been prepared for that; he had entertained the notion of killing Sorn numerous times in the last several years – only if the proper circumstances arose, of course. Sorn might find killing him harder than he would expect… or death might come unlooked for, from behind, or in his sleep. And because Scyld could not predict it, he could hardly plan accordingly, only watch his back constantly.

The time is coming soon to leave. Very soon. He had nothing more to gain from staying here. He had waited too long to leave. Yet, he could not now leave Linduial. He did not quite understand why, but it was true. Trying to flee with her would be foolish beyond belief. Scyld felt morally trapped, an unfamiliar and uncomfortable feeling for him. Perhaps he could ride it out. A rescue party for Linduial might arrive soon, and his problems would be ended. Maybe. If Linduial kept her promise – could he trust her? Scyld was not ready to do so.

He spent the rest of the afternoon in stony silence; even Lin’s meals were served wordlessly. Her fare was no better and no worse than it had been prior to her tantrum. Outwardly, nothing had changed – but Scyld was thinking hard, always thinking.

[JennyHallu]

Linduial spent her day in wrapped in silence, making no complaint at Scyld's stony expression. Sorn's performance earlier had deeply shaken her, and her already tenuous faith in her eventual rescue had shattered. There would be no rescue. Not before that madman had her killed.

She found with some surprise that she could face the near-certain threat of death with almost preternatural calm. Her mind searched, with a detached and pitiless logic, for a reason why she should protest or regret this fate. Sorn was mad, and it wasn't fair; but her discussions with Scyld over the past few days had opened her eyes to a wide and cruel world, outside her sheltered experience, and life just wasn't fair. Not a good enough reason. She was young, with a long life before her, but many died far younger than she, and she found herself setting that mental cry aside impatiently.

Why should she be spared? What regrets could a sheltered girl of her tender years have? There was Degas. Her thoughts turned to the young man, and she felt a brief twinge of the confusion she always felt in his presence. She had made no confessions of love or interest, had indeed said nothing likely to further his suit. Were she to die, that would be no error. Degas was only a little older than she, and she did not wish some memory of her self to eat away at him. And yet--she wistfully wondered what would have happened had she been more honest with him. If she had told him of her attraction, of the confusion she felt around him, what might have occured?

But that was hardly a regret, just a what-if. It spoke to no error in judgement or flaw in character. On that front, she mused, she felt she had little to fear. She'd been an obedient child, had learned her lessons without complaint and with alacrity, and--

And when she had heard a mere rumor that her father might have plans for her, duties to fulfil, she'd fled. Suddenly she saw her journey to Rohan in a new and terrible light. She'd fled. Run away. Deserted her post and her duties with a cowardice she hadn't even been honest enough to admit. And it wasn't as though she couldn't have quietly protested any plan her father made for her: he'd never made any choice which affected her without speaking with her of his reasons and hearing her own desires, at least listening to her before making his decision. But she hadn't waited. She'd panicked and deserted. Guilt and regret flooded her senses, and for a moment she could barely see, so caught up was she in the rush of emotion.

Her brothers whipped deserters. She'd heard them mention the necessity once, in a matter-of-fact, disappointed tone. She faced death. The disparity between the punishments did not occur to her, and she bowed her head in shame and remorse.

A certain indefinable tension settled across her shoulderblades, down her spine. The manor above her seemed unnaturally silent, and her entire world seemed to be poised on the brink of a cliff, unable to back away. Silently it waited for the breath of wind that would send it tumbling to oblivion.

[Firefoot]

Haleth’s brisk and determined pace brought him quickly away from Meduseld towards the Mead Hall. His meeting with the queen had taken several times longer than it ought to have, and much of that extra time had been taken up in waiting. The queen had been overjoyed to hear that Linduial had been located, and immediately had stated her wish to go with to bring her back. Haleth had had a time of it persuading her against such action. Finally, however, they had gotten around to developing a plan, and now Haleth was restless to be on his way and eager to make up for his mistakes. His guilt at letting Sorn’s minions escape the Mead Hall without a watch weighed down on him; why had he not heeded Eodwine’s advice? What new mischief might Sorn even now be planning? And who knew what those few extra days might have done to Linduial’s state?

Soon he would know. They would ride out this very evening, maybe even within the hour, and put a couple hours riding behind them. They would meet Eodwine’s company near Sorn’s holdings before noon the next day if all went well.

But when Haleth arrived at the Mead Hall, he was not met by the forty or so men he had anticipated. Only about a dozen men were milling about – one of the three divisions that Haleth had put the rescuers into. He had thought it would be easier and more organized this way, if he had only three men to report to him. The man Haleth had set in charge of this company hurried up to him with a confused look on his face; Thurstan was his name.

“Thurstan, are not the other two companies here?” Haleth inquired, trying to ignore the queasy feeling that had sprung up in his stomach.

“No, sir,” Thurstan answered. “I had wondered if I misunderstood the message.”

“No, I had meant to ride out tonight – within the hour even,” said Haleth. He looked around for the youth he had sent out with the message, but did not find him. “Thurstan, do you remember exactly how the message you received was worded?”

Thurstan thought for a moment. “I believe so, sir. ‘The Lady Linduial’s location has been discovered; the Lord Eodwine has already been sent out after her. We will ride out after them and meet him on the morrow at the home of her captor.’”

Yes, it was precisely the message Haleth had sent out in haste before taking off for Meduseld. He thought it over, and quickly realized his error. Nowhere had he said to meet at the Hall that very night; it sounded more like they were to ride out tomorrow. “And there is no way to gather them,” Haleth said softly.

“No, sir – not before midnight, at least. Were they soldiers, it would be easy, but those two companies were made up mostly of common folk. Likely they are all at home preparing to enjoy an evening meal with their families.”

Never had Haleth felt so much a fool. To not even come up with a way of summoning the men! A scenario in which messengers could not be used had not even occurred to him. And to leave with just these men here would be to leave more than half the rescue party in the city. They would have to leave tomorrow – early tomorrow, it was to be hoped, but even so, they would lose precious hours. It would probably be mid- to late afternoon before they reached Sorn’s holdings. Had they left tonight, the horses would have had a built-in rest midway there, but not now.

He could only hope that no harm would come of yet another delay.

[littlemanpoet]

The dozen Eorlingas woke with the dawn, broke their fast and then camp in quick succession, and were soon heading north at a light gallop that would not strain their mounts.

In two hours they saw Sorn's land holdings come into view. The holdings were not much different from any other, a main house with a number of out buildings spread here and there, rolling fields surrounding them, planted with crops of wheat, barley, and oats. The stable was the last building to west before a large paddock on which no horse was to be seen.

The place was silent.

"If Sorn did take Linduial," said Eodwine, "he will have taken steps to be on guard at all times, so we will not go knocking on his front door; it could be a trap. One of you who has a horn, give them knowledge of our presence."

One of them produced a horn and blew a clear call that could be heard for a good mile in all directions. They waited, their mounts stirring impatiently beneath them, prancing from foot to foot.

[Celuien]

Several minutes passed, and still no reply came to the horn. Surely the sound could not have gone unnoticed, but there was no sign of life on Sorn's land.

Garstan, already on edge from a sleepless night of watch, began to grow impatient and even reckless with waiting. What secrecy the Eorlingas had held from their hurried journey was now spent. The quiet over the kidnapper's estate could not bode well for the party. Could it not be the sign of final ill deeds, done out of spite in the last moments before capture? Or might the party have arrived too late, and Sorn have fled into hiding?

There might be a trap ahead. But Sorn had not known of their journey, or could not have until the horn announced the party's arrival. Time spent waiting was time for Sorn to plan his welcome for Linduial's rescuers, if he was even present. Still, there was no reason to risk the entire dozen falling into an ambush. One or two could go before the others, at least to find the cause of the continued silence.

"I fear no answer will be given to our call," Garstan said. "There may be a trap, but Sorn now knows that we are here, and we give him time to plot against us by waiting. If not all of the party, should not one go on now? I am willing to take the chance."

[littlemanpoet]

"Upon my honor you will not go forward alone, Garstan!" Eodwine said. "Did I not swear an oath to protect you with my life?"

"That you did, lord," Garstan murmured, apparently seeing with some amusement where this conversation was heading.

"Well then, I must go with you!"

"Aye, lord."

There was a moment of silence as Garstan eyed Eodwine and Eodwine studied the amused expression on Garstan's face.

"Well then let us be going!"

"Yes, lord." Garstan pointed. "It seems that we are going to be greeted after all."

A man had come out of the main hall and was walking toward them; he stopped just before he had gotten beyond the closest outbuilding.

"It appears that we are expected to meet him halfway," Eodwine observed.

"Yes, and right by that wall where someone might be hiding."

"That is a good thought." Eodwine place himself between Garstan and the side that the wall was on; Garstan did not fail to notice this not at all subtle move. They walked forward.

[Anguirel]

The sound of the horn had long since faded. But the party did not, could not know that they had attracted attention from far off.

Human ears cannot hear the straining of a warrior's horn over leagues. Canine ears can.

At the house of Helm the Tall, bandit chief of the Eastfold, the largest of the hounds rolling among the rushes of the hall whined, and would not be placated till its master had come to attend to it.

Lesser robbers wilted aside to allow their lord to pass on his way to his favoured dog. Helm was not to be messed with, and not merely because he wore the pick of the bandits' armour and carried the chieftain's axe. He was a figure straight out of the sagas of Rohan's early history, with flowing blond hair, icy blue eyes, nigh on seven feet of muscled might...

He was also, as it happens, a runaway fool, though none of his men knew it. Yes, Gurth and Grendel had come up quite a long way in the world.

The giant had wandered, the giant had drank, he had maimed and killed, in his usual genial way. He had sunk to a nadir of existence, a ruddy meat-soaked sack, and had woken up one night to find Grendel gone. Some vestige of companionship urged Gurth to follow what he could find of the tracks. He found Grendel, at last, bound to a tree amid a bandit camp, a catch for some reaver chief. He cut the dog loose and the pair stood their ground at the tree, slaying men till no more came.

When the sun rose, six of the ragged miscreants had approached, and handed Gurth an axe of length suitable even to his height. He seized it as if it was destiny personified. So he became their captain and their king, and with one voice was hailed as Helm the Tall.

But now Grendel's whining caused a memory of a past to loom once more. Among the bandits, Gurth-or Helm-had learnt much; imperious, curt orders now came to his mouth easily; he rode upon a massive horse and wielded his axe with subtlety as well as strength. But the animal wildness remained in his mind, and when he saw the eyes of Grendel he knew the matter touched on Sorn, on the girl, on a life that he could not yet shed.

"Gone, two days maybe," he shouted gruffly into the midst of the hall. Then he took up his axe from its hanging position, called Grendel to, and went out into the chill to seek his horse...

[Taralphiel]

Sorn flicked through the pages of the notebook with a content smile. These notes were very precise, and just want he needed. He took a look at the rag doll and nodded as he tossed it in one hand. Taking the dagger from Linduial’s basket in the other hand, and not even flinching at his fresh wound, Sorn walked back towards to cellar.

As he was about to step through the threshold towards the stair, he heard a clatter. Scyld was walking back up with the remains of a meal. Sorn simply nodded at him, and Scyld walked silently back to the kitchen. Before Scyld could walk out of earshot, Sorn called over his shoulder to him.

“You may take your meal break. I will mind the prisoner a while.”

Sorn found the Lady sitting in the dark corner, her knees hugged up to her chest. She looked up a moment, and as she saw Sorn he perceived her expression changed a very small degree. She hid it well. A less perceptive person would not have noticed it.

“Scyld is taking his meal. I do not wish…to overwork the poor man…” Sorn said with a chuckle. He took Scyld’s chair and moved it slowly towards the cell, sitting down and resting his boots against the bars with legs crossed. He brought out the black notebook and made a show of reading it intently. He also made it obvious that the dagger and rag doll sat inches away from the girl, safely on his lap.

“She must mean a great deal to you. Such a nice child, it says here…” Sorn turned the notebook outward, so Linduial could just make out the writing. “Lèoðern…a very pretty name. She will like this gift, I am certain. You are most kind.”

Sorn looked down at Linduial through his dark hair, waiting for her to react to his taunting…

[JennyHallu]

Startled out of peacefulness, Lin flashed her dark eyes at Sorn, fighting off a sudden, futile fury. "Lèoðern is out of your reach," she snapped, her anger preventing her from wondering how he knew the name. She straightened her posture, standing straightbacked in an attempt to deny his mastery over her fate. She knew it meant nothing.

"What errand are you on, that you come down here to taunt me?" Her tone was proud, high-handed and echoed the strength and defiance of her forebears, but it betrayed her on the rise of the question, trembling before she wrested control of her mind back, pushing her fear away. "Why do you tease and delay? You must know what you wish to do with me: the longer you wait the sooner they'll find you, and spill your blood on your own hearth for the insult you have done to me." Lin was not entirely sure from what source came her haughty words, the implicit challenge. A detached voice reminded her she could only hurt her position by angering him, but it didn't seem to matter much. He was manic, his leggings still stained with his own blood, spilt by his hands. If her were angry enough, perhaps her life would end quickly, before he could let his sadism loose on her, vulnerable as she was.

And so she stood, helpless and weak behind the bars of her cage, but her gaze was strong and defiant, her shoulders set and pretty mouth twisted in a sneer. The detached voice wondered if Scyld still stood at the stairs, if he saw her defiance, and whether he would think her brave or foolish...or both. She dared not break her gaze to look for his approval.

[Taralphiel]

Sorn heard the Lady’s voice turn cutting as steel as she bit at him.

"Why do you tease and delay? You must know what you wish to do with me: the longer you wait the sooner they'll find you, and spill your blood on your own hearth for the insult you have done to me."

Sorn closed the book and stood. He took Linduial’s dagger and tapped it against the bars she stood behind.

“You are correct, at least on some of your guesses. I do know what I wish to do with you. But the time is yet ripe. While you may be so sure of your rescue, they are not at my door just yet…”

He gripped the dagger and grinned.

“Will he be riding out to save you? The person this dagger is intended for? Perhaps a brother, or one whom you cherish the most?” Sorn’s sneer matched Linduial’s.

“Nothing is out of my reach, Lady Linduial. You say you have been dealt an insult, yet it is my family and the pride of my people that are dealt the greater blow.”

Sorn tucked the dagger away and hissed at Linduial.

“Your people do not belong in this land. We are no longer in debt to your kind, no longer thralls to your kingdom. That is a past long gone. We wish our nobility and pride not be tainted by your haughty men of high mountains and shores!” He was now pressed against the cold bars, within inches of Linduial. He stared at her, eyeing whatever emotion was building in her eyes. His tone changed; it was soft, almost pitying. But his eyes were dark, and his face set in veiled rage.

“You are far from your home. Did you come here to find something, or were you running? Maybe you can understand freedom. Perhaps you understand better than I can fathom?”

[JennyHallu]

As Sorn brandished the dagger she'd purchased that fateful morning (how long ago had it been? Weeks, surely...) Lin's thoughts turned to Degas. What would she give to see him riding in here, cutting down those in his path, pulling her up onto his dark horse...

“You are far from your home. Did you come here to find something, or were you running? Maybe you can understand freedom. Perhaps you understand better than I can fathom?” Sorn's question came as a surprise to her, startling her out of her protective fury. She looked up, eyes suddenly soft, a fleeting thought wondering what horrible things had happened to mold this tall man into such a twisted form.

"When I came here," she said softly, "I think that I understood nothing. Now I understand far too much."

The room was silent for a moment, as Lin wrapped her pride around her once again, and Sorn leered at her through the bars. Her bravado cloaked a terrible fear, they both knew it, and yet, in some unfathomable kindness made stranger by the man's mad cruelty, he did not question it, did not challenge it. Perhaps he too, in his madness, understood more than men should, and in his twisted way took pity on her.

"I came to Rohan as a friend," she said, the icy chill coming back to aid her. "I have been treated as an enemy. I have never challenged the sovereignty of this land, nor have any of my people. My uncle loved this land and her people well enough to give her his greatest treasure. If you truly believe we harbour some deep desire to rule you, then you delude yourself, sir." The title, as she said it, was not one of respect. She sneered down her nose at the man, for once grateful for the height of the men of old. She stood nearly at a level with Sorn.

"It is not too late, you know." She paused, the corner of her mouth twitching in what might have been amusement. "You could claim you found me in some cave or vale, held by bandits. You could return me to Eomer with a hero's honors, be granted a place at his table, rather than the dog's death you deserve."

[Taralphiel]

Taralphiel's post

Sorn seethed as the maiden stood almost to his height, turning up her nose at him and brandishing the high airs of her noble upbringing.

"It is not too late, you know." Sorn's eyes twitched with rage at her tone. "You could claim you found me in some cave or vale, held by bandits. You could return me to Eomer with a hero's honors, be granted a place at his table, rather than the dog's death you deserve."

Sorn's hand suddenly slammed down on the bars, sending a thud though the room. His voice, unknown to him, now carried through the entire house as he bellowed at the young girl.

"I DESERVE! What does a simpering, spoilt, sugar-mouthed CHILD know of what fate should afford me? Do you know of what it feels like to lose all your family? All the honour of your house? Do you know of the struggle to rebuild EVERYTHING you have lost? Nay, you have no mind to understand what I deserve!"

Sorn did not even notice his hand moving of it's own accord, nor it clenching into a tight fist and ramming against the bars, grazing and shearing at his skin. His body went limp a moment, his figure shrinking to much lower to that of the tall woman of Dol Amroth.

"Your attempts to bargain for your freedom without coin are pathetic. You will not be set free without ransom. Do you think me a fool? To walk into the Hall of the Eorl and his haughty Queen and claim to be your rescuer? Is this the best attempt you have to convince me? I am disappointed..."

Sorn straightened, and smiled at Linduial, knowing now that while he mocked her, her words still held a deep bite.


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JennyHallu's post

Linduial opened her mouth to speak, only to find herself interrupted by the harsh call of a horn. She closed her lips as Sorn sneered at her a final time and sprinted out of the cellar, but the mingled scorn and pity in her grey eyes followed him up the stairs, vengeful ghosts that waited not for Lin's death to haunt his footfalls.



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Taralphiel's post


Sorn let out a tortured shriek as he heard the horn sound. He knew what it meant. He grew only more incensed as the young Lady did not shout for joy, but simply sat, smirking at him. Sorn raced up the steps, heading for his locked room. Thrusting open the door, he threw down Linduial’s belongings and took his dagger from the table, and a small shirt of mail. Turning to a chest on the right, he produced another set of daggers and its finely crafted sheath, and belted it over the mail. A broadsword lay in the open chest, and Sorn eyed it before locking the door behind him. He slipped the key on the chain over his neck. He would not need it yet.

Around him, he saw his House in disarray. His cook, gathering her best pans in a cloth, was trying to make out the back escape as fast as her portly stature could muster. Scyld was nowhere to be seen, and that sent Sorn’s anger even higher, though it did not surprise him.

Sorn made his way to the front of the house, to see Osfrid crouching at a window, a blank look of dread on his face. Sorn did not worry about pleasantries, but heaved the man to his feet.

“You shall be my representative. Do not say a word of the girl! And do not even begin to think of fleeing. Tell them they have no business being on my land! I shall watch you. If you are loyal, I will keep you safe.”

~*~

Osfrid stood and called to the group, his walk having distracted them as Sorn slinked out of the side entrance. Crouched behind the thick growth and trees by the side bounds of the house, he crept along to take a better look at the group addressing the man. Osfrid had picked the spot well, being next to a boundary wall of his house. Sorn watched carefully.

All were tall men of Rohan, stern and armed as he would expect. Two took a step forward, and Sorn did not need them to speak to know who the first was. Lord Eodwine. Sorn clenched his teeth as he listened to the man address Osfrid.

"I am Eodwine, Eorl of the Middle Emnet, and thus your lord's lord. I charge you to tell him that I want to speak with him. There is a report that he has done wrong, and I would hear from his own mouth otherwise."

Sorn dug his free hand into the dirt, his other hand seemed to have a mind of its own. He had one dagger ready, and his grey eyes did not move from the strong face of Eodwine.

Osfrid spoke well, but this did not calm Sorn’s rage. He stood slowly from his crouch, and no one in the party noticed him. Osfrid gave his simple answer.

"I would still hear the words from your lord himself."

The second man noticed Sorn’s arm swing high, but Sorn was no longer in control of his own action. The dagger flew, but missed its mark. It landed in the other man’s shoulder. Sorn hissed, and crawled away. The party was too concerned with the attack to notice him. Sorn forgot completely about his man left in the open.

Sorn strode around the back edge of his property, his lips in a tight line. He had many choices, all of which would leave him sadly without that which he had planned all of this for – money. He knew now what objective he had to fall back to.

He removed another dagger. This was not meant for a man, but for the fair Lady of Dol Amroth. He would not have her as a liability. And he would not give the Eorl of Middle Emnet his wonderful victory.

[littlemanpoet]

The man gave out his name as Osfrid, liege man of Sorn, and asked Eodwine and Garstan their business and what they would be doing with such a great number of men.

"I am Eodwine, Eorl of the Middle Emnet, and thus your lord's lord. I charge you to tell him that I want to speak with him. There is a report that he has done wrong, and I would hear from his own mouth otherwise."

Osfrid smiled and said that such a thing could not be true of his lord. Eodwine thought that he heard something behind the wall that stood head-high to his right, but assumed that it must be an animal or some such.

"I would still hear the words from your lord himself."

Suddenly Garstan was diving across him and fell to the ground at his feet. The one called Osfrid took one look and darted back toward the main hall. Eodwine did not know what to make of the quick actions of the others, until he saw a knife stuck in his man's shoulder.

"Garstan!"

[Folwren]

Thornden watched closely as Eodwine and Garstan walked away - alone, their weapons still sheathed - to meet with someone without honor or any sense of it. Doubt and a worrying fear slowly crept into his mind. Eodwine and Garstan stopped to exchange words with the man sent out. From his saddle, Thornden could not see the man, standing before the carpenter and eorl.

Brief moments of silence passed. A horse stamped and swished his tail at a fly. But then Thornden tensed suddenly as something moved behind the wall by which Eodwine stood. He saw Garstan fall abruptly and Deren rushed passed him, spurring his horse instantly into a canter.

Thornden followed in an instant, as did everyone else in the group, except the two men who held Garstan’s and Eodwine’s horses. Thornden brought his horse to a stop by Eodwine and leaped down to the ground before he stopped entirely. Deren and Eodwine were already kneeling on the ground by Garstan, supporting the man and talking to him. Thornden bent to look.

Blood was already beginning to seep through the garment at Garstan’s shoulder. The knife hadn’t been withdrawn yet. Garstan was struggling to sit up and Thornden couldn’t tell if Eodwine was trying to keep him lying down or trying to help him. His eyes and attention left the wounded man briefly as he looked up and watched as the man who had met him, fled up the walk to the main hall. He disappeared inside the tall, oaken door, shutting it behind him.

“Lie back, be still, man!” Deren said sharply, bringing Thornden back to the trouble at hand. “Lie still until we’re ready for you to get up. Don’t touch the dagger, my lord,” he said quickly. “Don’t draw it out until we have something to stop the blood with.”

[Firefoot]

Scyld had, in fact, been listening in on most of Sorn and Linduial’s conversation, although not in so obvious a place as at the door. No, he had gone upstairs, out the back door, and around to the little-used cellar door where he could listen in and hear most everything – especially since Sorn apparently found it necessary to speak often at the top of his voice.

But then the horn call had come. A horn could only mean one thing: Linduial’s rescuers. He peeked around the side of the hall to be sure, and saw a small company of armed riders, leaving no doubt in Scyld’s mind. They had come after all, but come too soon, too soon. Scyld was not ready for a choice, whether to trust Linduial or… or what? What other choices did he have? He could not side with Sorn. Run off? He would be tracked down, and Sorn would likely kill Linduial before letting her be rescued. This brought him back to his earlier conclusion: run, and take Linduial with him. Foolish! But he would not be trying to kidnap her once more, only save her from Sorn’s wrath and postpone his own decision.

He, at any rate, had to leave, even if he would be tracked down; perhaps they would not care, or maybe Linduial would speak for him – assuming she lived. Whether he would take Linduial with him or not remained to be decided, but he knew he would if it became apparent beyond reasonable doubt that Sorn would kill her before she was rescued – and he supposed he already knew the true answer to this.

He left his place at the cellar door and hurried back inside; he had to act in haste. He gathered his scant few possessions and then went to Sorn’s study. He knew from seeing Sorn rush outside that he would not come back till his business with the rescuers was complete, however long that would take. The study was locked, but this did not concern Scyld. He deftly picked it using a bit of wire he had fashioned long ago in a fit of boredom when Sorn was elsewhere. Never before had he taken anything, so as not to alert Sorn to this skill, but that was about to change.

He knew where Sorn always kept a bit of money and took first a few silver coins as payment. Spotting Linduial’s possessions in the corner, he took the knife and doll but left the basket. If Sorn was not paying attention, he might not notice the change. Within minutes of entering, Scyld was leaving again, checking the door to make sure it locked again.

Then he was hastening down the cellar stairs with the growing bundle of things under one arm. He ought to be able to find some dried meat and perhaps some dried vegetables down there; he dared not ask the cook in the kitchen for food.

“Well,” he told Linduial in a bitterly ironic whisper, “your rescuers have arrived, but they are few. Sorn will kill you before he lets them inside the house, unless they have brought money, which I doubt.” He had begun storing some meat, and if it weren’t already obvious to Linduial what he was planning, he clarified, “I’m leaving.” He did not say anything about taking her with him, for he had thought of something in the meanwhile. She would not readily come with him if he forced her, for she would struggle to get to her rescuers. So he could knock her out – or he could get her to want to come. He might have to knock her out anyway, but it would be easier if he didn’t. He felt confident that she would argue with him, appeal to his honor; it was in her nature.

This is a tenuous game you are playing, Scyld, he told himself, like dancing on the edge of a knife.

[Anguirel]

The great horse reared up, again and again, into the chill air, and threw its foaming frame down again, its hooves slicing through grass and mud, leaving the land pitted and wound in its wake. The resounding smashing of its front legs was echoed by the vehement spurrings of its rider.

"On," the gruff voice intoned, "on, on, to Sorn and the girl."

Responding to the tones it recognised came a long whine from the exhausted hound who struggled valiantly to keep pace with the horse it shadowed. Its sides were lean and taut, and it bled from the effort of running. But Helm, once called Gurth, Gurth, once called Helm, spared it no glance and no slackening of speed. The horn's long cry still rang about his head.

They saw familiar sights now; the rotting fences and ill-kept fields of Sorn's tenantry; but Gurth still did not slow or deviate in his road. "On, on, on..."

A plume of smoke in the dawn sky, beyond a sparse copse, showed him what he sought. "Sorn," he murmured. "Sorn house...and...girl."

A yard back, Grendel collapsed, too winded to move further. Gurth jumped from his mount, picked the wolf-mastiff up and held it beneath one brawny arm, and dragged his horse's bridle with his other hand. He was not long content with walking, and soon, mounted or not, the three great beasts were proceeding as fast as ever.

The Fool of the Hall was coming back. And he had a large axe.

"Scyld," Gurth spat with disdain. "Sorn," he muttered thoughtfully. And, decisively, "the girl."

But there were others here, unfamiliar scents and sights. He would find out what had happened in his absence, and he would act upon it.

It was then that the horn truly sounded; and the premonition of the dog was confirmed by the hand of man.

[Celuien]

The man's face was not unknown to Garstan. Osfrid. Is that your true name, or is it Bertwald? Or have you other names to share with us? It had been hard not to throw that lie back to him. And now to hear him speaking to Eodwine as though his deception had never taken place was an insult.

Garstan knew well that he should not speak his anger. No good would come of it. If Linduial was truly here, they would need to treat with her captors for her safety, as hard as that might be. Garstan turned his thoughts away from Osfrid, trying instead to pay mind to the land, thinking of how the party should move on next.

A sound like a footstep from behind the wall at Eodwine's shoulder drew Garstan's attention. Garstan cast a quick glance at Eodwine and saw a man appear over the wall. A fell look was in the man's face, and steel flashed in his hand as it dropped toward Eodwine's chest.

In the same instant as the dagger dropped, Garstan went to the right to seize the dagger. Not quickly enough, for the blade met his shoulder, cleaving flesh until Garstan felt it strike bone. The man let out a sharp sound of air against teeth and darted into the trees behind the wall while Garstan lost his footing and landed hard on the ground.

Confusion claimed the next moments. The Eorlingas galloped to meet Eodwine and Garstan, who was struggling to rise. Thornden stood by Eodwine and Deren knelt by Garstan's wounded shoulder.

All of Garstan's thought was on the man, already disappearing into the trees, who had attacked Eodwine. It could have been no other than Sorn; Garstan could think of no other who would bear such ill will toward them. He cried out, "Sorn flees. We must be after him!" He twisted toward the wall but was held back.

"Lie back, be still, man!" Deren said. He called for bandages to stop the blood, and one of the riders dismounted to bring a strip of cloth.

"Now hold still." Deren pulled the dagger free and pressed the cloth against the wound. Garstan winced and reached with his other hand to hold pressure over the bandage while Eodwine and Deren tied his arm in a sling.

"My lords," said Garstan. "We cannot linger here."

[JennyHallu]

Linduial nodded at Scyld's words. She had of course seen her things in his arms with his other necessities, but she refused to let hope deceive her. It made sense for him to take the dagger, if he had access to it. It was fine work, richly crafted. It was probably worth a great deal of money. The doll made less sense, so she pushed it from her mind.

"It is the only thing you can do," she stated flatly. He was looking at her expectantly, but she was closed off, quiet. Too much was happening too quickly, and she didn't know how to react. "Where will you go?"

He didn't answer, which she had suspected. She showed no surprise, but her fear began to eat at her a little. "If you open this door," she asked desperately, "could I make it to those who came for me? I can't ask you to--" she felt the onset of panic, felt it bubbling up inside her, threatening to overtake her in a torrent of meaningless words, and pushed it back, only her eyes betraying anything of her emotion.

[Firefoot]

Scyld had expected anger, but Linduial was showing fear and desperation. Well, perhaps that made sense; he would be condemning her to death; he had just grown more accustomed to her spirit in the past couple days. He did not yet know whether this would make his plan easier or harder. “I can’t do that,” he said bluntly. “For one thing, I think Sorn is still lurking around outside and may even be speaking with the rescue party as we speak. I don’t know. And whether you made it to them or he caught up with you first, Sorn would hunt me down and kill me. He’s mad, but he’s not stupid; he won’t wait around here once you’re dead.” Of course, Sorn would probably hunt him down anyway, but maybe, if he was lucky, by the time Sorn realized Scyld and Linduial were gone, the rescuers would have gotten organized and figured a better way to keep watch over the hall; they might even kill Sorn for him. Scyld felt a stab of disappointment at that thought; he had always entertained fantasies of killing Sorn himself, but dead was dead and it might even be better that way, from a legal standpoint. As if Scyld wasn’t already in enough potential trouble with the law.

At Scyld’s unfeeling words, Linduial’s composure seemed to be crumbling fast. “But – but you have to do something –”

Scyld held up a hand to silence her. “Oh, yes, I do,” answered Scyld mockingly. It was a tone he adopted almost unconsciously, even though he really meant it. “I could not leave you here alone to be killed, of course.” Swiftly, his tone changed; he was deadly serious. “You’re coming with me.”

Confusion reigned in Linduial’s features. Clearly she had not expected this and did not now know how to respond, so Scyld continued. “Perhaps you can see my predicament? I cannot leave you here – apparently not even I am so morally corrupt as that – and I cannot let you go.” Scyld wondered if she picked up on his unspoken reasoning: he did not trust her. He wanted to; for the first time since he had come here as a boy, effectively having been sold into slavery, he wanted to trust someone, but he could not. “You have two choices: to come willingly or by force.”

[JennyHallu]

Something coalesced in the girl's eyes, some flash of hope that had temporarily deserted her. "Willingly, Scyld," she said softly, than again with more firmness. She stood and waited impatiently by the door to her cage. Even if I die, it will not be in here, she thought, with no small satisfaction. "But one thing. Will you hand me my knife? It may yet be that I will need it, before we are safe."

She thought, suddenly, of the man whom she had stabbed, of the startled shock of pain that had come upon his face when her knife had caught his rib. Sorn had of course told her that she hadn't killed him, but she'd thought that she had, or might have, and the thought had not haunted her over much. I did not know this about myself, that I could kill a man. But I could, if I had to. I could do whatever I had to, and still go on, and not think overmuch about it. Not right away anyway.

[littlemanpoet]

"My lords," said Garstan. "We cannot linger here."

"Well spoken!" Eodwine cried. "Thornden, Deren, take these men with you and hunt down Sorn and this Osfrid! I will stay with Garstan."

"But lord-" Thornden started.

Eodwine rose. "You are an Eorlinga! Do the deed! Deren, you lead!"

"Aye, lord!" cried Deren. "Come, men!" He directed Thornden and three men to follow Sorn while he led three others into the House after Osfrid.

Eodwine turned and motioned to the two men who had stayed back with Garstan's and his mounts. They came forward and helped Eodwine get Garstan on his horse. Then Eodwine directed the two men, Eofryth and Grimbold, to circle the perimeter of Sorn's land, starting toward the west, while Eodwine and Garstan and Eodwine circled starting east.

Once they were started at a measured canter over the rolling pasture, Eodwine turned to Garstan. He looked pale but grim and determined.

"Garstan, you trickster, I was supposed to save your life, not the other way about." Garstan tried to grin but managed only a grimace.

"How do you fare? Tell me if you need to stop. We can find a hidden place of safety hereabouts."

[Anguirel]

The ringing out of the horn, the horn Gurth had ridden for and striven for, actually threw him, for some moments, into a paralysis equal to that of his winded and luckless animal.

When his eyes finally broke out of their fixed passage, activity came at the price of purpose. It was perhaps the effect of seeing Sorn's farmstead, where he had been treated so kindly, and so...vilely, where he had existed as an admired idiot and dwelt in comfort, that destroyed Gurth's faculty for decision. He began to walk, and to look about him, almost at random, threading an unsteady, lone way behind the ramshackle building.

And then he saw a man ahead.

Kill it. It is a man. It threatens the girl. It threatens the master.

It is the master. Gurth saw neither a stranger of the wild, intentions mysterious but to be thwarted, nor any of the lackeys who had mocked him. No Osfrid, no Scyld.

Something higher and lower. The tall - but to Gurth, to Helm, so small, so thin, so vulnerable! - figure of one who had been, in his way, a great man despite the pettiness of his wealth. One whose mind had dreamed grandly, whose hand had acted squalidly.

But one who carried a spark inside him that called out to Gurth, that viscerally implored him to throw himself down and acknowledge mastery.

"Sorn," Gurth said quietly.

The Lord of the Manor looked dreadful. He had been drinking, Gurth could see, of late; he could perceive wounds left by mead that had formerly stricken him low. He had not drunk in all his time among the outlaws, had distanced himself, and now regarded victims of intemperance with a surprisingly lofty pity.

Sorn's profile was sharper and thinner, more lined. His eyes were large and seemed verging on raw red, the red of a chicken that has been cooked, but only a very little. The red of Grendel's lolling, spasm-ridden, dying tongue.

"Sorn," Gurth repeated. "My name is Helm, now."

His former master seemed not yet to have taken in his presence. He was in a semi-trance, like that which had fallen upon Gurth moments before; but the giant could not speculate whether such a vacant stare was brought on by stagnant memory, by the indifference of despair, or by helplessness. Brightness absent everywhere else shone in the man's long hands, and Gurth perceived that he was armed, gripping two knives like the arms of comforters, of parents.

But Sorn was on his own land. He had been Master, and there was something in him that yet mastered.

Gurth scarcely knew what he did as he lurched down and knelt before Sorn, his axe rolling from his hands and sliding away.

Somewhere not so far away, Grendel died.

[Firefoot]

A simple agreement: could it really be so easy as that? Was there some catch? Would she try to bolt as soon as he did not have her under direct control? She wanted her knife; did she want to kill him, then make a run for it?

Her answer had come too quickly and easily for that. Linduial was not accustomed to lying, or so it seemed to Scyld. She had not hesitated; she seemed glad to go with him. Why, though? Rescue was at her very fingertips, and she would let him take her away! Why?

Surely she would be no match for him in knives anyway. He would simply keep his own loose in their sheaths and his eye on her at all times. So after those moments of indecision, he decided to trust her just this far. “Here,” he said and passed the knife to her through the bars.

She smiled slightly. “Thank you.” Scyld nodded curtly as he then unlocked the cage and let her out. For the first time, she stood free before him. Well, free from Sorn and her cage.

Not a minute too soon, but perhaps a few too late. Upstairs, he heard someone enter the house: Sorn or Osfrid, likely. Scyld could not risk anyone coming downstairs now, nor could he take Linduial upstairs. So she at least would have to leave through the back cellar door, yet that would be dangerous. If they left that way, it would be heading out blindly as they had no way of knowing who was on the other side of the door. It could be no one or rescuers or Sorn. The best way would be for Scyld to go around and let her out, but he would have to trust her in the cellar. Well, that should not be a problem; she could open the door and walk straight into Sorn. Fear would keep her inside until Scyld let her out; he was sure of it.

He explained the plan to her: “I’ll go upstairs and out through the main house. Lock the cellar door behind me so that Osfrid at least can’t get down here. I’ll let you out through that cellar door over there.” He pointed to it. “I’ll knock once, then twice more, when it’s clear." Scyld hesitated a moment. Could he trust her with the pack? It would be entirely suspicious if Sorn or anyone else saw him with it and he would have difficulty explaining it. "I'm leaving the pack here with you, too, and I'll get that when I let you out. After that…” He shrugged. “It’s all touch and go.”

[JennyHallu]

Lin held the dagger firmly in her good hand, reassured by its weight in her hands. She paused before leaving the cage that had held her these recent days, scolding herself for being silly, but somehow unable to take that final step out. Freedom...what did that mean? Scyld made an impatient noise, and she walked through the door quickly, nodding agreement to his plan. He moved quickly up the stairs to the cellar door, and she followed him, revelling in the feeling of taking long strides. He slipped out the door and she threw the bolt behind him. I'm finally free of my cage, she thought with a wry grin, and I lock myself in. Quickly she moved back to the outer door.

Now all she could do was wait. Wait, and wonder whether she were making the right decision. Her rescuers were outside the gates of the House: but Sorn was inside. You're doing the right thing, Lin. You have no other choice. He'll kill you in an instant, especially if someone is here to rescue you. Minutes passed. She could hear noises outside the door, but had no way to identify any of them. Please, Scyld, hurry...

[Celuien]

"I fare as well as need be, my lord." Garstan tried not to notice the tearing pain in his shoulder, or that he could not lift his arm far above the elbow, or that fresh blood still spread its red stain over the back of his shirt and sleeve. He counted his secret oath fulfilled. Eodwine had not been forgotten when aid was needed.

"That is no answer, Garstan. Are you well enough to go on?" Eodwine's glance was keener than Garstan had known it to be for many days. Neither the fact that Garstan's face was pale nor that he drooped forward slightly on his horse went with notice.

"We must not stop now. I fear for what would happen if..."

Garstan could not finish his answer. His sight grew dim for a moment and he swayed to the side. Only Eodwine's arm stayed him from a fall. They stopped and Garstan slowly stepped down to the ground.

"This is madness. Come and rest."

Eodwine was right. Garstan knew that he could do little good at the edges of his strength, yet it galled him to stop. There was little choice. He followed Eodwine into a thicket. They tied their horses and went deeper into the trees to a spot where branches covered them.

Garstan leant wearily against a tree. His head slowly dropped to the ground and he fell into a dreamless sleep.

[Folwren]

Deren with his three men ran up the lane to the front entrance of the house. He greatly feared that the door would be locked and as he laid his hand on the latch, he whispered a sort of prayer under his breath that it might be unlocked still.

“It is!” he muttered, excitement leaping back into his face and he threw the door open. They rushed in. Deren strode forward, giving orders. “Check every room. Stop anyone you see.” He hurried forward, half running, glancing into the open doorways just briefly. The man who had met Eodwine and Garstand at the wall had come into the house. Deren wanted to find him before he got back out of it. He came to a stairwell and bounded up the steps, two stairs at a time. His hand clutched the sword hilt at his side to keep it from swinging out. At the top landing he stopped. A straight corridor stretched out before him, and the near the end, the man he pursued stood at a door, holding it half open and talking to someone inside.

“Yes, now you’ve got to stay in here! You’ll get hurt, do y’hear? They’re not friends.”

Deren turned half about and shouted down the stair again. “Up here, men! Up the stairs, quick now!” He looked back up. The man hadn’t been aware of his presence until he called. Now he slammed the door shut and stood irresolutely before it. Deren eyed him coldly. “Who’s in the room?”

“Nobody,” the man answered. “Nobody concerning you, anyway.”

Footsteps on the stairs. In a moment, Deren was joined by all three of the others. He nodded towards Osfrid and started forward. The man held his ground doggedly as they approached. “It’s not her, I tell you!”

“Be quiet,” Deren warned fiercely. “Step out of the way,” he jerked his head to one side with the indication to move. Osfrid didn’t budge and Deren reached out to shove him away.

In the blink of an eye, Osfrid made a swing with his arm and his fist shot out. Deren stumbled back under the force of the blow and before he had recovered, his three companions had leaped forward onto the infidel. A fierce struggle ensued. Osfrid fought for all he was worth, but to no avail. They soon overcame him and while two held him and his arms back, the third tied his wrists. Deren stood back, watching them, his eyes burning as he felt a trickle of blood fall from his lip to his chin. He wiped it impatiently away and then drew his sword. He stepped forward and laid the edge against Osfrid’s color bone. The struggling instantly ceased.

“Listen to me,” Deren said, his voice hard as steel. “You are not going to cause any more trouble for us, you understand. Hamolm, you and Grewith take him outside. Milon and I will get the lady and be after you in a moment.”

Hamolm and Grewith took their charge immediately and marched him away. Deren and Milon turned towards the door and entered. Standing with her back to them and her face towards the brightly lit window stood a tall, slender woman dressed simply, but not unattractively, in a dark dress. Her long hair fell loose down her back, well brushed, and black as a midnight sky.

“Lady Linduial,” Deren said, walking forward a couple paces into the room. The woman turned quickly, as though surprised. Deren paused a moment. She was unlike any Rohanian woman he had seen - dark, large eyes set in a pale face, slightly flushed with red, in turn framed in that ebony colored hair. It was a strange, new sort of beauty. He took a few more paces forward and dropped to one knee. She was royalty, was she not? The Queens niece. The lady half extended a hand and Deren took it without thinking. He rose after a short pause. “You will come with us?” he said. “Lord Eodwine is waiting outside and we will have you back in safety in little time at all.”

Muriel drew her hand back, a look of alarm filling her dark eyes. “Oh, no!” she cried. “You can’t do that! This is - this is. . .” she stopped, unsure. She had been mistaken for a lady of royal blood! If she spoke now they’d figure out who she really was and there would be no fun or glory in that. But if she went, she’d leave Osfrid, leave everyone she knew.

As the indecision showed clearly on her face, Deren relief at finding her disappeared as he felt a surge of impatience rise. Was this how all Gondorians acted? Did she like being in a rogue’s home -kidnaped and forcibly taken from where she belonged? He reached forward and took her hand, gently but firmly, and began to lead her from the room.

Muriel decided to play along, at least a little while longer. She’d tell them their mistake sometime. Perhaps by then, Osfrid’s precious boss would figure something out to do with the real lady. There would be good luck and generous feelings all around the house, and Osfrid may be paid something, and then he could buy her something. Or, better yet, perhaps Sorn would reward her for tricking the rescuers. . .

[Firefoot]

“Check every room. Stop anyone you see.”

Scyld nearly swore out loud. Why hadn’t Osfrid locked the door? Now, to hide, or to make for the back door? He heard footsteps coming his way and quickly ducked into the kitchen, near which he was standing. The cook, unsurprisingly, was nowhere to be seen. Scyld glanced around frenziedly. The pantry. A horrible hiding spot, but better than naught. He had just barely closed the door behind him when he heard one of the soldiers entering the kitchen. Scyld silently slid one of his knives out of his sleeve. He didn’t want to kill the man, but if he had no other choice…

The man stepped closer, closer, clearly making sure there were no other hiding places in the kitchen. Really, the pantry was the only place to go. Scyld tensed. Any moment now, the door might open…

“Up here, men! Up the stairs, quick now!” Then the man was gone, rushing to his commander’s aid. Scyld let out a deep sigh of relief and let himself out of his hiding place, checking the hall before hurrying back through the house, away from the stairs. What had they found up the stairs? Osfrid… and Muriel? Scyld mentally shrugged. So long as it was not him or Linduial, he cared little; hopefully they wouldn’t talk. He needed time and widespread confusion; it would be so easy for him and Linduial to be detected now.

He slipped out of the house and looked around. As far as he could tell, they were all clear, but who knew when that might change? A wide, open space stretched between the back of the house and the woods that covered the back of Sorn’s property, and only a couple small buildings stood in that space, providing only minimal cover that would require dashes in between.

It seemed clear to him that back into the woods was the only way they could go; now that the rescuers had arrived, the roads would be watched, and he could not go to Edoras or Minas Tirith, at any rate, not until he trusted Linduial enough not to betray him, if it ever came to that. Into the mountains was the only practical choice then, and would also help in that horses would not be required. Men on foot could go as fast as horses in the mountains.

With this rough sketch of a plan in mind, he stole along the back of the house to the cellar door and knocked once, then twice, just as he had said he would. The door opened, and out came Linduial with Scyld’s pack, which he shouldered, urgently murmuring, “Let’s go."

[JennyHallu]

Linduial followed hurriedly after him, wide, frightened eyes flickering back to the chaos in the Hall. Perhaps if she'd stayed she'd have been rescued right away. Maybe Sorn would never have reached her in time to kill her.

Maybe Father's sheep fly around the farm when no one's watching.

A histerical giggle escaped her lips at this mental image as she ran with Scyld across the yard, ducking, weaving. It struck her as faintly ridiculous: the yard seemed deserted, all the tumult and confusion had moved indoors, yet here they were, hiding from no one. This is the sort of time when the wings sprout. No one to see them. Except for us. She giggled again and Scyld gave her an inquisitive look as they crouched behind a horse-trough at the very back of the yard. "Flying sheep," she whispered. "Flying sheep and hiding from no one."

He gave her a concerned look for a moment, then lifted her bodily over the fence at the back of the yard. "Go up into the trees," he directed harshly, reinforcing the order with a little shove. Linduial turned and glanced over the house where she'd spent these last terrifying days. It was almost disappointing, small and dingy and ill-kept. But she was free of it, and that left her giddy. She turned and climbed up the steep hill into the treeline, thick stands of pines almost immediately swallowing her slim figure. We'll go back when it's safe, she told herself as the estate disappeared entirely from view.

[Folwren]

Thornden had little time at all to consider Eodwine’s rebuke. He fell instinctively under the orders of Deren and as soon as being told what to do, he turned and set off, beckoning to the men appointed to follow him. They set off, behind the wall, searching for any sign or trace at all of where the man had gone.

Where would he go? As Thornden went, his mind raced to think of where he would have gone. Back to the house? Why would he? Surely he would have known that in an instant the place would be searched. He saw no other outbuildings near enough for the man to have fled to so quickly. However, ahead, the wall that he followed entered a thick, young wood. A narrow path entered into it, just under the wall. Without looking back to see if his men followed, Thornden plunged into the wood.

The wall did not continue more than twenty paces. It crumbled away into nothing and they were surrounded by the young, green leaves, and smooth, tender gray bark of the trees. The path went on and they continued to follow it, in as much silence as possible.

Thornden came to an abrupt halt. He held his hand up in silent warning and instantly, his three men became rigidly still. They listened intensely for a moment. Somewhere near, voices were quietly speaking. Thornden jerked his head to the side and they set off into the wood.

It was long, tedious, and nerve-wracking work, trying to walk in the wood with no noise. The leaves beneath their feet threatened to crackle with every step. Finally, however, they had drawn near to where the voices were. A particular thick foliage blocked their way, but they were near, very near. Thornden drew his breath slowly, glanced at each of his men and slowly drew his sword.

“Follow me,” he whispered hoarsely, and led the way, pushing and leaping through the brush and young trees.

[Firefoot]

Haleth could feel his horse laboring beneath him, working to maintain even an easy gallop. The company had managed to be roused before dawn and had been riding hard since then. His logic told him that a couple of extra hours on the road for the horses’ sake would probably not matter much, but he felt a nagging instinct that told him that all was not well and that they were needed, now and before now. He knew that the horses needed a break, but he also knew that any time now they should ride within sight of Sorn’s estate. Then the horses could rest.

They topped a low rise and finally beheld Sorn’s holdings, the home of the man who had kidnapped Linduial, and for the first time in a while, Haleth allowed himself a small smile. I will not let you down now, my Queen; I will find and rescue Linduial.

He slowed his mount to a walk to take in the scene. At first glance, all was peaceful… but strangely still. There was no bustle of workmen in the surrounding fields nor were there horses in the paddock. Eodwine and his men were nowhere to be seen, although four horses stood ground-tied in front of the house. Closer inspection showed that the door of the main house was swinging open.

Then from the eastern side of the house, Haleth heard faintly the ring of steel. “Thurstan,” he commanded, “take your men and fifteen more and ride out that way to find what is happening and if the Lord Eodwine needs help. The rest of us will remain here and search the house. Go now.” With that, two-thirds of Haleth’s company was peeling off after the sound. Haleth desired fervently to go with them, but he knew that he must remain here in case of news in this uncertain situation; he must be accessible. He turned to the remaining men. “Half of you come with me into the house. The other half, hold their horses and walk them out – but remain watchful, with your swords at the ready. I do not trust this place.” With that, Haleth dismounted and handed his own horse to one of the men. With seven men at his back, he strode up to the house, wondering what he might find.

[littlemanpoet]

Eodwine heard sounds of someone approaching. Not just one.

"Shhh!" he whispered to Garstan, and drew his sword as quietly as he could. He stood over Garstan and waited.

Someone burst into the clearing.

"Halt or die!" Eodwine said as menacingly as he could.

The someone lifted his sword and took a stance of readiness. One more came into the clearing, distracting Eodwine for a moment.

"Lord!"

Lord? Eodwine took a closer look at his opponent. It was Thornden. His sword was now hanging in his hand so that the tip was in the grass. Two others now joined Thornden and the first one.

"Thornden! What is the meaning of this, attacking your own lord and wounded fellow?" Eodwine forgot to lower his sword.

[Folwren]

Thornden stepped back, back away from Eodwine and the sword, still held in readiness, as though for an enemy. What a mistake to make! Was there actually an explanation for it? An acceptable one? He stood mute, like a schoolboy struck to silence by a difficult problem, all the while trying to meet Eodwine’s furious gaze.

“My lord,” he finally stammered. “I...I did not know it was you and master Garstan.” What did Eodwine think? That he would intentionally ambush his own lord? Confusion and a new rising feeling of anger battled inside his head. Common sense kept him from saying anything in his anger. He retreated another step and lowered his head. “You will forgive me. I had thought that you were possibly Sorn. I was in search of him.”

[littlemanpoet]

Once the immediate fright and consternation had passed, Eodwine took the time to study Thornden. He kept a stern visage but chuckled a bit inside. The erstwhile Eorlinga was having his share of mishaps this day. But Sorn? Surely!

"You thought me Sorn? Have I begun to throw daggers at my liegemen?" Thornden's followers tried to hide smirks at their leader's expense.

"No, lord," Thornden mumbled, but Eodwine caught a flash of indignation in his eyes.

Eodwine smiled. "'Tis an accident and forgiven." He turned to Garstan. "We would back to the horses with you. Are you well enough to walk a bit?"

[Firefoot]

As Scyld climbed over the fence himself and followed Linduial up the ridge, he watched her as one might watch a young, unpredictable and unbroken stallion. What was he supposed to do with her recent fits of giggles? Had she lost all sanity? So help me if she has. Crazy woman with a knife that she probably doesn’t know how to use, unless nobles of Gondor are in the habit of teaching their daughters weaponry – not likely.

He caught up to her as she entered the trees and set a brisk pace through the undergrowth, which thankfully was not terribly thick. For all his other talents, Scyld could hardly be counted a skilled woodsman and did not much fancy struggling through tangled tussocks and thorny plants every step he took.

After they had been walking for several minutes, he finally began to breathe easier. Anyone who had seen them escaping, whether one of Sorn’s people or a rescuer, would have immediately sounded an alarm and come after them. It would probably take hours now at least for anyone to figure out where they had gone – and the rescuers, not finding Linduial, would not know for sure if she had even been there; as for Scyld, they did not know of his existence at all.

He glanced over at Linduial and saw that she still had traces of amusement on her face. He wished he knew what was so funny.

“So - do you know how to use that knife?”

[Celuien]

"Aye, lord. I am well." Garstan cautiously shifted his injured arm as he rose, wincing slightly with the motion. "And, in truth, I would that we moved on sooner rather than later." He grinned at Thornden and added, "It would not do to stay hidden and be taken for a villain by every passing Eorlinga."

Thornden looked at him under crossed eyebrows, and Garstan grew silent.

"Forgive me. I spoke in jest."

Eodwine laughed again, "Come! All has ended well, and no harm taken. Let us have an end of the matter."

Thornden's face cleared slightly, though a slight frown still clouded his face. Turning back to Eodwine, he said, "My lord. We left our horses outside the wood and should return to them."

"So you should. And so must we! Garstan and I will go on to the house. Meet us there."

Thornden nodded, and they parted. Eodwine and Garstan soon came back to their horses and set off at a gentle gallop towards the main house.

[JennyHallu]

“So - do you know how to use that knife?”

Linduial looked down at the blade clutched between her fingers. "I've used one before," she said quietly. Determination and anguish warred on her face, wiping away the traces of her private little joke. "Honestly, my brothers taught me a little of how to use a dagger, and I learned well...but not since I was thirteen and needed to act the part of a lady rather than a child, and never against anything more threatening than a sack stuffed with goose-feathers."

She smiled a little at the memory, then paused as Scyld helped her scramble over a huge boulder, jutting out of the side of the mountainous terrain as though a giant had thrown it and forgotten his toy. Once past the obstacle she sighed a bit, but spoke again. There was something thrilling about speaking as to a friend, and with little regard for who might overhear, or whether her words might result in her death. If Scyld had meant to kill me, he would better have done it in the cellar.

"When I cut Sorn's man in Edoras, I think I acted more out of instinct and terror than skill, but terror is an excellent teacher." She glanced over at Scyld's face. The familiar smirk was back, and she laughed as she divined its meaning. "Don't you get all superior about it! I'm no pampered lily damsel, unable to lift a finger to help myself. With a bow, I am more than skilled. I claim the title expert without vanity! And with a bow I have killed, though never a man. Hunting with a bow falls under the realms of lady-like behavior, and I can shoot better than my lord Uncle's Master of the Hunt."

Elated by the sunshine and fresh breezes warming her body, too long chilled by her sojourn in the cellar, Linduial decided with a little smile that no one here needed to know that the Master of the Hunt in Dol Amroth was awarded the post because it would be death to tell that once-doughty warrior he was too old to serve his lord. He was still an excellent bowman, but many of the the younger men in any hunt could best him, and Linduial, especially because they had the strength to pull a longer bow.

[Folwren]

Thornden, still red with the embarrassment of the whole situation, led his three men back through the woods to the horses. The gathered the strayed mounts, mounted, and pulled their heads around, and started back towards the house at a slow, even canter.

Thornden spent the short ride back berating himself for his foolishness. ‘It’s all for your blasted hastiness,’ his mind told him. ‘I’m not surprised Eodwine said what he did. I hope you don’t go blundering blindly into something like that again! By heaven - ambushing your own lord!’ He felt another wave of heat rise and fall from his face at the very thought. He bent his head and urged his horse into a faster gait.

In just a couple minutes they arrived back at the front of the house. The four men reined in their horses as they came around the wall. At once they spotted a group of seven men walking an even larger group of very hot horses up and down and back again.

“It is Haleth’s men!” one of his followers exclaimed. “They must’ve just arrived! Greetings, Eorlings!” he hailed. His horse trotted forward the last several feet. Thornden followed close behind.

“Where is the captain?” he asked.

“He went inside the house, to see if he could find the lady. Has been there just a minute or two now. . .”

All the men directed their eyes towards the front door, wondering what took place within. . .

~~~~~

Deren came out from the room upstairs and walked towards the stairway. The woman passing for Lady Linduial followed behind him. At the head of the stairs, he paused and listened. He heard voices below. Wondering who had come in, he stood, listening intently. They were speaking of the man, Osfrid, who he had sent down a couple minutes before, and then his own name was mentioned. The next moment, he recognized his leader’s voice. Haleth had come at last. Deren started down the stairs quickly and ran ahead before the other two.

He came to the landing and walked swiftly down the hall towards Haleth.

“Sir! We’ve found her. She seems to be well. I saw no marks of abuse or anything like that.” He reached Haleth, a small smile on his face, and then half turned and looked back towards the stair. The young woman appeared, walking slowly and stately. Her foot reached the landing and she turned and walked towards them.

[Firefoot]

Somehow she didn't quite look like Haleth had imagined, whether she was dressed to simply or something else. It struck him odd, too, that there was no mark of physical injury on her; from Torim's account, he would have expected her to be bruised and possibly bloody. And it was always possible that Sorn had not liked her wearing such fine clothes and given her a simpler dress to wear... but still, there was something about her appearance. She looked rather familiar, like someone he should recognize.

Haleth frowned. He ought to remember what Linduial looked like; had he ever seen her? Once? At a distance?

Well, of course he ought to recognize her, then, if he had seen her.

Despite his doubts, he smiled, inquiring, "Lady Linduial?"

She returned his smile and nodded. The lady's assent should be all that was needed, right? "Good work, men," he said. "Take her outside, and keep this man under heavy guard. I'd like to have a look around the rest of the house... make sure we aren't missing anything." Then he selected two men to come with him; wandering around an unfamiliar by himself with Sorn's whereabouts unknown could hardly be called prudent. "Check all the rooms, and let me know of any locked doors."

They quickly found one room just down the hall to be locked, then another closer to the kitchen. The first, he supposed, might be a library or a study of sorts - perhaps Sorn kept his money inside. As for the second, Haleth figured it almost had to be a basement or cellar of sorts; the foundation of the house had indicated that one probably existed, and they had found no other door leading downstairs, unless there was only an outside entrance. That would be worth looking into.

"See if you can get either of those doors open," he told his two companions. "I want to know what's inside. I'll be back in a few minutes; I'm going to step out back to check if there's an outside cellar door."

[Taralphiel]

Sorn stared at Gurth, bewildered and swaying. He could hear the sounds of men rambling through his house, seeking out whatever was left of his wealth. And in all this chaos, the great brute had knelt and shown him some… kindness? He was too weary to tell.

“Helm…get up. We must find her.”

Sorn shook away the cloud of the drag of mead he had taken earlier and raced for the cellar. There would be no heroic ending in all of Sorn’s failed plans. He knew the penalty for his crimes was grave, and he would have himself set before his people with a message to tell. Gondor is not welcome. Sorn gripped his dagger as if in a vice, and turned the next corner from the empty yard. The back exit from the cellar swung open with ease.

Sorn took a moment, his free arm throbbing as he clenched the wood of the doorway. The girl was gone, and Scyld with her. There was no way of knowing how far they had gotten, or in which direction. Sorn had suffered the fruits of his labour of terrorising his own men.

Helm clambered towards Sorn, finding him muttering through his clenched teeth. He stood there for too many painful moments, before straightening and turning to the taller man.

“She has escaped me, Helm. Scyld will not live through this mistake. That little urchin…the both of them! They will suffer, Helm, and you will help me!”

Sorn did not have the time or the luxury to turn and retrieve his broadsword. He had lost one of his daggers, but the remaining would suffice for his task. Helm faltered as Sorn strode from the back exit to the cellar in a daze, not seeing anything around him.

“Helm! Gurth! Whatever it is I am to call you now. Follow your master!”

Sorn’s reflexes had always been strong. When he was a child, he could perceive a tutor or his father coming down the hallways to spoil all his fun. Whether it was throwing glue sodden paper at the cook, or switching around her carefully labelled pots of spices and ingredients, Sorn had always managed to pull off his nasty games and escape just as someone was coming to punish him. And as if the years had not passed, Sorn could hear a heavy boot crunching on dry leaves, and see the smallest shadow from the corner of his eye.

Sorn had loosed his dagger before he even knew it.

[Folwren]

Deren, with his three men and their prisoner, led the false lady out from the house. Up the walk, they saw Thornden and his men, and the large group of horses and men that Haleth had brought with him.

“Hollo!” Deren hailed when he was halfway to them. “I’ve found her and she seems to be quite well!” He looked at the woman by his side. A small blush had risen to her pale cheeks and a smile lingered around her lips.

Thornden turned when he heard the words. He came hurrying forward, anxious to see for himself whether the young woman was well. He stopped abruptly some yards before them. The expression on his face changed swiftly as he saw her.

“That is not Linduial,” he said, forgetting in his surprise to use ‘lady’ before the name.

“What!” cried Deren. He stepped away from the woman by his side and looked at her sharply. “You are not?”

“Confound it, man,” Thornden exclaimed. “That is not the lady, and if she told you she was before, she’s not likely to tell you the truth now! Who is that man there?” He nodded towards Osfrid.

“Someone we found inside the house. He ran off, went up the stairs and we stopped him before her room. That’s how we found her. He tried to keep us out, so we thought it was probably Linduial.”

“Did you search the entire house?” Thornden asked shortly.

Deren shook his head. “Most of it. But Captain Haleth’s men are going through the rest of it. Besides, I thought we had found the right lady, so we. . .didn’t finish.”

Thornden stood silently a moment, thinking, and biting the inside of his lip to keep from telling Deren how brainless he had been. It wasn’t actually the poor man’s fault, he considered. He shrugged and set his eyes on Deren again. “Very well. Take your prisoner and your rescued damsel to the horses. Make sure neither of them escape. Lord Eodwine will be returning soon. He will give you further orders. I am going inside to make sure the entire place is thoroughly searched.”

[Firefoot]

It seemed to happen in slow motion. As Haleth stepped out the back door, he thought he heard voices and put his hand to his sword hilt. Almost immediately he saw two men emerging from the sought-for cellar door; he took a step forward, his boot crunching on some dry leaves, and began to draw his sword – and just that fast, one of the men was turning, dagger in hand, loosing it in Haleth’s direction, and though he saw it coming, he could not move quickly enough; a burning pain sliced into his left shoulder.

Haleth found himself incapable of clear thought; otherwise, he would surely have called for help. But now, with maddening pain in his shoulder and burning hatred at the sight of Linduial’s captors, he flew at them. Here, my Queen, is my chance to make up for my mistakes and do something right. I will kill these fiends.

Perhaps, if he had been closer to them, launching himself at them may have worked better; as it was, the great brute of a man had time to draw his axe and block Haleth’s onslaught. The other man appeared unarmed after loosing his dagger at Haleth, and Haleth tried to block him from getting at the dagger, but he could not do so and still keep the monster at bay.

He fought with fury, but Haleth could feel himself beginning to fade away as strength bled out his arm, which was rapidly becoming useless in handling his double-handed sword. His armor, so proudly worn, felt heavy as it never had before while the weight of impending failure loomed over his mind. He, who had been loyal all these years to the Queen, could not even complete this simple, most important service to her.

“You – will get – what – you deserve,” he grunted out as he continued to struggle…

[littlemanpoet]

Eodwine and Garstan made their way back to the house, hoping to meet up with Haleth and his men. At least, Eodwine hoped that they would soon arrive.

When they cleared the last building before the front courtyard, there were many men milling about. Eodwine could make out Deren with him a young woman wearing fine clothing.

"Garstan, I do believe our errand is achieved. Look!" Garstan followed his direction and grunted his satisfaction, which was about all he could manage for the pain in his shoulder. "Easy now, we'll have you properly cared for before long, my friend."

But the closer they came, the less sure Eodwine was. Deren looked miffed, and the woman looked the less like Linduial.

When they had come up to the other men, Eodwine gave Garstan into the care of the Eored's herbmaster. Quickly apprised of the situation, Eodwine made a decision.

"I'm going in there!"

"But lord!" cried Garstan, his face a mask of effort trying to hide the pain. "Who is going to save your life if I'm not there?"

Eodwine grinned. "I shall have to save my own hide then! You three Eorlingas! Come! Deren! You come too!"

Eodwine was grateful for such good men. They slowed when they came to the place where Sorn had been hiding, and cautiously moved forward toward the house.

"Lord," whispered Deren," allow me to go first."

"Then how can you watch my back? Stay where you are."

They went inside the front doorway and were confronted with the relative darkness of the corridor. They squinted until their eyes adjusted, hoping not to be surprised by enemies in the moment of their weakness. No one could be seen.

"Voices, lord!" Deren said, "from down away!"

Eodwine nodded and led the men to a stairway.

[Firefoot]

"...Hunting with a bow falls under the realms of lady-like behavior, and I can shoot better than my lord Uncle's Master of the Hunt."

Scyld held his own doubts of this but did not protest it - what could he hope to prove? It meant little at this point, since neither of them had a bow to shoot, only knives. Scyld did not know whether to be reassured or disturbed at Linduial's limited skills with a knife. Of course, if she really wanted to kill him and make off towards her rescuers she would have plenty of opportunities that wouldn't require any particular skill - while he was sleeping, for example. He wasn't sure what he intended to do about that; he had to sleep, but he couldn't let her get away, either. Trust. It always came back to that. Why was it so difficult? Look at Linduial, just chatting away, so carefreely. She seemed to trust him, oddly enough.

Not even I would trust me. Such different worlds we live in, you and I.

It was uplifting, somehow.

"You had a happy childhood," he observed. Then he added with typical wryness, "And for some reason, I don't hate you for it." And such was his mood that he winked at her.

They had made a couple of switchbacks across a steep place in the terrain and had now come to a more level place where they could see out across the way they had come; Scyld realized it would be a good place to stop and eat (neither of them had eaten lunch) since they would be able to see anyone who might be following them, and he said so. He removed his pack and took out a bit of dried meat and an apple for each of them. The equal meals came unthinkingly and surprised him. Just how did he feel about her, anyway?

[Taralphiel]

The man charged despite the grave wound to his arm, and Sorn marvelled at his courage. He did not, however, forget he was outmatched with only two daggers hidden on his belt.

Sorn wove around the man as Gurth stepped forward with his axe. He struggled with his solid grip for a moment, and Sorn stood back with a contemplative smirk on his face. Sorn decided to make a game of him, swinging in to try to remove his dagger from his shoulder. He fought back, a desperate look as he tried to keep two assailants at bay. But it was wearing on him quickly.

"You – will get – what – you deserve," the man said through clenched teeth, before Gurth made a wide swing with his axe and winded him. Sorn put a hand on the beast’s shoulder and stood as the man stumbled back.

"What do I deserve? Should I be penalised for a crime? What do you think I have done? I am no usurper, no outsider claiming title to what is not their’s. You tell me the greater crime."

Sorn had grown tired of playing with this man’s life. In a swift step he was upon him, another dagger loosed and hitting it’s mark.

The man stumbled and fell. Sorn looked down on him with measures of disdain, pity, and rage. "Some of us really have so little understanding. Loyalty clouds the mind, perhaps?" Sorn glanced sideways at Gurth. "We have to find the girl, she has more distance between us now. We must hurry."

Gurth wobbled a moment, peering towards the thick forest curving to the south from Sorn’s estate. Sorn smiled and nodded to his companion. "My thoughts are with yours, Helm. The easiest place to hide."

Sorn, now set with a hope of correcting his mistakes, eyed the dirt carefully. The marks left were muddled by the challenge of the man that had just confronted them. But what Sorn gathered was a clear path made by two people, one clearly female by the weight of the prints in the dirt. Sorn nodded.

The prints led over a small boundary fence and up the ridge to the covering dense firs. Sorn did not wait for Gurth to catch up. Sorn did not even hear the sounds of men bounding through his hallways as he and Gurth sprinted into the undergrowth...

[JennyHallu]

Lin looked down across the hillside, back down to the courtyard. Her eyes widened at the drama she saw playing its course on the packed dirt below, even Gurth's massive shape appearing like a puppet in the distance. She didn't hear Scyld's kind words, and the meal he handed her fell to the mossy ground, slipping unheeded through nerveless fingers.

"Fight!" she breathed through numb lips, and Scyld joined her, watching the battle below with a grim expression on his rugged features. Lin's hands clenched into fists as she urged her nameless champion to victory, but as the giant stepped into the fray and the unknown man's movements became haggard and desperate, the end of the duel became painfully apparent.

"No!" Lin cried in desperation, watching Sorn play with his opponent as a cat urges a mouse to its own doom. "The brute! the brute!" Hot and helpless tears dropped unheeded down her face as the man fell, and she pulled herself up tall and straight, the wind on the little knoll on which they stood whipping her stained and tattered yellow dress, that she'd took such shallow pleasure in only a few fateful days before, around her ankles and out into the air like a flag. Her eyes were locked on the fallen figure in the courtyard, and she saluted him gravely, tears adding more damp stains to her unfortunate frock.

Scyld, however, kept his eyes on the man's killers, and when they plunged into the brush just at the point where he had led Lin a scant half-hour before, he gripped his companion's arm roughly, jerking her back to earth and reality. "Look there!" he ordered, giving her barely enough time to see before pulling her back into the undergrowth, scrambling up the hill as swiftly as he could, food forgotten. He cursed himself for being so gentle with her; walking at a snail's pace, making allowances for her splinted arm. He knew, though, that even now, running breakneck through the brush, that they could not outrun their pursuers, and they were in their haste leaving as clear a trail as any amateur hunter could wish. He looked back and said as much to the girl.

"Then what do we do?" she asked, panting from the headlong pace, nursing the scratches the heavy brush had inflicted on her. Her eyes were wide and frightened, but the trust in them was clear, pinning Scyld to her like accusatory needles. He cursed that he couldn't just leave her; alone he might have a chance.

"We find a place to make a stand," he growled harshly, and she nodded and made to follow him where he led.

The chase was on, the endgame in the works. They dared not hope for any outside rescue.

[littlemanpoet]

Eodwine led his small bevy of men through the house, down the corridor, down some stairs, and into a cellar where stood a cage. Linduial's, no doubt, and now empty. There was a way out in the far wall, and they went to it. But all was now eerily quiet that way. Eodwine took the lead, sword drawn, as he slowly, crouching, took careful steps through the door. Then his hand fell and the swordpoint his the ground.

"Haleth!"

Eodwine rushed toward the broken man, whose blue eyes were staring up at nothing. Deep wounds still bled deep crimson from shoulder and throat. Eodwine looked up and about.

"Search the grounds for any sign of the killers!"

Deren and the others began looking carefully the ground near them. Eodwine hoped they might find something, anything. He looked out and saw the rise of land beyond the fence. In the distance he saw two men, one very large and tall, and the other of average height. They had stopped on a small knoll and the smaller of the men was looking at something on the ground. Then the two of them started running higher up into the hills.

"There! After them!" Eodwine cried. "Deren! Gather the others and ride to us!"

[Folwren]

“There!” Eodwine cried out, his voice sharp. All the men with him looked up. “After them! Deren! Gather the others and ride to us!”

“Aye, sir!” Deren replied, already running. He darted back through the cellar door and bounded up the stairs to the hall, two steps at a time. “Come, come!” He called out at the top of his voice to anyone who was still searching the house. “The Eorl calls! Follow him, we have spotted the villainous rogue!”

And without a pause he plunged back out into the daylight and ran up the walk to the rest of the men and the gathering of horses. Behind him, the last few stragglers who had been in the house came out, running forward as well.

Deren gave no explanation, except that lord Eodwine had bidden them ride after him. The horses were gathered together, the riders mounted, Eodwine’s horse and the horses that belonged to the men following him were led with them. Together, the large company rode out across Sorn’s property, cantering over the grass in the direction that Eodwine had taken.

The overtook Eodwine and the others just a little within the woods. The extra horses were brought up and the men mounted. Then, with Eodwine at their head, they plunged ahead. The horses ran on at a varying speeds as they dodged trees and leaped small rivulets. Onward, up the incline, and always in their minds eye, the picture of Sorn catching the young Linduial before they could reach her and protect her.

[Celuien]

The herbmaster was skilled in his art. Garstan had been taken into a small outbuilding claimed by the Eored and given a drink, hot and bitter to taste, but soothing to the pain in his shoulder, even when the herbmaster had unwrapped and prodded the wound, covering it with fragrant leaves against the coming of sickness and covering it again with fresh linen.

"You are lucky, master Garstan," he said. "Had the blade fallen but a little to the side you would have bled beyond my skill to aid. It will mend. Some aching in the cool nights will come, maybe, but it will mend with time."

Garstan sank into a chair. "I fear my lord Eodwine will not be pleased. I was to begin work carving the stones for a new kitchen on our return, but I cannot work with one arm."

"Lord Eodwine is a good man," the herbmaster returned in a stern voice. "He would not fault you."

"I know it well. I fault myself." Garstan frowned. "I would be with him now. I would not see him meet with worse than I have."

"Peace, Garstan! The Eorl is well guarded. You should rest."

Shouts rang from nearby. Garstan heard Eodwine calling in the midst of the cries. "There! After them! Deren! Gather the others and ride to us!"

"I must go. Lord Eodwine calls." Garstan rose unsteadily and moved to the door. The herbmaster was across the room in two steps to block the way.

"Are you mad? You can be of no good to the party with your arm as it is. If anything, you will hinder them. They cannot attend to you and fight at the same time. Sit down."

The herbmaster pushed Garstan back to his chair. He sat unwillingly and burst out, "Am I always to be left behind under the care of the healers while others do their duty in battle?"

"Always?"

Garstan left a silent moment, then said in a softer tone, "It is nothing. Forget that I said it." He stared blankly at a small window, his thoughts away with the rescue party as they set off on the chase.

"Garstan. You have done well on this day. But you can do no more."

[Firefoot]

Scyld's time for initial regrets and cursing himself for being so foolish and having to bring Linduial along had passed. Now as they tore through the woods a multitude of calculations was running through his mind. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, before Sorn and Gurth reached the high place where they had briefly stopped. Scyld glanced back at Linduial to make sure she was keeping up. She could not sustain this reckless pace for long. He scanned the woods around him; all he needed was a natural ridge where he could have the high ground in a fight. If he had that, maybe there would be hope. Maybe they could both survive.

He doubted it. He might survive, if Linduial died before he did and the chance for escape came. But if he died, Linduial surely would as well. Scyld had always intended that should the time ever come for him to kill Sorn, he would have a clear shot at his back. Hand-to-hand fighting was to be avoided at all costs, and Gurth being there to back Sorn up (or fight for him) only slimmed Scyld's odds - and if he stood little chance, what did that say for Linduial?

Gurth would have to be gotten rid of first. If Scyld could take them by surprise and loose a fatal knife in Gurth's direction, he would have a chance against Sorn alone. He dared not think of otherwise.

As Scyld had hoped, a natural ridge formed up and Scyld led Linduial along the bottom of it for many strides. He stopped at a rocky place where the ground looked firm so that they might easily climb upwards a way. He offered Linduial a hand and helped her to scramble up with him. Alone he would have been able to walk upright, but with holding Linduial's hand he bent further forward and used his other hand for support and balance. After climbing about fifteen feet he decided they were high enough and led Linduial across the ridge in the same direction they had come. At the very least, Sorn would not see their path upwards written across the face of the mountain as plainly as the sun shone in the sky.

"You stay here," Scyld said as they came upon a large rock jutting up from the land that would provide both ample cover and a natural seat for Linduial. "Make yourself small and invisible to those below. Now, we wait."

"How long?" Linduial asked quietly.

Scyld shrugged. "As long as it takes. I'd guess ten, fifteen minutes." He watched her for a few moments more. He had cursed himself for bringing her, but he knew then that he did not mean it. The feeling was as alien to him as color to a blind man, but he thought that maybe this was friendship - and maybe a friend was someone worth dying for. Just maybe. He had no words to explain this, but impulsively he reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder. She had turned to watch the trail below, but at his touch she turned her head. Scyld did not say anything, only squeezed gently, and then he walked away. For his own hiding place, he stood behind a tall and wide tree, appealing in that it was indistinctive from others around him. He removed a knife from the sheath inside his left boot and began to listen for Sorn and Gurth. It would not be long now. Not long to wait, and perhaps not long to live.

[Taralphiel]

Feet passed quickly over pebble and branch, as the sounds of a pursuing party finally reached Sorn’s ears. He cursed through gritted teeth. Barking out to Gurth, he said, "Up there. Be on your guard!" The first rise began to smooth out, and Sorn slowed. His eyes darted about, careful for any movement. They could not have gotten much farther, judging by the tracks Sorn had followed along the way. He did not need to guess who the second pair of footprints belonged to. This made him all the more cautious.

The trees became denser as Sorn made his path following the prints. Scyld had clearly seen him and tried to flee. Surely he must have known that with the Lady with him he could not outrun him? As if the land sensed his intentions, large crags of rocks jutted out from amongst the trees, reaching high towards the covering boughs. Sorn seethed, squinting at the sunlight that shot from the sudden breaks in the canopy. There was no clear path from here, and no more prints to follow.

As Sorn began to manouver up the rocks, Gurth approached from behind. He hissed as he lost his footing on some rocks and stumbled back some paces. This was the perfect place to hide, and the worst place to search. Sorn slowed all the more, not wanting to sacrifice his senses. A small tumble of pebbles caught his hearing. He turned to Gurth and spat, "Take more care! We must not be heard, and should hear everything!"

The world seemed to wish to spite him, as his ears picked up the low thudding of hooves on pounded dirt. Horses must have been riding toward his House.

'I am not done yet!' he whispered to himself.

[Firefoot]

The waiting was the worst. How many times now had Scyld thought he heard a footstep or a whispered word? How many times had his muscles tensed as he gripped the first knife a little tighter? How many times had he tentatively peeked around the tree?

This time he was certain, though. Someone had stumbled on the rocks below. He knew that every glance he took would be a risk, but he needed to know their position. Moving slowly so that a sudden motion would not attract their sight, he peered out at them. He saw Sorn turn and say something to Gurth but could scarcely even hear the sound of Sorn's voice, much less make out the words. They were moving slowly in his and Linduial's direction, clearly taking care not to be heard. Scyld ducked his head back behind the tree.

The seconds slowly passed. Scyld had to continue resisting the temptation to look and see how much closer they had come. Only when he heard a footstep almost directly even with him did he take another look. He hefted the knife but still hesitated. They were still farther away than was optimal and he doubted he could kill either of them. He should still hit, and Gurth was a large enough target, but once he threw the first knife his position would be given away. Still, he probably would not have another opportunity this good with the same vantage point.

He threw the knife straight for Gurth.

[JennyHallu]

From her hiding place Lin could barely see Scyld behind his tree, but she noticed when he threw the knife. She stifled a terrified whimper and plastered herself deeper into the rock hollow, the dagger held in front of her. Her terror in this moment was so great that even had Degas himself stepped in front of her she would have tried to kill him.


Only a few more seconds and their pursuers would be upon them. Lin knew she could not stay hidden, not for long,but for now she froze. If she could only buy enough time, somehow, for Scyld to rescue her. Surely he knew just what to do.

She picked up a largish stone that lay near her foot and carefully threw it away to her right, away from Scyld. It crashed into a pile of bracken with a noise that seemed deafening after the silence of their wait, but maybe it would confuse their pursuers, long enough for Scyld to come up with a plan. He was going to come up with a plan, Lin was sure.

She peered cautiously toward Scyld's tree, making sure he was all right, hoping for some mark of approval of her action.

[Anguirel]

The giant had followed Sorn with increasing reluctance and confusion. If they ran into the wild now, they were abandoning the farmstead to the intruders. Gurth had wished to stay and to defend the house of the plunderers, the strangers like the golden-headed captain the Master had just killed. But gradually he understood. Somehow, someone had taken the girl. She alone could propell them out into the country like this, through hedgerow, thicket and plain.

He looked about the wood through which they crawled, treading more stealthily, for in sobriety he could stalk well enough, if hampered by hugeness, in response to his Master's order.

Often he looked aside for the wolf-mastiff Grendel, and choked back hunting-calls to it, and at last his memories swung to the beast dying in the dirt, and hot, bitter tears mingled with the blue of his eyes and the red of his flesh, making them damp and vulnerable, relecting the rays of lights that penetrated down to the two woodsmen.

A woodsman; such was the life he had become used to among the throng of bandits. He must now introduce Sorn to it, and they would live amid the trees inviolate from the law of any, and perhaps the girl, too, would dwell in the forests and the harshness of the seasons. Not far off lay the woods of Druadan, and Gurth thought of life amid the strange Woses of rumour. His mind and recall was developing fast after his liberation from the mead's yoke, and he remembered stories of Pukel-men with comparative ease.

But now was the time for hunting, not thinking, and that was the message which the blade's bite brought bloodily back. The dagger's hilt was embedded, lower than the heart, in the flesh of his side, hampered somewhat by his mail. He bit the howl he would have naturally emitted, mauling his tongue, and through the smell of his own blood he caught a familiar scent.

Not the girl's, as yet, but that of the other lackey. The sly one, the bearer of mead.

"Wound from Scyld," he muttered in Sorn's ear. "Smell man. Slay? Smell near ahead..."

[Taralphiel]

Sorn looked down quickly and inspected Gurth’s wound. So it was Scyld, then. Sorn said evenly, and in a low tone "He will tell us where she is" Sorn knew that he didn’t need to tell Gurth more than that.

He turned forward, and after a moment, rushed for where the dagger had sprung from with a yell. A dagger of his own was already in one hand, a curled fist his only other weapon. He inwardly cursed leaving his broadsword behind. The plans he had laid out were now unravelled. He would now be a hunted man. His wealth would never be as it was, as he had hoped. His family would fade and be little more than a small scratch in a ledger, dusty and forgotten. His rage rose higher at the thought of the King’s men wandering his estate, surveying his property.

Fuelled by that repugnant thought, he swung around the stone obstructing his view and swung a wide arc with his thin, long blade…

Below Sorn the sounds of horses and their men grew louder.

[Firefoot]

Scyld had seen Linduial throw the stone to try and distract Sorn and Gurth, and had given her a tiny nod of approval, but he was not even sure that they had heard it. Now Sorn was coming after him. He hadn’t been seen yet, but they knew where he was. He had no use for hiding now.

As Sorn began to charge up the slope, Scyld stepped out from behind the tree, a knife already in his hand. He would have to be careful, now; he only had so many knives. Thankfully Sorn did not seem to have any better weapons than a long knife. A fight between the two of them would be equal, and Gurth had peculiarly not yet made a commitment to fighting, not even taking his axe in his hands.

Even though he had a poor angle, Scyld threw the knife at Sorn anyway because of the benefit in fighting an already wounded opponent – and he missed, coming mere inches from his target. Scyld drew out a third knife. He would not be so quick to throw this one away.

He could have moved his body so that he was between Sorn and Linduial at that point – but then he realized that that was probably exactly what Sorn was hoping he would do. He could not betray Linduial’s position, not even with a flicker of a glance.

And then Sorn was upon him. He did not wait to test Scyld’s strengths but immediately attacked. Scyld was more intent on staying out of range until he had an opportunity than putting up an offense. As the fight began, Scyld could not resist a little gloating. “I hope you know how long I have conspired against you… how many years I’ve had a lock pick to your study and intimate knowledge of your records and funds… how long I’ve waited for this day.”

[Taralphiel]

Hazed vision was something Sorn was familiar with. Mugs of ale were usually the cause, but this blurry surge through his body could only be the cause of extreme fatigue. And as Scyld taunted him, he supposed his rage was also playing a part.

"I hope you know how long I have conspired against you... how many years I’ve had a lock pick to your study and intimate knowledge of your records and funds… how long I’ve waited for this day."

Scyld jumped and curved out of Sorn's range, the smile on his face making him throb with the urge to strangle him. Sorn was hardly coherent, but he would not take such quips go without answer. Sorn was fatigued, but not silly enough to let Scyld’s dagger slice him, as he dodged quickly.

"Then I take it you know why I never gave you a task worth doing. Save for cleaning up after those with more bravery! You could never take a life, Scyld. Only stand by and watch while someone with the...stomach...did it for you. I would have left you to clean basins had I not cared for them to be done properly!"

As Sorn put most of his attention to this struggle, his eyes darted about for Gurth. The beast had obviously been distracted by something. Was it the approaching horses? Sorn did not let his thought on that stray too far.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Farahil passed a thick rope wordlessly into the hands of an able crewman, walking carefully on the wet deck. The ship pressed into the water in the wind and the salt breeze tasted slightly metallic; the harbor might be safe, but an afternoon storm was coming and the fleet needed attention. He stepped comfortably on the jolting boards, climbing to the crow's nest for just long enough to see far into the water. Adragil's ship had yet to return. The wind pulled a leather tie from Farahil's black hair and it blew into his eyes as he looked around him, watching seagulls cry insults at the tossing breezes. He smiled with his eyes and slid back to the deck on a rope, rather than climbing. Adragil was well able. If he could not outsail the storm, he could weather it.

He took the rope once more from the young man and tied it tight, disembarking to see to another ship. The harbor was busy and the street urchins were attentive. Between one ship and the next, Farahil removed a young man's hand silently from another's belt purse. The young man spun fast, reaching for a daggar. He eyed Farahil and knew him immediately for the Lord's nephew, the younger of Farlen's sons, and he remembered stories told in dockside pubs on late nights. He walked away and Farahil saw to crews and ships, offering aid where necessary, keeping an eye to incoming vessels.

Every moment, the sky grew blacker, and, teasing, the occasional heavy raindrop fell, was caught by the wind, and made contact with a wet slap against chilled skin. Farahil simply tended to matters until a small hand caught his sleeve.

He turned his head to meet the eyes of the young messenger. "My Lord..." the lad was breathless. Farahil handed him his waterskin and waited, turning to face him. "News..." he gasped. "News from Rohan. Your lord father bids you return home."

Farahil tipped him a silver coin, bade him eat something hot soon, and left the first mate of his favored ship in charge of the docks.

"But Captain," The man eyed the storm clouds and the ships, brushed his hand toward the cries of sailors hard at work.

"My friend, the storm will break with or without me. Our sailors are not untried lads out for play in calm waters. They know to prepare, and they have, and they are, and they will. And with your leadership, all will go as well as if I were to remain." He spoke no word of the message. A runner brought his mount to him. The horse was a strongly built gelding, sheer black. It pranced against the stone road, but quieted as Farahil took its reins. He eyed the shifting water once more. "When Adragil arrives, send him after me."

---

Some hours later, Farahil brushed water from his mount's coat, shedding soaked clothing until he stood in the horse's stall in breeches, boots, and a loose, untucked, white shirt. It clung to him and his hair needed combing against the wind and rain, but it would come.

With his mount tended and fed, he dried and changed into a near exact match of his wet clothing: black breeches, white shirt. A daggar hung from an otherwise naked belt. He shed his boots for bare feet and held tea in one steady hand as he walked silently toward the room in which Degas and Feo waited almost calmly.

---

The fire haired young man stood, and motioned for the boy to stand, when Farahil entered. Degas stood a hand shorter than Farahil, but he stood confidently, his most pressing errand passed. He had given word to Lin's father. His errand from Rohan was done. Now it was only his own. There was still time to walk away. But Lin's brother stood silently for only a moment, and motioned for them to take a seat as he sat attentively, elbows braced on his knees, with the steam of his tea warming him from inside. His eyes showed none of the warmth.

"You are Degas of the Folde?"

"I am, Lord Farahil." Feo fidgeted, eying the tea with contempt. He quieted under Farahil's look.

"You lost Linduial?"

Degas closed his eyes, reacting wordlessly. He opened them, met Farahil's, and nodded once.

"And you want to marry her when you find her?" No hint of opinion could be detected. A mere statement of fact.

"Yes. If she will have me."

The door opened and a voice boomed. "And why should she choose you, Firetop?"

All rose and Farahil met the mountain in the doorway with an embrace. Adragil stood dropping, his razed head the only dry part of him. His skin was burned dark golden in the lamplight. The furious sounds of the storm entered through the walls, and Adragil was shirtless, black tattoos adorning his arms and shoulders. Degas looked up at him, met his eyes, and refused to look as intimidated as he felt. Feo whistled silently through his teeth. The man was huge. His voice seemed to echo.

"Lord Adragil." Degas greeted him properly, and they remained standing. Farahil sank into shadows. Feo watched with wide eyes, and Degas saw his attention shoot to the golden loops pierced through Adragil's ears.

"That is no answer to my question, man of Rohan. You lost my sister. I want her found. You are not finding her, you are a messenger boy. You would seek to court a lady with the blood of Mithrellas running through her veins, the niece of our lord, the cousin of your queen," His eyes nearly softened their coal daggar stare at the mention of Lotheriel. Nearly, but not. "You would ask permission of her family, and with what to back you? A claim to nobility? A younger son. A livelihood? Young poet, I have heard you sing." Degas said nothing, though wondered secretly, suddenly, when and where. "And you have a good voice, as far as such things go, and I don't hate the touch of your fingers to strings, but it is nothing of a dowry to write a father pretty songs to please a court."

---

What Degas said, none heard, save Feo and the brothers, yet when he finished speaking, the room was hushed.

"I will travel to Rohan with you, Degas of the Folde," said Farahil quietly, "and we shall see what my lady sister says of it."

And so it was that Degas brought the news of the North to the South, and met the family of his heart's desire, and found a home for Feo in the gruff and noble household of Adragil, for the boy had hero worshipped the man on sight, and Adragil had taken a liking to him later, remembering him when he found him playing Pirates and Chasers with his own sons.

[Firefoot]

Never could take a life, or never needed to? Cowardly… or just intelligent? Scyld responded internally. He knew that Sorn would never accept reason, though, so he did not bother to dignify Sorn’s accusations with a response. Sorn was finally revealed for what he was: a petty and pathetic, but desperate, nobleman who had never deserved half of what he got and still wanted more. Scyld did not bother to hide the scorn he felt for Sorn. He felt as if their former positions were reversed: now he, standing on higher ground, was looking down upon Sorn as the worthless and contemptible one.

For just an instant, Scyld caught Sorn’s focus shift down to Gurth and away from the fight, and he took quick advantage of it. He darted in with his knife and gashed Sorn’s upper arm, then danced nimbly away before Sorn could react.

The expression on Sorn’s face was not so much pain as fury and his onslaught redoubled. Scyld blocked some of his wild swings and dodged others, but one time he ducked too slowly and Sorn’s knife nicked him across the temple. The salt in his sweat tingled uncomfortably in the cut.

Slowly Sorn was pushing Scyld farther up the slope; soon Linduial would be in plain view and her hiding place revealed. Within a few seconds, Scyld had to make a decision: stay between Sorn and Linduial, or try to keep Sorn’s back to her hoping he would not see her. He chose the latter. If Sorn tried to turn and run for her, then, he could put a knife through his back…

Then out of his peripheral vision Scyld thought he saw Gurth begin to charge up the slope, and he figured it was over, now. Either Gurth had seen Linduial, or he had decided to help Sorn finish him off – either way, Scyld figured death would not be long coming. Now, Linduial, if you have any other plans… or if not, run. You won’t have another chance…

[Taralphiel]

Sorn felt panic rise as his reactions became dulled by fatigue. His strength was ebbing, maintained only by the force his rage exerted on his body’s will. And his knowledge that to lose would mean his death, and his complete failure.

A man’s pride is his greatest asset. Sorn had always felt a swell in his chest at that statement.

When his former servant blanched a moment, Sorn thrust forward and left a sizeable tear in Scyld’s tunic. He grunted, as the wound he left was no more serious than the one Scyld had dealt him. He was still too slow. Gurth bellowed, and Sorn’s grin stretched wide over his sharp teeth.

There was a wisp, a sudden movement as another figure sprang into his view. The young woman barred the way between Scyld and Sorn. Sorn did not gloat at this turn of events. The Lady Linduial had not fled, but tried to rescue his old, deceitful servant? Why would she make such an impulsive, foolish movement for someone so inferior?

Sorn almost felt the situation laughable, had his poor foresight not brought him here. Determined to right his mistakes, Sorn drew another dagger. He could not possibly miss.

A man’s pride is everything, and no single deed can be counted unworthy in the pursuit of keeping it.

[Anguirel]

Helm, formerly Gurth, was more disorientated by the nagging ache of his dagger-wound from Scyld than his ox-like pride would allow him to concede. It slowed his motions, his responses, and it hurt remarkably, just as a cut from a pen-knife torments more than the blow of a scythe.

But this combined the pain of the former with the banefulness of the latter. The giant's blood was seeping out at his side, sapping at his reserves of energy. The difference this could make in a fight, Helm knew, might yet leave him in the same state as his hound.

Most of all, he wanted to kill the punesome wretch Scyld who had hurt him like this, to smash him and rend him and leave his brains smashed around the roots of the woods. But this course of action was curtailed by the movements of the man for whom Helm felt much pity, but little duty - his former keeper, Sorn.

As Sorn raised a throwing knife, the same weapon, the same treasonous, hurled, cowardly tool that had dealt Helm such harm, upon her...who was she? Why did she matter? It was not so much her femininity, her vulnerability, as the fact that she had eaten meat from the giant's hand. She was an animal under his protection.

Not thinking seriously to kill his erstwhile benefactor, merely to stop him, Helm clenched his fist, raised his vast arm, and dealt Sorn a crushing blow to the side of his head, preempting the dodge his startled companion attempted. The knife dropped in the dirt. Satisfied that the worst was averted for now, Helm Hammerhanded hefted his axe and ran in the direction of Scyld.

He was ignorant of an important fact. A blow delivered at full strength, at the height of Helm's rage, to an unprotected human head, would have caved in the skull of any normal man. Sorn was tall and fiery, and rather more than ordinary; and the blow had been more in the way of a firm rebuke than a berserk lashing. But it had still reduced Sorn, effectively, to an idiot, rather less capable of reason than his attacker. The lord of the farmstead was still on fighting form, but no human instinct now restrained him, and it was the impulse of a beast that drove him at his one-time fool's departing back...

[Firefoot]

Taralphiel's Post

The dagger sank in and tore. The sickening smell and warmth of Helm’s fluid on his hands was all lost on Sorn. It was just the act, and the simple instinct. Helm bellowed, and the sound rose and rent the hillside as Sorn withdrew and plunged the blade again and again.

Scyld and the girl disappeared, as all the things that had once mattered were sifted in with the dirt under his feet. Helm’s blood mixed with his. He could feel the pain growing on his senses; the great weight of the blow to his skull. Sorn faltered, his arms going slack at his sides. He fell, a great weight to the dirt.

He mingled with the dust. He mingled with everything that did not matter. Sorn wished to laugh, at the great ruin he had made of himself, but his throat was too tight. His body lost all composure, and he could not lift his head from the dirt.

He heard shouting, and panicked cries all around him. He heard running, and the steady ringing thump of hooves growing louder. He saw Helm stagger, and begin to fall.

That was the last thing Sorn of Rohan saw. All was lost to him. All that was left of him was his crime, and the smear of shame that ended his house and line.

~*~*~

Firefoot's Post

Just like that, it was over. Sorn was dead, Gurth was dead, each slain by the other. Scyld’s head throbbed and his chest burned, but it was a smaller price than he had hoped to pay. His old life was gone. Already, a great tension was beginning to seep from his body. He knelt and wiped his knife on the ground, then sheathed it gently. He was… free, almost. Free from everything except Linduial and the law.

He stood up beside her. “That was a foolish thing you did, getting between Sorn and me,” he told Linduial, breaking the silence of the battle’s aftermath. “You should have run away.”

“And gotten how far?” she retorted.

Scyld just shook his head. “It was still foolish,” he said, but he was not condemning her. “But you are safe now.” In the distance, he could hear the sounds of voices and hoofbeats. He did not have much time. “You can go home to Dol Amroth, or to Edoras, or wherever you want.” Yes, that was how it would go. She would go home, little the worse for wear, and concern herself once more in her high and mighty politics. Eventually, she would forget about him, and this whole kidnapping would become as a dimly recalled nightmare. Scyld was surprised at how bitter he felt at the thought.

“Thank you,” she said. Then she faltered. “But… you say nothing of yourself.”

“I’m leaving. I do not know where I will go, but I am not going with you.”

“You still don’t trust me… after all this, you still don’t trust me,” she stated. He could not tell whether her tone was accusatory, or hurt, or just sad.

“I can’t.” He wondered if she knew how much he wanted to trust her. He wished he could. “It’s all I can do to let you go to them.”

“But you are hurt; your wounds must be cared for.” It was her last plea.

He shook his head again. “Both are shallow. I will be able to tend them myself.” He could tell that she was unconvinced.

The sounds were growing louder, closer, and her gaze drifted in that direction.

“Linduial, look at me.” The intensity of his voice drew her attention. “You must promise me that you will not try to find me, or send them after me.” It would be easy for them to catch him now; he was in no shape to fight, and he would go slowly because of his injuries. She started to nod, but this was not sufficient. He took her by the shoulders. “Promise me!”

“I promise, Scyld.” Once again, that unreadable mix of emotions crossed her face.

His grip, which had been tighter than he had realized, melted from her. “Thank you,” he said, and he meant it. Before the scene could grow any more awkward, he stated abruptly, “I must go now.” Without another word, he turned and began to labor the rest of the way up the slope. Her response was so soft that he almost did not hear it: “Farewell, Scyld.” He turned and nodded curtly. Farewell, Linduial… and thank you. Then the ground leveled out, and he disappeared from her sight.

And just when it seemed that he might really be free, Scyld knew that he wasn’t… and that, maybe, he didn’t want to be.

[littlemanpoet]

Eodwine stopped his horse and dismounted just shy of the steep slope, and climbed on foot as hurriedly as he could. Deren was close behind and many others as well.

Eodwine came to the top of the rise and stopped, stunned. There stood Linduial, knife in hand, and just a few yards in front of her lay on his face a giant of a man, sprawled over Sorn; both were dead.

Surely she hadn't done this. Had they killed each other? Had she helped somehow? Eodwine scratched his head. She did not look much the worse for wear, considering her the likely nature of her harrowing experience.

"Linduial! I am glad to see you sound!" He looked at the two corpses again, and then again at her. "Tell us what happened here!"

She explained that she had escaped from the dungeon by the loan of a key, and had run away out here but had been seen by Sorn and the giant, who had been one of his henchmen. But when Sorn was set on killing her, the giant would not let him. They fought and killed each other instead.

"You had aid then! Who loaned you the key, that we may reward him?"

"A henchman. He escaped when your men arrived," she answered. "I know not where he went."

"Well then. Can you walk?"

She could, and was given to ride one of the mounts. They made their way back to the homestead of Sorn.

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~