[Alcarillo]

Gárwine son of Gárulf trotted his brown mare through the wooden gates of Edoras. His thick blond hair was matted with dirt and sweat and his clothes and skin were covered with dust. Across his back was strapped his spear, an iron-headed staff of oak, and his shield, planks of wood with peeling green paint. His chest was closed in a tarnished breastplate. His Gárwine felt hot and stifled in it, but there was no other way to carry it. Across his shoulders was wrapped a threadbare green cloak. His horse, Herefola, was tired and slow, but trotted on at her master's bidding. She wore the simplest saddle and bridle; it was barely suitable for anyone nobler than a farmer. Gárwine was the young son of a dead warrior, and he had traveled for days to reach Edoras, hoping to become a warrior in the service of a local Eorl. Since his father's death at the hands of orcs near the Entwood, Gárwine had not had the opportunity to travel to Edoras until now.

The thatched houses of Edoras shone with a golden light on this early morning. The entire city, perched upon a hilltop, shone across the land, crowned by Meduseld, where the King held his court. As Gárwine passed between the houses he craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the famed Golden Hall, where his future as a warrior would be decided. Herefola trotted up the cobblestone street, and Gárwine watched from her back the golden roofs move down the hill past them. Herefola halted at Meduseld's stone steps. Gárwine slid from her back. His legs ached from the days of riding, and when he walked it was with a stiff swagger. He ascended the steps, which offered a magnificent view of the sunrise over the fields of the Mark. The golden sun was rising and everything shone more magnificently than any field Gárwine had ever rode through. He greeted the doorward and removed his arms and the guards swung open the doors. Then Gárwine entered the Golden Hall.

The light was dim and only lit by sunlight slanting out of the eastern windows. The air was cool, and the fire was nothing more than a few embers. Tapestries hung in the shadows along the wall, retelling the Mark's history and the deeds of the kings. Across the hall, seated upon a dais, was Éomer Éadig, King of the Mark, speaking with a retainer. Gárwine felt embarrassed for a moment to be seen in such a noble hall in such an unkempt state. He brushed the hair out of his eyes and approached the king. He summoned his courage and spoke:

"Hail, Éomer Éadig, King of the Mark. My name is Gárwine son of Gárulf, and I seek to become a warrior in the service of the Mark." He bowed.

King Éomer turned his attention away from the retainer, who took his place to the side of the king. "Welcome, Gárwine son of Gárulf. I recognize that name. Now tell me, did your father ride with me when I was Third Marshall of the Mark?"

Gárwine nodded, "Yes, my lord." He hoped his father's reputation with the king would aid him.

"He was a brave man. He died valiantly for the Mark, a hero's death. I will remember him as a faithful companion in battle." He sighed, feeling the nostalgia of the old war and remembering those who had fallen in the thick of battle. "And your brother, Gárláf, also rode alonside me, no? His death was just as heroic as his father's; swinging his sword against the Easterlings at Pelennor." The king paused again. "And did your father teach you how to ride? How to wield a sword?"

"Yes, my lord. He taught me as much as he could."

The king nodded in approval, smiling. "Well, young Gárwine son of Gárulf, your father was a true warrior of the Mark, and it should be that sons follow their fathers' footsteps. I have recently established the new Middle Emnet. Its Eorl is Eodwine of the Gap, and he requires soldiers at arms. He is constructing a mead hall in this city by renovating an old inn that was once called the White Horse, and that is where you are to serve. It is not far from here."

Gárwine swore an oath of fealty, bowed once more, and then left the hall. Outside the sun was crawling its way above the horizon. The city was awakening, and more people were in the streets. Gárwine, elated at his new job, mounted Herefola and rode in the direction of the mead hall as he was instructed. He reminded himself that without his father's good reputation, he would still be laboring for Uncle Wilfrid, without any chance of becoming a soldier at arms.

He and Herefola turned a corner and found themselves before one of the thatched buildings, but this one was surrounded by stacks of boards and piles of hammers and nails. Measuring ropes lay coiled atop a crate, and a ladder led up to the roof. All that was needed was a handful of carpenters and this would be a perfect building project. This was surely the soon-to-be Mead Hall. Even a sign, carved and painted in the likeness of a white horse, lay upon the ground, removed from its place above the door. This was the former White Horse Inn.

Gárwine slipped off of his horse and tied the reins around a post across the cobblestone street. Then he entered the inn and came into a common room of sorts, where a man and a young maiden stood at the wall measuring out the size of the room and its various beams of the walls and ceiling. Another maiden, with auburn hair, stood nearby, rubbing her ribs and arms as though they ached. They were greeting each other good morning, and when Gárwine entered they had just said hello to yet another woman passing by a doorway. Gárwine gave a gentle cough to alert them of his presence.