[Laiudanama]

Beside the road, just over the wall, there was a soft rustling: the sound of someone moving deliberately quietly, a sound practically designed to attract attention. Silence for a moment as an eye peered through a gap in the stonework, then silence for a moment more as the eye withdrew. Then, with a swift motion, the owner of the aforementioned eye grasped a sturdy branch of the overhanging tree firmly, braced his feet against the wooden wall, and pulled himself up and over in a sort of half-abseiling fashion, landing squarely in the mud on the other side on a pair of well worn walking shoes. The boy, a scruffy, dark haired youth of about nineteen years, wrinkled his nose, shifting his feet disdainfully as water seeped through the battered soles and into what remained of much-patched socks, then shrugged, to no one in particular: after all, these feet had seen more than little mud in the past few years, and particularly in the last, particularly eventful month that had led up to his standing there in the only muddy patch of the road for miles, it seemed, shaking long, untidy brown hair out of his eyes to survey the building in front of him: the Eorling Mead Hall.

Not that Trystan, young vagabond that was was, knew that was what this rather splendid, barn like building was, of course; and neither did he particularly care for that matter. What mattered to the boy, at that particular moment, was firstly that this building was as far from Gondor, and thus that dratted city Minas Tirith and his unwanted pursuers with it, through street as his legs could carry him, and if he didn’t find somewhere to rest during the day he would surely collapse; and secondly, upon closer inspection, that it was some kind of Inn – and where there is an Inn, there are people…and where there are people, there’s profit to be made.

Trystan turned and tugged a forelock ironically at the tree which had so assisted his passage over the wall, his sharp eyes slanting slightly in self-amusement, then picked up his dirty leather satchel where it had fallen beside him, slinging it over his head and across a skinny chest, and began to approach the wall with the careful, almost stealthy walk of one who is more than prepared to run at the slightest sight of any human life. Thank the stars it was still relatively early in the morning, he thought, gratefully; there were few people around, it seemed, leaving him time and space to maybe grab a handful of something tasty and find somewhere to lay low for the rest of the day. And a beautiful early morning it was turning out to be as well, he mused to himself, sniffing the air appreciatively and taking in the soft scent of dew and sunshine; the kind of morning where one could almost be glad to be alive, no matter what their position – whether a lady combing her golden hair in an ebony tower by the sea, or, indeed, a scrawny vagabond on the run from gods-only-know what punishment, with stealing and cheating becoming a way of life.

Not that the aristocratic sorts within any sort of dressed-up Inn would recognise that; too lazy to get out of their beds, he added, bitterly, his jaw setting angrily. Still, all the better for you, Trys lad; get in, grab, get out. Easy, right?

Stealthily, the young man approached the buildings, keeping close to the wall as he crept along, always ready to run. Approaching a tall, wide open door, he paused, checking for any sound of life. Suddenly, a giant, wet snorting noise made him duck, hand to his boot, wide-eyed to the ground, looking around for the threat…

…and found it, regarding him with some amusement in it’s big brown eyes from within the hazy gloom inside the door. From over a stall wall in fact, contentedly munching on hay as it watched this strange boy crouched on the floor with interest. Trystan unfolded himself, sliding the slim knife back into hiding in his boot and glared at the his equine companion venomously. The horse tossed his – or her? Petty thieving was Trystan’s trade, he barely knew one end of a horse from the other, he was a city boy through and through – head disdainfully in reply and turned back to grasp another mouthful of hay in yellowing, tombstone teeth. Trystan wrinkled his nose slightly at the sight but, despite himself, stepped forward tentatively into the gloom of the stable building, a surprisingly peaceful place, all dust and gloom and the sounds and smells of contented steeds. He approached his new found friend and smiled slightly, pushing his hair once again away from a handsome, bony face.

“Hey, hey…” he whispered softly, his eyes flickering over the beast’s face in a kind of admiration and fascination. “Bet you weren’t expecting to see me, eh? Handsome boy, yeah?” The words were fairly meaningless, but somehow just being able to speak to something living, and for once not in his own defence or to give another spiel of lies, was surprisingly comforting. And unlike most who Trsytan met, this one was unlikely to judge him – or at least, not audibly, and not to a court. He, or she, was truly a beautiful creature too, even Trystan could recognise that with his very limited knowledge of all this animalian. Then a new thought struck him, a sudden idea which seemed to fall into place to solve all of his problems, and he suddenly looked anew at the horse.

“Handsome indeed, aren’t we?” he said slowly, a plan forming. Carefully, tentatively, he began to stretch out his hand, long fingers reaching towards his nose. He grinned slyly as his hand rested on the animal’s coarse, dappled fur. “And probably worth a pretty penny too, aren’t we, eh…?”

The sound of singing, sudden, unexpected and pure, made Trystan jerk suddenly and the would-be horse thief hurled himself backwards into the opposite stall in a defensive crouch, hand once more on his boot; but this time, in his haste, his fingers fumbled and the knife slid out of his hand and into the walkway between the stalls on either side of the stable building. But it wasn’t the sound of a harmless, tuneful ditty that kept Trystan crouching there rather than rising to get the knife: it was the realisation, suddenly, that he was no longer alone in the stables – and he wasn’t counting the horses…