As Night Fell (Aranion)

[cassiopeia]

(OOC: Oops, this turned out longer than expected!)

Casswyn had been following the Great River south through Rohan towards Osgiliath, hoping to find employment in the great city. Unfortunately the past day's journey had not run smoothly. Whilst riding along the bank of one of the Great River's tributaries the damp ground had suddenly crumbled beneath Uvaer's feet, sending both horse and rider tumbling into the river's shallow edge. Casswyn was soaked to the skin and had sprained her right wrist during the fall, but remained immensely grateful to have not suffered a break - and to have not been crushed by Uvaer.

Casswyn's primary concern, then, was Uvaer, who had clearly knocked a foreleg and was reluctant to bear weight on it. There is a saying: No foot, no horse. Truer words have never been spoken but Casswyn knew another saying that was equally true: No horse, no rider. She had little choice but to pause on the banks, to draw on the lessons she had received from her healer mother and horse-master father, and apply a clay poultice to Uvaer's leg. Some fortune was on the young woman's side and, after spending the afternoon tending to the mare's leg, Uvaer seemed ready to continue onwards. Casswyn did not dare ride her and instead walked alongside her steed. It made the going painfully slow.

This hold-up had cost vital hours and, as darkness fell, Casswyn was still many leagues from the capital of Gondor. Being so close to Mordor made her skin prickle uncomfortably and, judging from the way Uvaer kept dancing nervously on the spot, it was clear that the mare was also ill at ease. Casswyn reluctantly stopped for the night near the riverside. She fed Uvaer some oats, picked out her hooves and poulticed her leg once more. That done, Casswyn replenished her water supplies, ate some nuts and dried meat she had packed for the journey (she dared not light a fire and no fire meant no fresh, hot meal) and propped herself up against a rock near to where she had tied up Uvaer. The cold nipped at Casswyn, all she had to keep warm was her cloak wrapped around her, and she dared not sleep, despite being exhausted and in pain. But the river song was soothing, the throb in her wrist fading as she slipped into unconsciousness...

It was Uvaer that woke her mistress, with a high, piercing whinny. Casswyn's eyes shot wide open just in time to see a small band of orcs approaching in the moonlight. A startled gasp was wrenched from Casswyn's lips as she rose to her feet sharply and drew her short sword in one fluid motion. The cold had bitten into her flesh, making her bones ache, and her wrist positively screamed at the strain of holding the heavy sword. The first orc she was able to dispatch with relative ease, despite the fear that engulfed her heart. After a flurry of parrying blows, Casswyn had an opportunity to swing her blade and decapitate the filthy creature. It was then that Casswyn noticed that several orcs were making their way over to Uvaer, who was rearing and squealing, fiercely fighting the bond that held her in place. Her hand was forced, Casswyn couldn't possibly defend herself and her steed and there was simply no time to mount her. The young woman bounded over and severed the rope with her sword, her heart sinking as she watched Uvaer bolt into the night. If Casswyn survived this she would have the privilege of walking for miles over moor and hill looking for her companion. If she died, well, at least there was a chance Uvaer would make her way back to Edoras.

Turning her attention back to the orcs, Casswyn gave an angry cry as she charged towards them, her blade held aloft. A scuffle ensured, during which she mortally wounded a second orc, but as soon as it was done another took its place. Casswyn's wrist was on fire. It was a blinding pain as she strained her damaged ligaments to breaking point. This third orc was stronger than the first two and a particularly fierce blow of its weapon against her blade caused Casswyn to cry out in pain. Her grip on the sword relinquished and the blade soared several feet away before falling heavily into the grass. Tears pricked the corners of Casswyn's eyes, she clasped her good hand over her aching wrist, as she gazed up at the approaching orcs. It seemed hopeless. Her steed was gone, her sword out of reach, but she still wouldn't give up. With her left hand she drew the small knife that she kept strapped to her boot. It was used for cutting twine, scaling fish, carving... not fighting. But she was desperate. With a pained yet determined sob, Casswyn pointed the knife to the closest orc.

“If you come close enough, I will cut your throat with this. I swear it, if I am to die tonight then I will bring you with me.”

The orc cackled. It was a horrible, piercing sound.

[aranion]

It wasn't like he remembered. The walls looked much gloomier than the ones back when his father had been alive, but the scenery was beautiful. The walls of Minas Tirith were tall, but even with that the trees were matching the heights and often taller. Lord and Captain Aranion reached the gates of Minas Tirith, wearing his gondorian knight armour. He glanced up and spotted the guards perched on the walls, spears and bows in hands and stern expressions on. The men of Minas Tirith were trained hard, to withstand and destroy, but his own men were trained so well in the arts of sword, bow and spear that one of them was worth at least ten normal soldiers, and Aranion knew this to be true. Most of them would probably reach the Tower Guard or the Guard of the Cidatel status in a few months time. He had spent all of his life next to them, they had protected him and he had protected them countless of times. He looked behind him. His twenty men, give or take, were ready to die for him, and he was ready to die for them. Sometimes he wished his father was still here.

The man had been a fabulous fighter. He could still remember watching him take fifty men down all by himself and still be ready for more. It was an inspiring sight, to see one man fight so many. He had hoped to be trained like that but even with all his training, he could only take on twenty, maybe thirty if he pushed it. He dared not to try more in fear of getting whelps the size of apples all about his body. Nevertheless, Aranion made his way to the front of the slim line of knights upon gallant steeds where his own horse was waiting. There was a strange bond between him and his horse, Illyara, she had been a present from his father when he had managed to make the ranks of the man's group of soldiers. Aranion and Illyara hadn't parted ever since, she had never run away from any kind of battle or tight situation he found himself in, and while most people would say that she was just a horse, Aranion managed to look and think of her as another shield-brother.

Climbing on top of his faithfull black steed, his squire gave him his gondorian shield and helmet. Putting on the helmet and raising the shield, Aranion pulled the reins and turned his horse backwards in order to take a good look upon his men. Taking a deep breath, he started to speak.

Sons of Gondor! A band of orcs has managed to pass the Great river and made their way inside our Lands. They have threatened the lives of villagers and the stability and peace of our great nation. Sons of Gondor, you have taken oaths to protect the people. I ask of you now, will you stand beside me as we eradicate this evil that has swept into our lands?

He turned his horse back in front, as the gates opened, the cheers from his men almost ear-splitting. He gave away a faint smile, as he pulled the reins, in order for all of them to ride out of Minas Tirith and cleanse this darkness. It was troubling that the orcs had yet again found themselves in Gondor's lands. What was more troubling was the fact that they had decided to enter the realm of Gondor at that very moment. There was a foul feeling that he had been experiencing for the past few months, a feeling that something evil was on its way.

It had taken them all afternoon to track the group of Orcs, for they had started by visiting the villages those orcs had stumbled upon. Latest reports had claimed that the Orcs had been heading down the Great River, so Aranion had gathered his men and rode all afternoon. It wasn't until the moon had risen in the sky that they managed to find them, mainly because of the sounds and the spine chilling yells. Forming one single line, the twenty gondorian knights awaited for the command of their captain. Pulling the reins forward, Aranion drew Oathkeeper, his sword, and yelled in the night.

Raise the banners! Sound the charge! Wedge Formation! For Gondor!

The banner of Gondor had risen high as the man closest to him held it tight, the others forming a triangle as they rode against the orcs they could barely see in the night, the sound of Gondor's horn inspiring loyalty to the knights as well as Aranion himself. The orcs seemed to have been pre occupied with trying to kill a helpless person, but they managed to turn just in time to be prepared for the assault. But, the horses had already gained enough speed to hit mercilessly, which resulted in the orcs breaking ranks almost immediately. With a might yell, Aranion plunged his longsword inside an orc's chest and spurred Illyara forward in order to keep charging. Cutting the head of another orc, Aranion kept cleaving his way through as Ilyarra trumpled three of them, his men behind him doing the same.

The orcs started to run, but the knights in the back managed to cut all of them down. Aranion pulled the reins and stopped Illyara's running, as the men behind him rallied close, already chanting hymns of Gondor.Casualties? he asked, before he sheathed his sword and approached the person the orcs had attacked.

None, Captain he heard from the back, as he took off his gondorian helmet in order to take a look at the woman.

My Lady, have they hurt you?

[cassiopeia]

Casswyn was nothing short of bewildered. One moment she had been mere minutes from almost certain death and then, suddenly, she had been saved. The sight of the mighty group of noble gondorian knights, demolishing the orc pack in a matter of seconds, had taken her breath clean away. At least she had had the wit and presence of mind to rise to her feet quickly and, even now, stood with her small knife clenched defiantly in her left fist.

Casswyn's green eyes were wide and round with surprise a she stood, somewhat dazed, in the aftermath. Her heart still pounded fit to burst in her chest, her blood riddled with unspent adrenaline, her bones aching from the cold that had settled deep into them and her wrist, well, it would need tended to if it was going to heal satisfactorily. Casswyn was just pondering all that she should do, would do, to heal her wrist – after all, it limited her ability to work – when another thought crossed her mind. Uvaer! Her horse was gone! Casswyn gave a small, frustrated shake of her head. She loved that mare deeply, and relied on her in so many ways, but there was a wildness in the great black beast that even Casswyn could not quite master. Perhaps, if she were lucky, Uvaer would take it upon herself to return rather than have her mistress give chase.

These were Casswyn's thoughts when suddenly a voice drifted through the fog of her mind. Casswyn blinked the thoughts away, trying desperately to drag herself back to the present moment. Returning her small blade to her boot Casswyn, for a brief moment, pinched the bridge of her nose with the fingers of her good hand and squeezed her eyes shut. As grateful as she most certainly was for her rescue, she couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed. Living the lifestyle she did, travelling from town to town, always on the road looking for work, Casswyn felt an overwhelming need to prove her worth, much more so than the average man might. The attack, being rescued, had left her feeling vulnerable and a touch uncomfortable.

“No, n-not at all, I am fine,” Casswyn started, resenting the slight tremor in her voice that matched the slight tremor in her fingers. Gesturing with her eyes to her injured wrist, Casswyn quickly added, “The only person who has hurt me today is my own foolish self.”

With these last words, Casswyn looked directly at the man who had spoken. A slight frown line appeared on her brow as she took in the man's tumble of brown-blond hair, piercing blue eyes that she couldn't quite drag her own bright green pair away from, and his height – he towered over her. Suddenly, the familiarity clicked into place. They had met before. A slight and uncharacteristic blush suddenly dusted Casswyn's cheekbones as she recalled how their meeting had transpired. She was only eighteen years old in the first few months of having left home. That period had been most difficult time and, even now, Casswyn sometimes wondered how she had managed to survive the challenges she faced then. One of the first places she travelled to in search of work was Osgiliath. On her first night in that city she had found an alehouse and sat quietly, trying to ascertain what to do next. The landlord had recommended her an inn some distance away and, in the wee small hours of the morning, she made her way there. Unbeknownst to Casswyn, she was followed from the drinking hole by a young smith who only had the most dishonourable intentions. He had waited until she was walking on a deserted stretch of the street before making his move. Young, inexperienced and unsuspecting, Casswyn had been taken entirely by surprise as a strong hand had clamped around her mouth and another around her waist. She was dragged into an alleyway and the smith's proximity to her had prevented her from drawing her sword or even her knife. So she had done the only other thing she was capable of – crying out for help. And as luck would have it, she had been heard. By this man that was before her now. His name was Lord Aranion Avitus.

Casswyn couldn't help the expression of surprise that now showed itself on her face. She had met him a few times since then, always on the road, but nothing as eventful as their first meeting had occurred since then. Since now. For that reason, Casswyn doubted he would remember her but it seemed somehow important that she tell him.

“Lord Aranion!” Casswyn exclaimed before he manners caught up with her, “You... you saved me once before. Two years past, in Osgiliath,” Casswyn blushed a little more now and finally broke her eyes away from his unwavering gaze. Aranion's eyes were bright, intelligent, piercing - the sort of eyes that Casswyn imagined could see into a person, weigh them and measure them in a matter of moments. Although she would not openly admit it, it intimidated her a little. Perhaps reminding him of that night was not the most advisable thing to do, so Casswyn quickly changed tact, “It seems that you rescuing me is becoming something of a habit,” she murmured, then adding in a lower, confessional and completely sincere tone, “A habit that I am most grateful for, you saved my life this night. How can I ever hope to repay you now?”

[aranion]

Any day that a gondorian soldier didn't die in battle was a day to be remembered, a day to be celebrated. He didn't stop his men from chanting hymns and celebrating, as each hymn brought a smile to his face. It had been almost ten years from his father's death, but the young gondorian captain would never forget that day, nor would he forget the sorrow that had come with it. He wasn't the only one who had lost a father, his whole group of men had lost their leader, and ever since he had tried to be the best leader figure for them, someone they could look up to and respect. He wasn't his father, nor would he ever be as great a man as his father had been, but at least he tried with all of his heart and strength.

He approached the woman, still riding his horse, wondering whether or not those vile orcs had hurt the innocent woman. Judging by the fact that she was still alive, he would say that she was fine. Rarely did someone survive such an attack by orcs, especially when they were outnumbered as she had been. Judging by the two orc corpses he saw near her and her own weapon drawn, Aranion found himself nodding in appreciation and respect. Too many women would have begged for their lives, instead she had shown courage and valour of a grand magnitude, one that even men wouldn't show at times. He gave away a small smile as he stopped in front of the woman who had retrieved her blade and started to speak.

Aranion's blue eyes fell on the woman's injured hand. Having spent almost all his life close to danger and injury, he could tell that her wrist was probably sprained. It was a minor injury, but nevertheless, it had to be treated instantly. Most sprained wrists that people neglected to treat came back to haunt them in the most unwanted times. He knew that there were villages nearby, but he figured that the healers in Minas Tirith would be the best choice.

He was about to speak when the woman exclaimed his name after seeing him. He could have sworn that there was something familiar about her, but in the heat of battle and the peace of the aftermath, Aranion hadn't realised who she was. It was only after she started recalling their first meeting that Aranion remembered her name. She was Casswyn, the woman he had saved once in Osgiliath from a vile blacksmith, and now he had saved her yet again. He gave away a smile in recognition, as he climbed down from his black horse, patted its head and bowed deeply to Casswyn. It was a rare sight indeed, watching a nobleman bow down to a common woman from Rohan, but Aranion had never been a man of tradition. He would always bow to women to show his respect.

Rising to his feet, Aranion allowed her to finish talking and smiled, a smile that softened his sharp facial features, in order to show her that he was genuine and kind. You could start by calling me by my first name and not my title, Casswyn. he said with a tiny laugh. Turning to his men, he started to give away orders. Scout the area and villages. Rarely do orcs travel in just one pack. We meet in Minas Tirith at dawn. No Gondorian dies today, brothers. The men nodded and started riding their horses away, leaving the two of them alone. Playing with Illyara's hair, Aranion turned his attention to Casswyn.

I am afraid Osgiliath is but a shadow of her former self, as is Gondor. he said and shook his head in disappointment. The capital has been moved to Minas Tirith for the time being. A foul darkness spreads across the lands of Mordor. This is not the first pack of orcs that has travelled in our lands in the past months. he added, and shook his head again. Sighing, he looked at her again. I would advise you to accompany me in Minas Tirith in order for the healers to have a look at your hand. I am suspecting a sprained wrist. It would be an honour to have you ride on my horse.

[cassiopeia]

The sound of hymns and celebrations from the gondorian knights filled Casswyn's ears. They offered her some comfort for they spoke of honour, bravery and victory - qualities that were close to the young woman's heart. Beyond the cheer she could still detect the treacherous river song that had lulled her to sleep and had almost cost Casswyn her life.

The young woman was flustered when Aranion bowed. Being treated with such respect did not come often, or easily, to her. He had called her a lady too, which made a pleasant change from being referred to as a wench or a maid – or worse. In response, Casswyn returned his gesture with a bow of her own, which she was certain lacked the practise and grace that had accompanied his. At his insistence, Casswyn made a note to herself to refer to Aranion by only his name and not include his title, though it would certainly be a challenge. A deep, undying respect for authority, regardless of race or region, had been instilled in her from no age and omitting a person's title was hardly common practice. Besides, Aranion was nobility and she was nothing more than a plebeian, a shadow in the day, a ghost in the night - a nobody. Had she indeed died tonight there was not a soul who would miss her, who would seek her out. Casswyn did not pity her position in society and harboured no delusions of grandeur, though it would undeniably be a comfort if someone, somewhere, would remember her name and her face should she perish on her travels. A smile had accompanied Aranion's last words and Casswyn noticed that it softened his hard, masculine features and lit up his face. It suited him.

Casswyn blinked at Aranion as he spoke of the fate of Osgiliath and bowed her head. The man's heart was heavy, it could be heard in his sighs. Then he was speaking of her wrist, to which Casswyn looked now. It was still singing from the jolt the orc had given it but it would heal, she could see to that herself. Although Aranion's heart was in the right place there was no way on this earth she could afford to pay the healers in Minas Tirith, not with work being so slow this past while. She ought to have acted fast to reduce the swelling and pain of her sprain but Uvaer had been, and would remain, her first priority. The Lord had offered her his horse. His thoughtfulness and chivalry warmed Casswyn's heart, though the rest of her remained chilled to the bone, and a small smile played across her young face.

“Thank you for your kindness,” Casswyn started, her voice low, “But I'm afraid I cannot possibly head for Minas Tirith until I have located my mare. She...” Casswyn paused, gazing off into the night in the vain hope she might catch a glimpse of her steed. How could she possibly fit into only a few words what that beast meant to her? “Uvaer is my world.” Casswyn finished quietly and she could hear the apology in her words. Many people saw horses as disposable beasts of burden, to be abandoned, traded, bought and sold on a whim, but not Casswyn. Not with Uvaer. Her father had bred her himself and that horse was her last connection to her old life, to the farm and her long-dead family.

“I would be loath to hold you back,” Casswyn added earnestly, giving the Lord and Captain an opportunity to walk away, but she knew in heart he would not. This was a man cut from an ancient, traditional and honourable cloth – Casswyn did not imagine that he would abandon a soul in need.

(OOC: Writing so late at night had me mix up Osgiliath and Minas Tirith, haha. Thank you for the save! XD)

[aranion]

(OOC: lol, no worries! Worked out pretty well I would say )

Many might have questioned his actions towards this woman tonight. It was commonly known that royalty rarely mingled with commoners. It was also seen as a disgrace to bow to a commoner, an act that many faces would have cringed at the sight of. For Aranion, everyone was equal and everyone deserved respect. It was the way he had been taught by his father. According to the late man, if there was someone that deserved the utmost form of respect, then that would have to be the commoners. They spent their lives in hardship, working to the bone while those who had been branded the title of royalty spent their lives inside grand halls feasting and drinking.

For a soldier, discriminating and judging people by their status was unacceptable. Soldiers gave away their lives protecting not only royalty but commoners as well. Every life was worth the same, no matter how each and every one lived their own. He looked at her bow and smiled again. It was less gracious than his own, but she reminded him of his sister back when they were young, as well as himself. He had always found trouble in learning how to bow properly, simply because he had tied the concept of bowing to weakness as a child. Only when he found out that it was done in a form of respect did he muster the courage to perfect the art.

Aranion nodded when she thanked him for his kindness. It was the least he could have done, she was a woman in need of help. His brow furrowed when she mentioned that she couldn't head to Minas Tirith with him. Listening closely to her reasons, he sighed and nodded, turning his attention to his black horse next to him. Raising his right hand, he petted the head of the horse, and spoke. A bond between a horse and rider is something unbreakable. I respect that. He didn't know what he would do without Illyara. There were times when she was the only one he could speak to, voice his troubles of the future while he looked after her needs. She deserved the best treatment and Aranion gave it to her.

He turned to look at Casswyn. I can assure you that my men will find Uvaer and bring it to Minas Tirith as soon as possible. We have encountered the same problem before, they will know what to do. I am sure she has not run that far away. The most possible route she might have taken would be to reach the woods of Ithilien. Should that be the case, my men will find her and bring her to you. I can assure you that they will treat her well. Most of these men have been bound to their horses for life, much like myself. They know how to treat a horse with the respect and gentleness it deserves.

Stretching his left arm towards her and holding Illyara's reins with his other arm, he looked at Casswyn and smiled. We can search for her together, should it please you. His voice was deep and kind, though it sounded as if he left her with no alternative. He wouldn't let a woman tread the lands of Gondor at night alone, even while his men were patrolling and scouting ahead. Evil had struck once tonight, he wouldn't risk the chances of another orc raid. I warn you, I shall not take no for an answer. The lands of Gondor haven't seen peace for quite a few moons, I cannot risk the chances of you being in another raid of orcs. He looked at the corpses of the orcs close to her. Though I am quite certain you would handle yourself well enough. Smiling, he awaited for her response, even though he wouldn't allow her to refuse.

[cassiopeia]

Casswyn's already considerable respect for Lord Aranion increased tenfold when he spoke of the everlasting bond between a rider and their horse. She was soothed by Aranion's words and, more importantly, she trusted what he told her. The young woman gazed at the Captain's earnest face, reading his eyes as he spoke. Admittedly, Casswyn was not always the greatest judge of character. Nor was she the gambling sort but, from what she had gathered of Aranion thus far and what she could tell of him now, she would bet all her worldly possessions on his honesty. Aranion's men would take the utmost care with Uvaer, if (no, when!) they found her. Then it would be their pleasure rather than hers to catch the mare as she darted and danced, to and fro, enjoying the thrill of the game and taking the opportunity to test her speed and agility against her would-be captors. It was a terrible habit of Uvaer's and not one that Casswyn had been able to train her out. Perhaps that was a good thing, for there was a great deal of beauty to be found in Uvaer in those precious moments. At least the knights were mounted, it would save them their legs! And surely Uvaer could not have travelled far, not on a tender leg. Ahh, her leg!

“Uvaer was injured earlier this day, much the same as I,” Casswyn breathed, recalling the awkward tumble they had taken together, counting her blessings that Aranion could not read her mind and see the image she held there, “I tended her leg the very best I could but it's possible she will have strained herself again.” Casswyn didn't know exactly why she was telling him this, only that it seemed important to voice her internal concerns. And concerned she was, apprehension showed in her face and she traced a finger anxiously over her bottom lip. Casswyn was not a mother, that was an experience she feared she would be entirely denied this lifetime, but she imagined that the protectiveness she felt for her steed was the same shape as that a parent felt for their child.

With anyone else, Casswyn might have bristled at the assertiveness, but not a soul could doubt the noble intentions of Aranion. At his suggestion that they ride together Casswyn gave a small nod of agreement and, when the Captain followed this shortly after with his remarks on her ability to handle herself, Casswyn felt warm inside, unable to contain the delighted smile that crossed her face. It was not often she received compliments, at least not beyond her uncanny ability to “fix” problem horses, and certainly never on her swordmanship. Casswyn was no master of the sword, she knew this well enough, but she did like to think that she could look after herself. Apparently whenever she failed Lord Aranion would be nearby to rescue her, or so it seemed. He had done so twice already and she had no hope of ever returning the favour. Surely there must be something she could do, but now was not the time to consider it - later she would mull over the possibilities.

“It would please me very much,” Casswyn answered politely, extending her uninjured arm out to Aranion, grasping his hand as he helped her mount his horse. A fine creature it was too, Casswyn observed as she took her seat behind the Lord and Captain, timidly placing her hands on his waist. She would feel much better being a part of the search for Uvaer rather than heading straight to Minas Tirith.

[aranion]

Aranion felt the rays of the moonlight hit his back and an instant warmth filled his whole body. Aranion had always been a night person. The time of day had always seemed to effect his mood... it was something his sister had once pointed out. In the morning, she would say he was only partly awake, no matter how late into the morning it was. His eyes would blink lazily like a cat on a porch on a breezy summer afternoon, and he would stare at you like he was not seeing you, but someone through you. In the afternoon, he would walk around with a bounce to his step, content in life and smiling left and right with a radiance that shamed the sun. At night, a firework went off in his heart and burned the entire night though, and he was ecstatic and energetic and a dragon couldn't stop him. These were not his thoughts on himself, however. That was how she described them to him, with that fond chuckle he would remember nowadays and get stomach aches over. She always liked to use analogies.

He listened as Casswyn spoke of the state of her mare, which made Aranion scratch his beard, his brow furrowing in deep thought. If the mare was hurt, if she was bleeding, then there was a high risk of an infection. He would hate to see that happening to Casswyn's horse, in fact, he would hate to see it happening to any horse. However, that meant that the horse wouldn't have gone far enough to be outside of their reach. They didn't have to waste any more time here. They had to go as soon as possible. This conversation, no matter how pleasant, was not serving their best interests, and those were the well-being of Casswyn and of her mare.

He witnessed how her face lit up when he complimented her. Perhaps she wasn't used to compliments, which was something very odd since a beautiful and courageous woman such as herself should be receiving compliments countless times daily. He remembered that she was from Rohan. Perhaps the rohirrim failed to recognize beauty and courage these days. He gave away another smile, trying to hide the fact that he actually enjoyed seeing her smile. Clearing his throat, he helped her mount Illyara and he took the place in front of her. Putting his helmet on, he grabbed the reins and leaned to whisper in Illyara's ear.

They say the horses of Rohan outrun the horses of Gondor even injured. he whispered with a faint laugh, before pulling the reins. Show us the meaning of haste, Illyara. The horse sped forward with a neigh, as if Aranion's words had forced her forward and brought new life to the steed in order to prove that she was the best. He kept leading Illyara towards the entrance to the Ithilien woods, checking everywhere to find Casswyn's mare.

Tell me if you locate her. he said to Casswyn, as Illyara accelerated, letting out loud neighs that Aranion had heard her use whenever she was locating other horses. He gave away a proud smile. He was really proud of Illyara, they had trained together and in groups with other horses, and while certainly she couldn't be compared to the horses the Rohirrim used, she was definitely a proud horse and a force to be reckoned.

[cassiopeia]

As Illyara ran, the wind flowed wildly through Casswyn's hair, her soft dirty-blonde curls catching in the moonlight. Oh yes, she was happiest on horseback. Her intelligent green eyes strained against the darkness, looking for even a suggestion of her mare's black coat. Casswyn resisted the urge to whistle or call out Uvaer's name, for fear that there might be other orcs lurking in the shadows of the night.

They had been travelling some time, Casswyn's heart was beginning to sink, when finally she thought she heard a whinny call out in response to the braying of Aranion's steed. Casswyn's ears perked up and then, out of the darkness, came the shape of her colossal black mare. All of the saddle bags were intact, which was a promising start, but it quickly became clear that there was something terribly wrong. Uvaer stood side-long to them as they approached, her head lowered, and she trembled in a way that she normally reserved for only the very coldest winter nights. As Illyara slowed on approach, Casswyn wasted no time, relinquishing her gentle grip on Aranion and leaping from the gondorian mare before she had halted. The young rider was running when she hit the ground, giving a small cry which was a mix of both joy and concern, knowing in her heart that Uvaer would not play chase this night. Reaching her companion, Casswyn cupped the horse's velvety nose in her hands, pressing her face against the mare's large forehead and planting a kiss there too, whispering quiet salutations, before stepping back to examine the beast.

The mare was not one to tremble from fear and she stood with all four feet square on the ground, indicating that it was not her knocked leg that was causing her pain. Frowning, Casswyn began to walk around her steed, tracing her fingers lightly along mare's flank. Then, in the moonlight, Casswyn saw it – tracks of blood all down the mare's far side. A thin, wavering wound ran from her shoulder and along her flank, ending just before the girth. Clearly an orc had clipped Uvaer with its weapon as she had fled into the darkness.

“Curse the blades of orcs!” Casswyn hissed angrily. Such weapons were nasty pieces of work wielded by toxic, filthy creatures. Wounds inflicted by them almost always became infected and infection was Casswyn's biggest fear. Had it not consumed her mother? You failed to save her, a wicked voice whispered in Casswyn's ear as she recalled the putrid stench of her mother's bedchamber in her final days. It was not enough that she bled out, that the labour went on for hours and hours, then days and nights. No, not enough. She might have survived, might have recovered, if it had not been for the infection that spread within her. Casswyn had not slept, working continuously in an effort to heal what could not be cured. In the final hours her mother had grown delirious while Casswyn sat by her side, exhausted, tears trailing down her face. One hand clutched by her dying mother, the other cradling her baby sister as she, too, languished. Nothing Casswyn did, nothing she could have done, was enough. Now, in the present moment, sudden tears stung her eyes and Casswyn quickly brushed them away with the back of a sleeve.

“I can fix this,” Casswyn murmured, her voice choked with emotion. She said these words partly to Uvaer, partly to Aranion and partly to reassure herself. Fumbling in the saddlebags, Casswyn drew out some clean rags, a flask of water and a healing balm that she had mixed herself. Until now Casswyn had been distracted but she returned her attention to Aranion, gazing up at him with green eyes that still shone from the tears that had graced them only moments before.

“If you wouldn't mind, two pairs of hands would be faster than one,” she said quietly. Casswyn knew Aranion would only be too happy to help but, as horses were very personal belongings, she wanted to indicate clearly that his assistance would be welcomed. Still, it felt strange to ask. He was nobility, after all.

Before beginning to tend the wound, Casswyn ran her hands over the mare, slowly and gently but with a quiet firmness too. Under her breath she whispered soothing words, praising the beast for her past deeds and for her strength in the present moment. Casswyn started with the mare's legs, beginning with the shoulder or rump and working her way down to the pastern and hoof. The trembling gradually subsided and when Casswyn finally came to stroke along the horse's neck and face, Uvaer gave a low nicker of affection. The black mare was much becalmed, it was then that Casswyn wetted a rag with water and began to clear away the blood that had streaked the raven-coloured coat.