Hello, all. This is our second fan fiction, and it is sort of based on the movie.
Disclaimer: We do not own Aragorn, Theoden, or any characters mentioned that are in the book/movie of LOTR.
Note: There is a lot of script taken from the movie. If you don't like it, don't read it.
Blasted sun, thought Breothaen as he turned his nose up to the blue morning sky. One decent moment's peace, can it not give me that? He shook his helm- capped head, the long black horse's tail on the top swishing across the back of his neck. He sneered to himself and returned to his work.
Outside the stables of Edoras he stood, hammering the last shoe onto his horse's hoof. His long golden hair fluttered across his handsome whiskered face as he hunched over the pale white leg of his dapple-grey steed. It was not an uncommon thing for him to have his hair whipped continuously about his face, but he sensed that something was on the breeze. Whether it was by the Dark Lord's will or not, he could not discern. Whatever it was, it was drawing nearer to Rohan.
Breothaen sighed as he slowly brought the hoof back to the hay covered earth and stood upright. He turned his face towards the increasing gust that came howling down the valley and through Edoras. His hair, which had annoyed him since the start of the day, was pushed behind him and glittered as brightly as the long grasses in the surrounding plains. He squinted, straining to see any approaching storm, or possibly, what he feared the most. He shook his head
He looked up to Meduseld, the jewel of Rohan, and saw Lady Eowyn standing at the top of the stairway, looking down on the peasants. The long white dress that she wore seemed to shine in the light, radiating such a fair essence, it caused Breothaen to look away.
He turned back to his horse, who now had his fair head bent towards the ground, nibbling at the stray strands of hay. Breothaen smiled discreetly as he ran his tan colored hand down the horse's neck.
"You are very peaceful this day," he said softly, referring to the horse in his native tongue. "I hope your peace lasts the approaching storm."
The horse whinnied quietly while lifting his head. He shook his head, his grey mane bouncing up and down as he did so.
Breothaen furrowed his brow. "What troubles you, friend?" he asked while still speaking in the Rohirric language. "Peace, Gelfore. Shan't your silence last longer than a few minutes?"
Gelfore blinked twice at his master, and whinnied once again.
Breothaen reached for Gelfore's harness while still stroking his neck. He took it with his index and middle fingers and pulled the horse's face towards his. While keeping a gentle grip on the harness with his right hand, he patted Gelfore's face with the left. He then turned the horse into the stables and led him in.
He led Gelfore into the stall nearest to the doors on the right. He shut the chest high gate behind him, and looked affectionately back at his proud steed. His thoughts wandered in that moment back to his youth, when he had no other family but this horse. He knew in his heart that the ridicule Rohan received of loving their horses more than their own kin did not apply to him, for Breothaen had no one to call family. Gelfore was his kin.
Breothaen followed a line of horses lead by the guards of the Golden Hall out of the stables and back into the sun.
He sighed a he glared at it once more. Time for my watch, he thought as he guessed the time by the position of the light.
He walked to a low table set outside the stables. There sat his cloak and his sword, crafted by himself. He bumped the table with his foot grumpily. He took a deep breath, and swung his cloak around his back, then fastened the ends together with a golden circular brooch. He straightened out any wrinkles or folds in the green material, trying to make himself presentable before the halls of King Théoden. Breothaen carefully lifted his sword while it was still rested in its faded maroon sheath. He examined it carefully, checking to see if there were any nicks or bruises on the highly fragile casing. Once he looked at the whole cover, he slowly drew out the sword. He sighed in relief as he saw the blade was still very polished, and that his hours of rubbing the blade did not go to waste. Breothaen smiled, and slid the sword back into its sheath. Then he fastened it to his belt.
Breothaen rested his left hand on the hilt of his sword, then took up a lance laying upright against the walls of the stables.
A familiar soft neigh came from inside. Breothaen smiled. "I shall return soon, friend."
* * *
Breothaen leaned on his lance heavily, almost on the verge of collapse. His head swayed back and forth as he tried to remain conscious. He threw a quick glance to the guard standing opposite of him.
" Estdelm," he whispered.
The guard remained motionless. He swayed as the wind blew, but remained as still as a statue. The tail upon his helm seemed to Breothaen the only thing that moved as it occasionally blew backwards in the wind.
"Estdelm!" said Breothaen again behind clenched teeth.
"Silence," said Estdelm as he stood unmoving still, "or Hama will have us both hanged."
Breothaen pursed his chapped lips. He sighed, and leaned down on his lance harder.
Breothaen had lost count of how many hours he had been on watch. He thought he had been standing guard of Meduseld for at while, the exact time he could not tell. It was still in daylight; night had not fallen and would not for at least four more hours. He stood in the sun, waiting for his duty time to be over, with only the waning shade of the grand building he stood in front of to cover him. He sighed, and closed his eyes.
He heard the handle of the huge doors rattle from behind him, as if someone was furiously trying to get out. He immediately straightened his posture as he heard light footsteps move closer to him. He glanced to his right, and there stood Lady Eowyn, her pale cheeks stained with tears. She still wore the white dress. She looked up at the banner closest to him, and watched it rip off the pole and blow away over the walls.
Breothaen stood as still as Estdelm had. He could feel the White Lady's eyes upon him as his figure stood even straighter. He heard her sigh, and dared to follow her gaze down by the gates of the thorny walls. He saw the same thing she had; three riders, one clothed in white upon a familiar white steed, another, although hard to tell from his distance, clothed in black on a brown mount, and the last, upon a grey horse, two figures he saw. He could not see the separate shapes of the riders. They made their way up the gravel pathway, the one in white looking straight forward, the other two glancing around at the peasants who had left their houses to observe these foreigners.
Lady Eowyn looked down upon these riders, then hastily disappeared back into the Golden Hall.
Breothaen looked forward as he should. He held his lance a little straighter and did his best to remain still. His eyes did dare to stray away from the vast fields of green he looked at again, and saw the four riders getting closer to the stairs leading up to Meduseld. He could now clearly make out their faces. He recognized the one in white, almost from a dream. The rider dismounted along with his companions and smiled slightly seeing Breothaen's bewildered face. He noticed that the old man leaned on his staff almost as heavily as Breothaen had only moments before. The tallest one helped him up the steps and the other two stayed close behind. They seemed to get up the stairs quickly for the old man's stature. Breothaen quickly looked straight forward once more as the man clothed in black and green raiment looked at him almost suspiciously.
The door warden, Hama, stepped forward quickly from behind the doors as if expecting their arrival. The old man smiled slightly. "Ah," he said.
"I cannot allow you before Théoden King so armed, Gandalf Greyhame. By order of Grima Wormtongue," Hama said.
The shortest grunted. Breothaen looked at him and saw that he was not a man, but a dwarf. He removed the axes from his back and handed them to one of the two men standing behind Hama. The man unfastened the long sword from his belt, and the tall one gave up his bow, quiver, and a pair of excellent knives.
Hama looked displeased. "Your staff."
The old man stuttered for a moment. "You would not part an old man from his walking stick?"
Hama hesitated, then nodded, and opened the doors.
The four travelers entered, and all was silent once more.