Chapter 8 – Journey Home

The next day was spent in cleaning up the battle field. Many of the dead Dunlandings had been dragged off by the retreating army, leaving mostly fallen Rohirrim and orcs. These the Riders dealt with accordingly. The dead Rohirrim they buried in one large grave; the orcs were burnt. What dead Elves there were, were cared for by their fellows. The camp echoed with the fair voices of the Elves raised in mournful threnody.

Ceorl, against the better judgment of his friends, was up and about, assisting in the cleanup. He helped dig the mass grave and placed his father, wrapped in a blanket, his sword clasped to his chest, gently in the bottom. He cried fresh tears as he covered him; not for his father, for he knew his father was at peace, but rather for his mother.

He pushed his strength to the limit throughout the day. He wearied easily and had to be forced to rest often. By the end of the day he was well ready for sleep. He was sitting fatigued on a rock when Legolas approached. "Ceorl," he said admonishingly, "you have done more that your share today, and more than is good for you. I believe you should retire early this evening."

"But there is still so much to be done, my Lord," Ceorl argued half-heartedly. He was tired, actually, and the thought of sleep lured him temptingly, but he felt guilty leaving the remainder of the work to the others.

Legolas, guessing his thoughts, placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. "Do not worry about the rest of the work. There are others, more disposed than you, who can take care of that. Come," he beckoned, holding out his hand.

Ceorl was led willingly away from the cleanup and made no protest as Legolas helped him removed his boots. "Good night," Ceorl muttered as he drifted off, his shoulder smarting as he rolled onto his side. With a sleepy grimace of pain, he rolled back onto his back and surrendered himself to rest.

~*~*~*~*~

Ceorl awoke late the following day, rising from his blankets as the last preparations were made. They were starting out that morning for home, and everyone was bustling to and fro in impatient excitement. They had been away for little more than a week, and yet so much had happened and so much would never be the same again.

Ceorl attempted to pull his boots on, but his side protested loudly and he was forced to sit up straight, his hand to his side, gasping for breath. Legolas spotted him from across of the camp and came quickly over. "May I be of assistance?" he asked quietly.

Ceorl scowled in pain and nodded slightly. Legolas bent to his task. "There you are," he said, sitting back on his heels as he finished. "I think what you need now is breakfast. There is meat at the board for you. I was just able to save it. The Men of Rohan seemed to eat a great deal."

"That we do," Ceorl replied with a grin, pain still etched deeply in his face.

"Are you certain you can stand?" Legolas questioned, concern darkening his gaze. "I could bring your food to you if you would like."

"No, thank you, my Lord. I would rather get it myself." Ceorl stood, forcing back a grimace of pain as he straightened his side. It had formed a large scab which pulled mercilessly at his flesh. He never thought so much pain could be lodged in such a small space.

Legolas led him to the fire and watched passively as the young man dished out his food. The meat was slightly burnt, but Ceorl fell to it with relish, painfully reminded that he had had nothing to eat before retiring the night before. Once Legolas was certain his young charge was able to care for himself, he wandered off to assist his Elves in preparations.

Ceorl, feeling refreshed and well-fed after a good night’s sleep and a wonderful breakfast, went in search of his horse. He hoped Fréa had made it through the battle. He had no idea really what had become of his faithful steed. The day before he had not had need of a mount and, preoccupied with his father and his own pain, he had not thought to look for him.

As he neared the small herd of horses grazing contentedly before being saddled for the ride out, he searched their ranks for the ebon back he knew so well. He whistled and called loudly, "Fréa!" He was rewarded by a joyful whinny and the sound of hooves slogging through mud in his direction.

It was not long before the beloved courser appeared, forcing his way through his fellows to meet his master. He pranced up to Ceorl, his head held high, his mane and tail whipping slightly in the breeze. Stopping within arm’s reach of his caring master, he rested his heavy head upon Ceorl’s shoulder; luckily it was his unwounded shoulder. Ceorl stroked the jet-black neck and ran his fingers through the long mane. There was a great love between the horse and the man; both needing the other. The one for protection and care; the other for companionship and transport, for what is a Rohir without his horse?

"Good morning, Fréa," Ceorl said, patting him on the withers. "How did you survive the battle?" He looked his mount over carefully, checking for any ailment within his limited range, for he could not bend down for fear of reopening his wounds. Kneeling upon the ground, he lifted each foot in turn, scraping away all the mud and rocks with his knife. His rider’s eye caught the signs of recent care showing on the bottom of his mount’s hoof. No doubt the fair Elven-prince had taken the care of Ceorl’s horse upon himself yet again.

Once his examination was complete, in which Ceorl found no injuries other than a few scratches to mar his beautiful hide, Ceorl led Fréa to where his saddle lay nearby. When they arrived, he found himself unable to bend down and pick it up. He was able to snag the blanket with one finger as it lay on top of the saddle, but it caused excruciating pain in his side.

Ever-ready Legolas noted the problem and hurried to help. Although rarely using such things himself, Legolas well knew how to saddle a horse. Taking care not to let the stirrup fall aside, he placed it gently on the stallion’s back, cinching it tightly. He then bridled the black steed and handed the reins to Ceorl. "Really, Ceorl," he admonished, "you should let someone know when you need assistance."

"Why? I never seem to lack for it," he replied with a dry smile.

Once the column was mounted, they began the slow journey home. Lord Narion, his broken leg reset by the Elves, was transported on a travois pulled by the horse bearing his son Belecthor, who’s arm had begun to mend. Éomer would not be coddled and insisted upon riding at the head of the column, though much of his former strength had ebbed during the battle, and his neck was swathed in white cloth. Elfwine had come through the battle unscathed, as had Legolas, but Eorl, having defeated his foes, had sustained a gash on each hand, rendering him nearly helpless in many things; despite this, he, like his grandfather, insisted upon riding out upon his own horse.

The journey was slow so as not to cause further pain to the wounded and, whereas before it had taken them a mere three days to reach the scene of conflict, the return took five. Each evening they halted before the sun set and each morning they waited until the sun had reached the heights before setting out; resting often during their travels.

The army had been on the move for two days when Ceorl’s pain grew too much for him to bear and he fell, unconscious from his saddle. His friends rushed to his side. Elfwine lifted his head and poured some mead down his throat. "Ceorl!" he called, shaking the young man slightly.

Ceorl awoke, but he took one wild look about him, cried out and reached for his knife. Legolas frantically clamped his hand over Ceorl’s lest he or any of the others meet the unfortunate fate of his namesake, Beleg Cúthalion: slain by a delirious friend. This caused the fevered young man to become even more frenzied and he struck out with his left, but it too was blocked and held this time by Eorl.

Ceorl looked, panic-stricken, up into the faces of his ‘captors.’ "Release me!" he shouted at them in Rohirric. "Who are you and what do you want with me?"

Elfwine tried to calm the young Rohir, "Ceorl, it is alright; we are your friends," he called softly. Still he struggled against their kind hold until they were forced to tie him upon a travois until they reached their destination.

A wave of relief swept through the Men as, three days later, they sighted Edoras in the distance. The army had come home.

~*~*~*~

Thanks again to Coriel for your help with Legolas who, without your assitance, would have come off sounding rather like a cowhand.  Which is not good. :)