#guthlaf

A quick glance up at the sun told him that he was going to be late if he didn’t get himself together soon, and the last thing he wanted was to make a poor impression on his very first day. He already had enough working against him – his simple country clothing, his thick rural accent, his obvious cluelessness in navigating his way around, all of which marked him clearly as an outsider – and he didn’t need his new éored thinking that he was careless or unreliable on top of everything else. He shifted his pack on his back, hastened his steps around another corner and felt a wash of relief at the sight of a garrison complex with the king’s banner flying in front.

An older man, clad to the waist in armor and standing with a rigid military bearing, waited on the front steps of the central building, just under the banner. His eyes scanned all the passersby, and when they landed on Wídfara they lit up with a spark of intuited recognition. The rigidity melted away in an instant, and he beckoned Wídfara over with a smile and a welcoming wave.

“I’m on the lookout for a new rider just in from the East-mark, and I would bet my horse that you’re him. And right on time, too. My name is Elfhelm.”

Wídfara dropped his pack and stood to attention. For all that he didn’t know about Edoras, he certainly knew the name of Elfhelm, the commander of the garrison and the functional First Marshal of the Mark any time the king himself wasn’t present. “Yes, Marshal. I just arrived in the city last night. My name is Wídfara, sir.”

Elfhelm’s bushy eyebrows shot upward at the distinctive heavy twang of Wídfara’s words. “The Third Marshal told me he was sending us a real country boy, and I see that he wasn’t exaggerating. Where exactly are you from, son?”

Elfhelm’s open, casual manner took Wídfara by surprise. Back home, his captain had been a rather grim man, one who never spoke an unnecessary word or showed his riders even a hint of his own personality, and Wídfara had expected the leaders of Edoras, some of the most powerful in the kingdom, to be even more stern. But yet again, it seemed, he simply had no understanding of how life in the capital actually worked. “I’m born and raised in the Wold, Marshal,” he answered. “My family has run herds out there for generations. It’s quite…” He glanced around at the bustling rush of people moving in and out of the collection of buildings around them. “It’s different from the city.”

Elfhelm nodded with a sympathetic smile. “Well, that’s certainly true. I imagine that Edoras can seem a little overwhelming at first to someone who’s spent his whole life in a place like the Wold. And an éored reordering is never easy on anyone. Saying goodbye to the people and places you’ve always known is a rough task.”

Wídfara swallowed hard on the lump that immediately formed in his throat. It had been less than a week since he’d been forced to say those goodbyes, gathered together with family and friends and brothers-in-arms out near his old post in the plains where the Limlight joined the Anduin. The Wold had never been a thickly populated area – the land was too unforgiving, the semi-nomadic lifestyle of the herdsmen too harsh – but as more and more families moved out of the grasslands and into the East-mark’s larger settlements and towns, an independent éored for the Wold had become increasingly unsustainable. No one had been particularly surprised when the reordering was announced, but it had been painful nonetheless and especially so for Wídfara. Because while his friends were reassigned to one of the three surrounding éoreds in the Eastemnet, all within a few hours ride of home, he had been singled out for transfer to Edoras, a place so foreign to him that it might as well have been Dunland or Rhûn.

His face seemed to betray some of his thoughts to Elfhelm, who put a large, comforting hand on Wídfara’s shoulder. “Change can be tough, son, but it also presents opportunity. And you’ve been given a golden one here. It’s not often that someone gets called up to the king’s éored – I can only remember one other time that it happened, and my memory stretches back longer than you’ve been alive. But your old captain was adamant that there isn’t a finer mounted bowman in all of Rohan and it would be a waste to just reassign you to yet another remote outpost. If you’re even half as good as the men of the East-mark claim, you can make a real name for yourself here.”

Wídfara felt his face grow hot, and he looked down at his feet. No one had told him how this transfer had come to be, and the thought of that dour, taciturn captain singing his praises to anyone was almost more than he could believe. And while he was proud of his own talent, he felt an instinctual urge to defend against the implication that the other riders of the Wold were any less skillful. “Everyone who grew up where I did learned early to shoot from a moving horse, sir,” he offered. “A herd will always attract wolves.”

Elfhelm chuckled. “That may be so, but your captain didn’t convince the Third Marshal of the Mark to send just any old herdsman to us. He picked you. Try to remember that.” A bell behind him tolled, and he glanced toward the door over his shoulder. “I need to get back to some other business, so we’d best get you on your way. You’ll be living in Barracks A with the other unmarried men of the company. You can drop your belongings there and then head over to the armorer to get everything you need. Training starts tomorrow at sunrise.”

“Thank you, Marshal.”

Elfhelm was already halfway out of sight before Wídfara realized that he had no idea how to find either Barracks A or the armorer. He considered calling after Elfhelm for help, but the marshal had indicated that he was busy and surely his other tasks were more important than giving basic directions to an ill-informed newcomer. Instead, he reshouldered his pack with a sigh, resigned to wandering the complex until chance took pity on him again, and he took a few hesitant steps toward his left.

“Other way, Wídfara!”

He looked up to see Elfhelm watching him from the doorway, one foot already inside and the door itself held open with his elbow. The older man laughed and nodded in the opposite direction. “Second building on the right. Can’t miss it.”

A furious blush rushed back to Wídfara’s cheeks, and he winced as he felt it spread across his ears and neck. “Sorry, Marshal. I’m still…I’ll learn my way quickly, I promise.”

Elfhelm stepped back outside, allowing the door to close behind him as he walked a few paces toward Wídfara again. “It’s alright to be new, son. You just need someone to help show you the way of things here.” He cast an appraising eye over Wídfara and chewed thoughtfully on his bottom lip for a moment. “Keep an eye out for Guthláf. He’s from Edoras, but his mother grew up in the Eastemnet and he spent much of his childhood out there. He even talks a lot like you do. You’ll like him, and he’ll help you get to feeling like home again.” He turned once more to head inside.

“Marshal Elfhelm?” Wídfara called after him. “How do I find him? Guthláf, I mean.”

Elfhelm looked back over his shoulder and smiled. “Anywhere there are people gathered, he’ll be right in the middle of it. You can count on that. He’s one of our best, and he’ll take good care of you. Just don’t let him talk you into playing dice with him unless you’ve got money to burn.” He pulled open the door and his last few words drifted out from the hallway. “See you at training first thing tomorrow!”

Wídfara rolled over again, grimacing as his left shoulder made contact with the floor. One of his first tasks that day had been to see the garrison’s armorer, where he had been fitted for new equipment and received the distinctive tattoo that would identify him as a member of the king’s éored: a small crown above a hill. Each éored had its own mark, used as a crude means of identification in the event that a rider was injured or killed far from home, and the armorers typically etched the designs onto the shoulders of new members, punching a small ink-tipped needle repeatedly into the skin to create the necessary lines and curves. The new tattoo left a lingering pain in Wídfara’s arm, though it was minimal compared to the ache he felt in his heart when he watched the armorer draw a line through his old éored’s mark, casually crossing out an entire decade of his life with a few minute’s quick work. But that had just been the start to an increasingly difficult day.

The éored’s clerk seemed unaware that Wídfara had joined the company, and no arrangements had been made yet for his pay. Wídfara was counting on those funds to support his parents back in the Wold, especially now that he was no longer close enough to help his father with the herd work during his free hours, and the possibility that his first wages would be significantly delayed left a sour feeling in his stomach. Then he had gotten lost on his way to the mess hall and again between the mess hall and the stables, where he discovered that the stablehand sent to fetch his horse from last night’s boarding house had brought back the wrong animal. At every turn, he seemed to be in the wrong place, with the wrong information, running into obstacle after obstacle while being constantly asked to repeat himself as the city dwellers struggled to understand his accent.

He had greeted the eventual coming of night with urgent relief, happy to retreat to the privacy of his little room in the barracks where, at least for a few hours, he knew where he was supposed to be and what he was supposed to be doing. But even then, he struggled. The small, soft bed in the room felt unnatural to him after so much time spent sleeping rough in field camps or out on the plains with his family’s horses, and he quickly gave up on it, crafting himself a makeshift bedroll on the floor instead. After an hour of further tossing and turning, though, he realized that the bed wasn’t the only thing that felt wrong. A windowless box barely big enough for both the empty bed and his nest of blankets on the floor was a poor substitute for having shimmering stars overhead and endless golden plains around him, and he wondered how he would ever find rest in such a confined little space. He sat up, frustrated, and decided to take a walk in an attempt to clear his mind.

The streets, at least, were much more enjoyable to him at night, when few others were out and about. It was quieter, and he could walk at his own pace without worrying that he was holding up someone behind him. Keeping close attention to where he turned and how to retrace his steps, he headed up a hill, thinking to get a good view of the city from the top of the rise and perhaps be able to better orient himself amidst the maze of the city’s layout.

It took only a few minutes from the barracks to reach the peak of the hill, but he was disappointed to find that the view down onto Edoras and the surrounding plains was largely obscured by a thin haze in the air and heavy overhead cloud cover that dimmed the light of the moon. The quiet of his walk was also broken by the presence on the hill of a small tavern, a little wood and stone building from which drifted not only the smell of ale and baked bread but the clamor of voices and laughter and singing. The windows were aglow with warm yellow light, and he could see a large and boisterous crowd inside, many members of which seemed to be about his age. He considered going in – his rational mind understood that the only way to make friends in new surroundings was to put himself where other people were – but the thought of dozens of bodies pressed into such a small building made him a bit panicky, and he had already used all the energy his mind could spare that day for navigating the stares, questions and sometimes the judgments of so many others. That would need to be a challenge for tomorrow instead.

He leaned against a corner of the tavern and gazed northeast, back toward the beloved home that was now obscured by the intervention of both distance and weather. A gentle breeze blew from that direction, and he closed his eyes to savor the soft feel of it against his cheek and in his hair. There was a clean, earthy scent to the air, and he willed himself to believe that this sign of a clearer morning on its way could also mean that good things were on their way for him.

At that very moment, the door of the tavern flew open, bouncing noisily off the wall, and a tiny gray dog scampered out, followed by the striding figure of a man in the uniform of his éored.

“I just need to let Slaga out for a minute,” the man called back to unseen companions inside. “Hold the game for me, and I’ll be right back to finish taking the rest of your money.” A laughing chorus of boos rang out as the door swung closed again, and the man chuckled to himself.

Wídfara registered the stranger’s words as they were spoken, but what flooded his heart with joyful recognition was the lilting drawl of their delivery, the comfortingly specific cadence and tone that represented Rohirric as Wídfara’s ear had always heard it voiced. It was the sound of his cousins calling to him from across the grasslands, his friends teasing and joking as they sat around a fire at night. It was the sound of his old life, and he wanted nothing more than to hear it again.

The other man was crouched down now, cooing affectionate endearments at the tiny dog that bounded in adoring circles around his feet, and Wídfara lightly cleared his throat. The man froze at the sound, the last doting little trill dying on his tongue, and he smiled sheepishly when he looked up and saw Wídfara standing just feet away. “I’m sorry. I thought Slaga and I were alone out here or I surely would have kept that to myself.” He stood and extended his hand in Wídfara’s direction. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. I’m Guthláf.”

Guthláf. The name chimed immediately in Wídfara’s memory, and he smiled to himself at how effortlessly correct Elfhelm had been on all fronts – where Guthláf would be found, how soothingly familiar he would sound to Wídfara, and how quickly just a few words of that familiar sound would kindle a feeling of comfort and kinship in him. He closed the distance between them with a few steps, and in the dim light that shone from the windows he found himself face to face with an unusually tall, well built man with long blonde waves, a trim blonde beard, and striking eyes of the palest blue. He gripped Guthláf’s hand with grateful enthusiasm and smiled. “Wídfara. You wouldn’t have seen me before, as I only just got here.”

“I certainly don’t have to ask where you came from,” Guthláf said, and Wídfara thought he detected a slight strengthening of Guthláf’s matching accent in the reply. “Welcome to Edoras, Wídfara. What brings you here?”

Wídfara nodded at Guthláf’s uniform. “I’ll be joining your company starting first thing tomorrow.”

“Is that right? We’ll be glad to have you. The boys could use an eastern rider to show them how it’s really done.” He glanced down briefly at the dainty little dog that was now cautiously sniffing Wídfara’s boots. “Don’t hold it against me. The absurd fussing with the dog, I mean. Every man has an embarrassing weakness, and I guess Slaga is mine.”

“Think nothing of it.” Truthfully, in any other circumstance Wídfara would have found both the toy-sized dog and the indulgent spoiling of it a little ridiculous, but he wasn’t about to say that to the first person in the city to take any interest in him. Outside of Elfhelm, who as Wídfara’s commanding officer was certainly no peer of his, it had been a struggle that day just to be noticed by anyone else, let alone engaged with or welcomed. Wídfara was eager not to squander this opportunity, especially with someone who seemed so friendly and good natured. “I love dogs and have nearly always had one myself, though admittedly never one that size.”

“He is small, isn’t he? I got him when he was a puppy and expected him to get bigger as he got older, but he just never did. And by the time I realized I had myself a lapdog, the rascal had already worked his way into my heart.” He bent down and scooped Slaga up into his arms, where he quickly settled with the look of one who spent a lot of time in just that position. Wídfara reached out and gave the dog a gentle rub behind the ears, which was received with a small, contented sigh.

“He doesn’t usually like strangers,” said Guthláf, looking up with a smile. “But then again, you’re not a stranger anymore, are you, Wídfara of the East-mark?”

Wídfara couldn’t identify anything unusual or remarkable about the way this question was asked, nothing that would explain the sudden rush of warmth that settled over him when that open, earnest smile was turned in his direction. But it was there all the same. “Not a stranger, at least not in the technical sense. And I would hope one day to be a friend, though I wouldn’t presume to call you that yet.”

“No? Why not?”

“You barely know anything about me.”

“But that’s not a problem. Discovering things about each other is half the fun of friendship.” He inclined his head and fixed Wídfara with a long, thoughtful look. “And I have a feeling there is much to discover about you.”

The steady gaze of those cool, blue eyes sent an anxious flutter shimmering through Wídfara’s chest, and he looked away. Before he could muster the nerve to speak again, the tavern door opened, and a red-haired head popped out.

“Guthláf, if the game doesn’t restart soon, Hildred insists he’ll take his losses back and charge you interest for making him wait.”

Guthláf laughingly rolled his eyes and waved a hand in concession. “Buy him another ale from my pot and tell him I’ll be right there.” The red haired man nodded and went back inside, and Guthláf turned once again to Wídfara.

“Do you ever play dice? If you’ve got the time now, you can join us, and by the end of the game you’ll have ten more great friends, I promise. Though I can’t promise I won’t take your money.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I’m something of a professional.”

Wídfara laughed. “Believe it or not, I’ve already been warned against playing dice with you, and I don’t know the rules anyway. But I appreciate the offer.” The temptation to stay in the kindly glow of Guthláf’s company was strong, but the tumult of the busy tavern still intimidated him. And the length of the day, with its many ups and downs, was beginning to catch up with him at last. “Will I…or, rather, I hope I’ll see you at training in the morning?”

He cringed inside at how needful the question sounded to his ears, but if Guthláf heard it that way he gave no sign. Instead, he smiled broadly and tapped a fist against Wídfara’s arm.

“Of course. I’ll look for you there, friend. Now wish me luck, not that I need it!” He and his dog slipped back inside with a wave, and Wídfara watched through the window just long enough to see them disappear into a rowdy group of men, all wielding mugs and talking excitedly to one another.

Alone again, he turned then to retrace his steps, mercifully finding his way back to the barracks without incident, and he stretched out once more on his floor with a heavy yawn. The weight of sleep closed in on him quickly, and he soon drifted into the comfort of peaceful rest, where a pair of the palest blue eyes lingered in his dreams.

Link to part 2!

Notes: Guthláf’s dog is named Slaga, which means “Killer.” Presumably he chose that name before he realized his “puppy” was already full grown and would always be a lil’ tea cup.

@emmanuellececchi @konartiste @sotwk @dreambigdreamz (I don’t usually have a tag list but I tried to @ people who had specifically requested it at some point — if you want off (or on, I guess) don’t hesitate to say so!)

“Heads up, Wídfara!”

A small wrapped parcel came sailing across the stall. He snatched it out of the air just before it collided with his chest and looked up to find Guthláf smiling at him from the aisle.

“What’s this?”

“If I told you, that would ruin the surprise, so I guess you’ll have to open it and see.”

Wídfara undid the knot that kept the little cloth packet closed, exposing a bag full of smooth, crimson-colored cherries glistening like a trove of round rubies. He knew at a glance that they were wild Thistelfyld cherries, found only in the ravines of the Upper Wold and only perfectly ripe for a few precious weeks each year. Those weeks had always been anxiously anticipated when he was a little boy — a treasured chance to savor his grandmother’s cherry tarts and his father’s boar with cherry glaze or simply to wander among the Thistelfyld shrubs and stuff his pockets with as many fruits as he could fit, sneaking them out for snacks throughout the day until his mother noticed the dark red juice stains on his shirt and pants.

He lifted the bag now and closed his eyes to inhale the sweet, almost floral scent, and for a moment he was lost in the memory of his happiest childhood days. “Where in the name of Béma did you get these?” he stammered out at last.

Guthláf crossed the stall and plucked a cherry from the top of the packet, popping it into his mouth with a grin. “Once you’ve been in Edoras long enough, you’ll learn where and how to find things. Even very rare things from far away. I thought they might make a nice welcome present for you.”

This unexpected kindness threatened to bring tears to Wídfara’s eyes, and he blinked quickly to head them off. “Thank you. Sincerely. You couldn’t have found a better gift, and I only hope they didn’t cost you too much.”

“I had more than enough from my winnings last night to cover it. So in that sense, I suppose, it was Ceorl who paid for your cherries. But let’s not remind him of that.” He laughed and threw an arm around Wídfara’s shoulders. “Leave those here for now, and let me introduce you around. You’re about to meet some of the finest men in all of Middle Earth.”

With that, he began to guide Wídfara in and out of a seemingly endless string of stalls, rattling off names and positions and personal details about each man they came across. Everywhere they went, Guthláf was greeted with enthusiasm – bright smiles, slaps on the back, jokes and invitations and well wishes – and Wídfara wondered how it was possible to be on such close terms with so many people at once. But however it was accomplished, it was clear that the goodwill that followed Guthláf through the stable could attach itself to Wídfara, too, simply by standing in the other man’s reflected glow. He was heartily welcomed and congratulated and asked many curious questions about himself, his horse, his fighting experience, whether he preferred ale or mead, and a hundred other topics. And always Guthláf stayed at his side, helping him to remember names, interjecting comments and jokes, and flagging over still more men that Wídfara had yet to meet. If not for the horn that announced the start of training, Wídfara had no doubt that they would have spoken to each and every one of the éored’s dozens of members.

Instead, they all swung into their saddles and trotted out to the training rings, where they were divided by function for drills and exercises under the supervision of Elfhelm and a few senior members of the company. Wídfara joined the other archers and was surprised to find a fair number in the group, as most of the Eorlingas preferred swords or spears. They undertook a steady stream of target exercises at different speeds and angles, and Wídfara easily lost himself in the muscle memory of balance, strength, and precision. It quickly became obvious that he was the best bowman in the group, and a small crowd of the senior men gathered to watch his runs through the training course with murmurs and approving nods. Between his steady hand, sharp eye, and the smooth, even gait of his horse, hitting targets was no real challenge for him, and he relished the opportunity to feel skillful and effective after the previous day’s string of humiliating logistical challenges. For the first time since he had entered Edoras, he felt the welcome stirrings of his old confidence again.

By mid afternoon, Elfhelm seemed satisfied with the progress made for the day and dismissed the company to take up barn chores, weapon repair or other necessary tasks. Wídfara walked Cypren back toward the stable and took note of the warm, dry wind sweeping in from the east. He’d always had a particularly intuitive sense of the weather, honed over many years of living on the land and in the elements. He could feel in the wind that the day’s heat wasn’t going to break any time soon, so he stopped off at a water trough to allow Cypren to drink his fill.

“Nice job out there today, Wíd.”

Guthláf had materialized at Wídfara’s elbow, holding the reins to his own horse as she drank. A little thrill ran through Wídfara at the use of the shortened name, a tiny sign of implied closeness between them, and he smiled his thanks.

“I don’t know about you,” said Guthláf, “but I’m not ready to call it a day yet, and neither is Syndrigan. Not before we get a chance to really run, you know? None of this drills and exercises stuff, but a real gallop out in the valley. What do you say?”

The prospect of a few hours outside the tight confines of the city walls, back out in the kind of wide open space that had always filled his life, was more than enticing to Wídfara, and he readily agreed despite the heat. They remounted, and he followed Guthláf through a maze of streets down to the city gate and then out into the fields and meadows that sat below the hills of Edoras. When they were at last well clear of the city and boundless green grasslands stretched out ahead, Guthláf looked back at Wídfara, winked, and nudged his horse, taking off like a shot into the hot, windy plain. Urging Cypren into action, Wídfara gave chase, and the two raced into the valley, up and down hills and through streams toward the stony banks of the Snowbourn.

For as much praise as Wídfara had received for his shooting ability, it was instantly obvious to him that Guthláf deserved even more for his skill in the saddle. He rode with total ease, each movement and adjustment as natural and instinctive as drawing breath, and there was both grace and strength in his frame as he and Syndrigan thundered by. Despite their speed and the unevenness of the terrain, Wídfara could see that Guthláf’s reins sat tied to his saddle, untouched, and his feet were barely pressed into his stirrups. Like many of the poorer herdsmen in the east, Wídfara had grown up riding without tack, saddles and bridles often being prohibitively expensive, but even with all of his years of experience he would never have dared to ride as Guthláf did, with what he might have called outright recklessness in others but which seemed somehow entirely within Guthláf’s agile control. For a time, Wídfara reined in his own horse, content to simply watch in awed silence as Guthláf flew over the plain, joyful and uninhibited, before feeling the pull to join him again in a dash across the valley floor.

Guthláf eventually came to a halt near a small crook in the river, allowing Syndrigan to rest in the shade at the water’s edge. Wídfara followed suit, happy for his own chance to escape the beating of the sun and to refresh himself in the Snowbourn, which flowed down out of the heights of the White Mountains. He bent down to scoop a little water onto his neck, and as he knelt, he heard Guthláf splash past him, wading out a few feet from shore. Once there, he stripped off his tunic in one smooth motion, dunking it into the chilly mountain water and wringing it out again.

Some time between horse and river, he had tied up his long blonde hair, and all of his bare back and shoulders were now exposed to Wídfara. He knew he should look somewhere else – anywhere else – but his eyes were inexorably drawn to that smooth, firm skin and the obvious muscles that rippled just beneath its surface. A few loose locks of hair still clung to the nape of Guthláf’s dampened neck, and Wídfara watched, nearly transfixed, as heavy beads of sweat ran slowly down his spine, past shoulder blades that flexed and tightened with every wring of the tunic. The spell was broken only when Guthláf turned his head and their eyes briefly met, sending Wídfara jolting backward like he had been startled out of an especially intense dream.

A wave of shame and panic crashed over him, and he rushed back to his feet and over to Cypren, busying himself by unnecessarily adjusting his stirrups while Guthláf pulled the cooled tunic back on and crossed behind him to Syndrigan.

“Ready to head back?”

Wídfara hummed his assent, keeping his eyes studiously focused downward as he pulled himself up into his saddle, and they turned back toward the city. The first few minutes passed in excruciating awkwardness for Wídfara, certain that he had offended or upset Guthláf by the riverbank, though the other man appeared outwardly unbothered whenever Wídfara chanced a glance in his direction. It wasn’t until Guthláf took up a steady patter of light conversation — how he wished his horse and his dog would get along better, his intense admiration for Elfhelm, how hungry he was — that the knot in Wídfara’s stomach began to ease and he allowed himself to hope that he had overreacted to something that had perhaps gone unnoticed.

When they had arrived back at the garrison and turned their horses over to the stablehands, they walked together to the barn entrance. It was early evening, and the heat of the day was finally breaking. Wídfara’s own hunger was making itself known to him, and he was mustering his courage to suggest a trip to the mess hall when Guthláf spoke instead.

“I don’t know how things worked in your old éored, but at the end of the week here all the men go home for dinner with their families rather than eating the slop that the mess serves. I know you’re far from your own home, but if you want a good family meal made by one of the best cooks in Edoras, you can come with me tonight.”

“Oh.” The offer was unexpected, and Wídfara was immensely relieved to get yet more evidence that the incident at the riverbank had not soured Guthláf on their friendship. But his mind immediately filled with questions and worries. Going for a ride together had been easy; he knew what that entailed. A nice dinner in a family home in Edoras, though, he had no experience with, and he couldn’t imagine it would be anything like the simple gatherings around a fire he was used to back in the Wold. Were his clothes nice enough for an occasion like this? Would he embarrass himself by not knowing the basics of city manners and etiquette? Would Guthláf’s family really want him there, just getting in the way of their evening rituals? “Well, I don’t know,” he stammered out. “No one likes an inconvenient outsider tagging along and intruding on their family time.” He laughed a little, hoping that speaking his fear in a lighthearted way would prompt Guthláf to set his mind at ease. But instead, it somehow had the opposite effect. A strange, unreadable look crept across Guthláf’s normally sunny face, and his posture became suddenly rigid.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. I’ve got to go check on Slaga now, but thanks for the ride.”

He gave a small nod and ducked away, disappearing quickly around a corner and leaving Wídfara standing alone and baffled as to what he had said to change the whole tone of the exchange so quickly.

“Nice one, new guy.” Another rider, a man whose name Wídfara thought was Fastred, sat a few feet away polishing a saddle, and he eyed Wídfara now with a mix of disdain and exasperation.

“What do you mean? What did I do?”

“Guthláf’s family is dead. Parents, grandparents, older brother, baby sister. All killed in a fire that ripped through a whole section of the city one night when he was fifteen. We take turns having him over to our houses for home cooked meals or to celebrate on holidays so he doesn’t have to be alone. That’s where he’s going tonight – to Herefara’s to be, as you put it, an inconvenient outsider intruding on someone else’s family. Except that we’re all happy to have him. He’s always welcome with us, and he was just trying to give you the same welcome.”

The bottom fell out of Wídfara’s stomach, and he stood for a moment, almost paralyzed with dismay. To have been unintentionally insensitive to anyone would have upset him, but if his words had accidentally caused pain to his only friend, someone who had been so unfailingly kind to him…he didn’t even want to contemplate the possibility. Snapping from his stupor, he sprinted out of the stable, hoping to catch Guthláf before he got any further away. But for once, the normally bustling area was empty and quiet. Guthláf was gone.

Although the heat of the day faded with the disappearance of the sun, Wídfara found his cramped little room still too warm for his comfort and escaped into the relative coolness of the outside night air. The barracks were largely empty – as Guthláf had noted, most of the men had gone home to their families for the night – and Wídfara could sit in solitude under the beech tree that shaded the main entrance during daylight hours. He had with him a small bottle of his mother’s homemade apple mead and took frequent sips, trying without success to dull the ache that had taken up residence in his chest ever since that afternoon’s rebuke from Fastred.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been there, playing back the scene in the stable over and over in his mind and cringing each time those hurtful words had unknowingly escaped his mouth, but the moon was high overhead and even the crickets had largely quieted when the sound of approaching footsteps intruded into his thoughts. He looked up and whispered a quick prayer of thanks when the figure to emerge from around the closest corner was Guthláf, returning home from his evening at Herefara’s.

Wídfara stood hurriedly and placed himself in Guthláf’s path, words tumbling out of him faster than he could organize his thoughts. “I’m so sorry, Guthláf. Fastred told me…well, I didn’t know, and I would never…”. He stopped himself and took a long, deep breath. “I’m just sorry, that’s all. I hope you can forgive me.”

A moment’s silence ticked by, which felt to Wídfara like ages, and then Guthláf smiled at him. “There’s nothing to forgive. Your words gave me a moment of uncertainty about myself, I admit. But you didn’t know the circumstances, and it wouldn’t be right to hold that against you.” He looked down at the bottle in Wídfara’s hand and cocked an eyebrow. “I might, however, hold it against you if you’re not willing to share a taste of what you’ve got there.”

So intense was Wídfara’s relief that he immediately shoved the whole bottle into Guthláf’s hand, taking him by surprise. He began to laugh, and soon Wídfara laughed, too, and he led Guthláf back to his spot under the beech tree, where they dropped down to the ground side-by-side. Guthláf took a swig of mead, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and made a small gesture of approval with the bottle as he swallowed. Then he passed the mead back and stretched out his legs, gazing out into the night. “So, what do you think of Edoras so far? It’s not like home, but it’s not so bad, right?”

“I can’t really deny that it’s been hard. Harder than I imagined even. But you’ve made it easier for me. I don’t know what I did to deserve your kindness, but I value it nonetheless.”

“I’m sure you’d do the same for me if the situation was reversed. Everyone needs a little help when they’re new.” He nudged an elbow into Wídfara’s ribs. “Besides, if you keep impressing everyone the way you have with your shooting, you’ll be running this whole éored before long. And then I’ll be glad to have gotten on your good side early.”

Wídfara chuckled nervously, hoping the spirit-induced glow in his cheeks would cover his blush. “I don’t know about that. I can certainly shoot, but I’m no great leader. I’m just here to earn enough money to take care of my parents and be of some service along the way. If anyone is looking for leaders, they should be looking at you. I don’t need to have been here for more than a few days to see that every one of those men would follow you anywhere.”

Guthláf waved a dismissive hand. “Nah, I’m not looking to be a marshal, either. Elfhelm has to spend far too much of his time fighting with the treasury over supplies or sitting in endless strategy councils. That’s not for me. I want to be out there on the field, always. I want to ride. To come alive by looking death in the face and showing no fear. To charge forward, full speed, at the leading edge of a storm about to break, and that storm is the might of Rohan itself.” He leaned forward and picked up volume as spoke, gesturing as though a whole panorama was laid out before him. “Could you see me, Wíd? Right beside the king, with his banner in my hand and the whole army at our back and a glorious victory just waiting to be claimed?” His eyes shone brightly even in the darkness, and his right fist was clenched at his side as though the banner staff was already in his grip.

Wídfara smiled softly. “I can see it. And what a sight it will be.”

“It’s my dream to carry the banner, to represent Rohan and the king and especially our éored.” He relaxed back against the tree again. “Maybe someday I’ll earn it.”

“I have no doubt you will.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Guthláf grabbed the bottle again, but when he brought it to his lips there were only a few drops left, less than a single swallow. He gave a wry shrug. “Or not.”

The small look of disappointment on his face sent a pang through Wídfara’s heart. “I have another bottle,” he volunteered, eager to erase that disappointment. “It’s back in my room.”

“Yes, Wíd!” Guthláf’s face lit up again. “What a hero! Let’s go.” He sprang up and hauled Wídfara to his feet before rushing into the barracks and down the hall.

Guthláf got to the door of Wídfara’s room first and threw it open, immediately laying bare the evidence that Wídfara had been sleeping not in his bed but stretched out in blankets on the floor, mimicking as closely as possible the outdoor sleeping style that herdsmen all used on the plains back home. Wídfara winced to himself at how odd and unsophisticated it must look to a city dweller, but before he could even open his mouth to explain, Guthláf threw himself down on the makeshift bedroll and made himself comfortable, his back propped against the wall. He looked up expectantly at Wídfara. “Something wrong?”

Wídfara shook his head, pulled another small bottle of apple mead from his pack and sat next to Guthláf. For a time, they passed it back and forth, offering little toasts with each sip – to each other, to the éored, to Rohan. To their futures with Wídfara as lead bowman and Guthláf as banner bearer. The more they drank, the more ridiculous the toasts became. To Slaga, Guthláf’s tiny little dog. To Elfhelm’s unruly eyebrows. To Cafrida’s horse, who seemed to pick the absolute worst times to take a piss during training. Increasingly, the words dissolved into laughter before they could even be fully stated, until several rounds in, when Guthláf cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter.

“Here’s a serious one,” he said, lifting the bottle. “To friends who only want the best for you, even when they have no idea what that is.”

Wídfara raised an eyebrow. “And what does that mean?”

“Only that I spent the evening at Herefara’s house, and he is once again trying to marry me off to one of his sisters.”

“Ah.” The idea of Guthláf with anyone’s sister was oddly uncomfortable to Wídfara, and he picked the bottle back up, scraping at its label with his thumbnail. “She’s not the right girl for you?”

“She’s a lovely person, and I appreciate that he wants me to be happy. But she’s not at all my type. They’re never my type. The whole company is constantly trying to match me up with a sister or a cousin or a neighbor woman.” He paused. “But they have no idea what I actually like.”

The statement hung there for a moment, seeming to demand some kind of response, and Wídfara looked up again. Guthláf was watching him intently with those blue eyes, the color of ice and yet somehow still so warm, and the air in the room suddenly felt different, charged with both possibility and danger. There was a stretch of stillness as Wídfara considered his next words carefully. “What is it that you like?”

“I think you know,” he said quietly.

Wídfara’s breath caught in his throat, and every nerve in his body jangled at once, screaming a frantic internal warning. Be careful. Don’t misunderstand. You’ve been down this road before. Don’t ruin everything. “How…how would I know that?”

Another moment of quiet passed, and then Guthláf slowly leaned across him, taking the bottle from his hand and setting it aside. But he didn’t lean back again. He stayed pulled in close, his face so near now that Wídfara could almost feel the soft bristles of his beard against his cheek when Guthláf spoke again.

“Because I think you like the same thing. Am I right?”

If he hadn’t already been sitting, Wídfara might have fallen to his knees, so overwhelmed with sensation that he felt slightly faint. The phrasing as a question was a courtesy, an opportunity for him to issue a denial, the only safe and prudent response. But here, now, with this kind and beautiful man a mere hair’s breadth away from him, Wídfara didn’t want to deny anything. He steadied his back against the wall, swallowed hard and forced out his answer, a single word that was terrifying but true. “Yes,” he whispered, barely audible. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear the tension of the moment, and so he felt, rather than saw, Guthláf’s smile. And before he could open his eyes again, Guthláf’s lips were on his, and Wídfara was lost in a rush of surprise and disbelief and relief and then joy.

He wrapped a hand around the back of Guthláf’s neck, pulling him in even closer, and opened his mouth, tasting the apple and honey of his mead on Guthláf’s tongue. Rough, calloused fingers skimmed the delicate skin of his throat, sending a shiver down his spine, before gliding across his collarbone and onto his chest. He dropped his head back as Guthláf’s lips worked their way along his jaw and to the tender space just behind his ear, and he gasped in a ragged breath as he was flooded by a wave of desire, all the more intense for having been harshly suppressed.

He tugged Guthláf’s shirt from his waistband and ran his hands under the fabric and across the strong, hard muscles of his torso, pushing the shirt up as he went. He stopped only when his fingers encountered something unexpected, a change from smooth, soft skin to unevenness and noticeable warmth. He looked down to see a wide swath of scarring – red and shining and slightly raised – stretched taut over the plane of Guthláf’s abdomen and up one side of his chest, the remnants of the fire that had claimed every member of his family. Wídfara instinctively drew his hand away, afraid to cause pain.

“It’s alright,” Guthláf breathed into his ear. “It was a long time ago. Let’s not think of that now.” And then his hand inched up Wídfara’s thigh and every other thought fled from his mind. There were no house fires and no burns, no bottles of mead, no worries about what he was doing, no wonder at how thoroughly his life had just changed once again. There was only Guthláf.

Link to part 3!

Notes: A little trope-y? You bet, but some things are classics for a reason!

Wídfara’s horse is named Cypren, which means “Made of Copper” (and is based on the coloring of his coat). Guthláf’s horse is named Syndrigan, which means “Special One.”

Some of the background Rohirrim or folks that are mentioned only fleetingly are made up, but a lot of them are canon in that their names (and only that) appear in the books. That includes, in this chapter, Ceorl, Fastred and Herefara, all canon.

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