The winter when the year passed from 2987 to 2988 of the third age was the wettest, muddiest and most miserable that any save elves or dwarves remembered. Snow drifted by in droves and melted as soon as it reached the ground while the roads became unusable and walls and roofs rotted and leaked. The very world grieved for Gondors fall, for her armies that lay felled and bleeding and trampled over by iron shod orcs. The world felled tears uncounted for Mundborg that burned for days, or if it was weeks, or maybe months, without cease.
Fear had gripped the land of Rohan, the grasslands north of Gondor. Farmers and shepherds flocked to the towns and strong places in the White Mountains that made up the southern border, cowering in anticipation of the dark lords throngs. The Rohirrim, the riders of Rohan, were mustered everywhere and militias raised to stand watch over palisaded villages. How many armies would the enemy send? What towns would they march against? Who could hope to stand against them if they came? Was there no hope at all, if not even Gondor could withstand Mordors hosts?
Was there another way out? Whispers were being heard at first, and they grew to questions and clamor. Ill boding tongues said the king was leading Rohan into a storm that she could not ride out, into certain ruin. Mark well, people would say, that we are not strictly speaking at war with the dark lord yet although we have sent our good men to die in Gondors misfortunes. Why should we not look to our own and seek accommodation, or, at the very least, strive to not provoke and escalate the tense situation even further? The slightest misstep may invite disaster, so we would have to tread very lightly, and if need be we would have to sacrifice some small, insignificant part of our realm to preserve the greater whole. Such things they whispered, everywhere and nowhere.
The capital of Rohan, a grand term for such a small settlement, was Edoras. Timbered walls and houses surrounding a great hall with a golden roof that shone in the morning, Edoras lay to the south near the foot of the White Mountains that marked the southern border, behind which was Gondor. On the hill outside the kings hall stood motionless shapes in scale hauberks and golden helms, awaiting the dawn, ever watching the plains around the hall, Meduseld as it was called. Of these shapes, one saw not the field around him but a city of ruins, wherever he looked. Osgiliath, from where he had ridden not two months ago. Leofara was the name of the dark shape in the cold grey light, whose thoughts turned to another dark shape garbed in mail, now gone. Widfara, the commander of those Rohirrim that had chosen to go south to the aid of Gondor, the man that slew a mountain troll with his last swing of his sword. Widfara, who had sent Leofara away moments before that, for what purpose Leofara could only guess.
"...do you believe that he can be beaten, Leofara?" Widfara had asked.
"I do. Somehow I do. But not by us, today."
"No, not this day."
Widfara had looked out across the eastern banks of the great river Anduin from where fire was about to be raining down on them, thoughtful and calm in the face of their doom.
"We can hold them here for half a day, for whatever short time it will take them to cut through us to the other side of the river. If there is the slightest chance that Gondors footmen can reach the city in that time it is something I will be proud to fight this losing battle for."
"I stand with you."
"No, Leofara, not this time. You must gather the garrison of Cair Andros to do whatever it is they can do to aid, and more urgently you must ride north, home."
"You would have me turn tail, flee at this moment in the face of the orcs? What sort of man do you take me for!"
"A man with a duty. Death is easy, life is heavy..."
"...and duty heaviest of all, yes, yes. Why, Wid', why?"
Widfara had sighed.
"You are my best man, my second in command for a great number of reasons. Rohan needs at least one of us left to fight another day, right? But more, you have seen his work, you have seen how those orcs can fight. Ride home, raise the alarm. Make them listen! Don't let our people be caught in the open and torn apart, or trapped in wooded cages to be burned at will by that fiend! Have our people take to the mountains, defend at Helms Deep, not Edoras or Aldburg or any such place. Go!"
And Leofara had gone, with tears running of shame and grief for Widfara and all the rest. And he had ridden home and he had tried to do as he had been asked. Then the news of Mundborg burning came and all hope and will seemed to plummet. One orc chieftain appeared then as just a drop in a river of woe streaming in from the south and few would listen much to Leofara after that, especially since the orcs and their dreaded catapults seemed to have disappeared ever since the burning. No fort or town had been put under siege and none had encountered black plated orcs with such machinery. Rohan had enough miseries to worry about without conjuring more, Leofara was told, and by none more eager and vehement than the kings new councilor, a man known for his venomous but yet still compelling arguments and growing influence among the disillusioned and the desperate. Grima he was called, but Leofara had found he agreed more with those that spat a far less kind name after the man. Wormtongue.
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