-Clang- -Clang- -Clang- The hammer fell down rhythmically, at regular intervals. -Clang- Jonn stood before an anvil, with multiple forges glowing in the background. -Clang- In his right hand he held the hammer, while his left held a pair of long-handled tongs gripping a piece of red-hot metal. -Clang- With every strike of the hammer, the metal slowly took shape. -Clang- He rotated the tongs, and the glowing metal became rounded. -Clang- The crude form of a helmet became apparent. -Clang- Out of the crest, the head and front legs of a horse rose, giving evidence of Rohirric design. -Clang- Jonn continued working, finishing the details far too quickly, though this all seemed normal. -Clang- He rotated the helmet so he could see the front, already knowing how it would look. -Clang- Instead of appearing flawless and new, the nose-guard jutted outward, bending from a dent that circled up into above where the brow would be. -Clang- Jonn rotated the helmet around, and before the front came back into view he knew what he would see. -Clang- A human face stared out from the helmet. -Clang- The face was his own. -Clang- Jonn now stared out from the helmet, the transition seeming wholly natural. -Clang- His head burned, ached, under the pressure of the still hot metal. -Clang- While no wielder could be seen, the hammer continued to beat down. -Clang- -Clang- -Clang-
Jonn's senses slowly came back to him, though every beat of his heart sent a rush of agonizing pain through his skull. He opened his eyes but immediately regretted it, the onslaught of light magnifying his pain like a bellows blowing onto coals. Snapping them shut again, he let out a manly whimper and settled for taking stock of his situation without the use of sight.
I can tell I'm on my back, lying on the hard ground it seems. I can wiggle my toes; that's good. Now for my legs. He winced. Hmm, I can move them alright, but then there's that strange soreness in my left calf and shin. My fingers work, and I can move my arms... Hrmm, soreness on the left upper arm feels like a cut. Must be from that orc—oh that's right, the orc! ...but it feels...tight, as if bandaged. Jonn slowly worked his gauntlets off to make use of his hands, first crossing his right arm over to confirm his guess. Sure enough, feels like a bandage. And the rest of the arm is bare; that must be where the cloth came from.
Slowly, he worked his hands over the rest of his body, discovering many rough holes in his smallclothes, matching the sensitive areas of burnt skin underneath. His face and neck stung and felt puffy, as if recently sun-burnt. Touching the pained part of his leg, he was surprised to find it had a wet, viscous substance on it. And then there was his head. Oh, how he was trying to ignore his head! He gingerly reached up and felt a gash on his forehead. It seemed to have a strange curved shape to it.
Finally, he eased one eye open a crack, this time braced for the increased wave of pain. Slowly he blinked it open all the way, followed by the other eye. Above him was a blue sky, with that blasted, pain-inducing bright sun almost directly overhead. Curls of smoke wafted into view, coming from the direction of his feet. Smoke. Fire. ...That's right, the fire!
Suddenly he sat bolt upright—and immediately gained yet another regret. A wave of nausea hit him, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut again and lay back down with a sickening moan. He resigned himself to taking a few more moments to try to remember what had happened to him, though it felt like walking through a forest in deep fog. Yes, the fire. The stable. The orc. The farmer's son. The farmer. Then the horse—that stupid horse! I saved it, didn't I? And then...?
His memories held no more answers. Slowly this time, he opened his eyes and progressively propped himself up on his elbows. Ahead of him were the smoking ruins of what was once the stable. But to his left... he blinked in disbelief to see the hulking form of that blasted war horse! Just standing there, staring down at him as if amused at the sight of this helpless, half-cooked human.
“What do you want?” Jonn grumbled, though it came out more as a croak. “He's been standing there all morning,” came a voice from over his shoulder. Jonn—having learned his lesson—slowly turned to see the farmer several paces away, placing the final stone on top of a long pile of them.
Now self-conscious and realizing he must be a spectacle, Jonn shakily got to his feet, doing his best to ignore his many aches. With a hand on his stomach and the other held out for balance, he put one foot in front of the other until he reached the crofter and pile of stones. By the shape of it, he had no trouble guessing what—who—was buried underneath. Neither men said anything for a long time, both staring at the fresh grave. After what felt like an eternity, the older man—now appearing decades older than when Jonn last saw him—spoke up, though without lifting his gaze.
“He smiled. The last thing he did before...” he gulped and paused. “He stayed with me, staring at the stable the whole time. I tried to keep him...alive. Tried to stop the blood. Shouting at him, begging him to fight. But he just kept staring. And then...then he came out—his mount—he backed out of the fire, dragging you by the leg like you were a sack of wheat. He saw him. And then...then he smiled.”
Jonn stood there a while longer, until satisfied his presence wasn't being helpful—or even noticed. Then he bowed his head and turned around.
Not far behind where he had stood was the stallion he had risked his life to save, which—apparently—had ended up saving his life in turn. Now that he was in less of a sour mood, with the queasiness and headache having subsided somewhat, Jonn no longer felt angry at the huge beast. Instead he approached it carefully, and once confident it wouldn't bite his fingers off he laid a gentle hand on its sooty mane. He followed the steed's gaze towards the grave site. “I'm sorry. About your master. He cared about you deeply, up to his dying breath, apparently.”
Jonn brushed some ash off of the horse's coat with his hand and began to walk around it, examining it to see how it had fared in the ordeal now that he could see properly. Much of its coat matched the man's own tattered apparel, with small patches of fur singed from fallen embers. Most of it seemed superficial; the fur coat would grow back in time. Until he reached the hind end. For not the first time in his life, he wished he could whistle. He settled for, “Phew! Looks like you got scorched pretty bad back here!” Most of the tail hairs had burnt clean off, with a few crusty strands clinging to the raw stub. Large patches of angry, red skin glared back at him from the rump and thighs. Jonn shook his head sadly, feeling compassion for the poor creature. Through all of this, the injured stallion remained still, though with his head turned back watching the man.
Jonn returned the gaze, saying softly, “I wonder what will become of you.” He began running his fingers through his hair, then stopped. It wasn't just the fact that even his hair seemed to hurt, but the realization that he was touching his hair! The last he remembered he was wearing a helmet. Jonn blinked, trying to piece it all together as he slowly wandered back to the ruined stable. Either it flew off when that thing kicked me, or it fell off as he dragged me out. If I hadn't been wearing it, I'd likely be dead; but if it hadn't come off, I'd never be able to remove it, as swollen as my head feels right now.
His boots meandered through the ash, careful with each step so as not to sink into any hidden embers. He visited each of the charred orc corpses, giving them a kick for good measure. Stopping by the remains of the pack-horse that didn't make it out alive, he shed a silent tear for its loss and the loss to the farm. Eventually he found what he was looking for, part of a rounded metal object poking through the ash. He touched the helmet gingerly, finding it warm but not hot, before picking it up and shaking the soot off. A horse-shoe shaped dent could be seen above the brow, sending the nose-guard jutting outwards. Tracing the matching gash in his forehead, he finally looked up and noticed the offending horse standing outside the ring of soot, watching him still.
Jonn walked over to it and put a tone of mock-annoyance in his voice. “So what am I supposed to think of you now, huh? I risked my life to save yours—which I did! Then you almost killed me as repayment, but then you saved my life! ...Which wouldn't have ever been in danger if it weren't for you!” He let out an exasperated sigh, fluffing the proud beast's sooty mane. “Do I forgive you, or blame you? I suppose it doesn't matter. I hope the Mark will still be able to use you; they could use every able steed they can get.”
Dropping the mangled helm back in the ash, Jonn marched towards the farmhouse to get some fresh clothes from his pack—scooping up his discarded gauntlets along the way. He called over his shoulder, “Now stay here! I'm going to get washed up, and I don't need you following me everywhere I go!” The horse, surprisingly, obeyed.
When Jonn came back from the nearby stream—wearing new smallclothes, his cleaned boots, and finally some pants—he found the farmer hitching up his wagon to his surviving pack-horse. He worked methodically, never looking up, as if his hands were moving of their own accord but his mind was lost somewhere. “How can I help?” Jonn asked in a soft, low voice.
Not answering the question, the farmer said to no one in particular, “I'm moving into town. I can't work this place alone anymore, not with the damages. It's not safe.” Then putting down the crate he was loading, he looked Jonn in the face for the first time since dinner the night before. “Take my son's steed. After...losing his rider, he might not let anyone else mount him; but he seems to trust you.”
Jonn looked horrified. “Me?!” I can barely ride my own horse without falling off, let alone this...mountain!
“Take him!” the farmer retorted. “He will need care immediately if he is to heal. Take him to town. They can help. And they'll teach you how to ride too.” Having said all he intended, the farmer went back to his work, leaving the Breelander standing there mouth agape.
With effort, Jonn broke out of his stupor and turned to face the war horse. His war horse. “Well, um, Horse. I suppose it's us then.” He gathered the rest of his belongings, and the two of them began their day-long trek across the plains to the nearest town.
