The cold winter morning dawned, and Eohelm found himself standing at the bedside of his friend, the man who had taught him all he knew of war. The changes that night had wrought on the older man was stunning, and repulsive. His skin had turned from merely pale to gray, and the veins and arteries beneath showed dark blue and black. Within four hours of Thego coming into Edoras, the skin around the wound had turned black, and was now frightfully hot to the touch.

The physicians had tended Thego all through the night, but the man's condition merely worsened, despite their best efforts. Nothing more could be done. Thego was dying.

Heavy hearted, Eohelm sat down, putting a hand on his mentor's shoulder.

Almost all I know have you taught me, Thego. You have been to me as a father, after my own was slain. He swallowed back tears, but not as much from sorrow as anger. One question had plagued him all the night through, and his heart yearned for an answer, that the pain of his mentor might be avenged.

Who has done this?

The man on the bed groaned, looking up at Eohelm with fevered eyes.

"The men—" he gasped, "The horse traders..." Thego coughed, and his eyes closed, his sentence unfinished. But as far as Eohelm was concerned, the sentence only confirmed what he had suspected.

The men who came to trade killed him.

Numbly, Eohelm stood, watching the physicians carry out the lifeless body of his mentor. Time seemed unreal, as everyone else had exited the room.

Some time later, the door behind him opened, and heavy footsteps jolted Eohelm from his stupor.

"Son of Eogal?" A firm voice came from behind. Rochmel, Thego's sturdy second-in-command, had come from Dalefold during the early hours of the morning, as quickly as the message could be relayed that Thego was wounded. "The king has called for you."

Eohelm stood, following his commander down the cold streets and into the golden hall. The rage that had fueled his gate the day before had dissipated into a numb state of denial. He was barely aware of his own feet, let alone his surroundings.

When he came to himself, he stood in the Golden Hall, along with the physician whom had attended to Thego in his last hours.

"Is it true that Thego is dead?" Theoden asked, speaking to the men before him.

"Yes, my lord." the doctor bowed his head slightly. "He died this morning of his wounds."

"I see." Theoden's face was troubled. Eohelm knew it was not only grief that troubled the man—though there was a goodly measure of that—but also the fact that whatever Thego knew about these mysterious 'Rangers' had died with him.

"My liege," the physician who had primarily tended to Thego spoke, "I believe the arrow that we removed from the wound was poisoned."

"With what?" Rochmel demanded, anger showing clearly on his face "If it be from poison that he died, how is it that you did not draw it from the wound?"

"It was beyond my skill, sir. It was no poison I have cured before, and spread faster than any infection or poison I have ever seen." The man shook his head. "I did all I knew how, but this was...." he trailed off, as though he didn't know how to further explain what had occurred.

"I see." Rochmel replied bitterly. His eyes were hard. "Well, I certainly hope that if one of your friends is poisoned, that you swiftly find a cure."

"Peace, Rochmel," Theoden instructed. "I do not wish for strife between my men as well as from outside."

Rochmel lapsed into a sullen silence. He glared angrily at the physician, but that was the extent of what he could do.

"Now, you all may go, for I must think upon this matter for a while."

The men exited, each deep in his own thought, weighed down by the same burden.

Anger and bitterness burned deep in Eohelm's heart. Thego had been a dear friend, and even like a father to Eohelm after the untimely death of Eogal.

And now he, too, is gone. Eohelm drew his breath sharply, I am going to find whoever did this to him. And they are going to pay.

Quickly, he descended the stairway, catching up to Rochmel.

"My lord," he began, his voice tight with some emotion, "I have come to ask your permission to leave Edoras."

Rochmel paused in his stride, looked carefully at his subordinate.

"For how long?"

"Most likely only a matter of days...it is a matter of importance."

Rochmel raised his eyebrow slightly.

"Importance, you say?"

Eohelm nodded. There was a fire burning behind his eyes, a passionate desire to carry out vengeance for his friend.

"And what is so pressing that it would require you to leave?" Rochmel folded his arms, coldly inspecting the younger man. "Why should I let you go?"

"Rochmel, sir," Eohelm began respectfully, "You of all people ought to understand my reasons. I intend to find the men who murdered my friend. I will not have his blood go unavenged."

"I see...." Rochmel seemed to ponder the idea for a moment. "But did the King not command you to remain in the city?"

Eohelm's eyes flashed with madness.

"It was not the King's friend who died."

"That is true." Rochmel began. His voice was sincere and almost comforting. "I know your desire, Eohelm. Believe me, I, also, share your anger." He placed a firm hand on Eohelm's shoulder. "But you must think of the troubles that may be caused from your doing this—not to mention, my friend, that Theoden King has instructed you to remain. Wisdom before emotion, Eohelm. If we are to find the men responsible for this, we must be shrewd."

Eohelm glared at Rochmel, but replied with a sulky, "Yes, sir."

* * * * * *

The cooking of Rangers I can stand, but here it seems they have no standards of what is edible and what isn't.

Legolas Greenleaf stood in the doorway of the Golden Ale Inn, the place in which he had taken up his abode for the night. He had found the beds damp and lumpy, the entire establishment hopelessly dirty, and the food prepared in that environment most disagreeable to his tastes. What he simply could not understand was why they had named it the "Golden Ale Inn", as though the alcohol served there was comparable with riches.

That drink is the most disgusting concoction I've ever tasted. I do not understand the attachment these Mortals seem to have for the drinking of it. He shrugged slightly, figuring to each his own. I suppose these men do not have the capability to keep good wine in stock, for no doubt they would if they were to have the ability.

He strode into the street, wishing he simply could have slept out of doors, rather than take up abode in a squalid human inn. But in order to gather information about the trouble in Rohan, he would—unfortunately—have to mingle with the population of the country.

A most frustrating business. I will never be able to fit in with these filthy, uncouth, clumsy mortals. He sighed, brushing a lock of his long, pale hair back over his shoulder, taking care to keep his cloak hood far enough over his head to cover his ears, but not so far as to entirely hide his face.

His stallion, Brethil, no longer followed him through the streets, for after the brief argument the evening before, Legolas had finally found the stables with the help of a more amiable passerby. Now, he walked along the dirty, crooked streets, looking about himself and observing the populous.

His mind wandered to when he had split up with his companions, they to come through the Gap of Rohan, him to go over the Misty Mountains.

"Look for any strange business in Rohan. Tell me what you find when we meet again." Strider had instructed him at their parting.

There certainly is plenty of "strange business," though not all of it worthy of report.

He stopped next to a small, wind-beaten apple tree in the courtyard of the Golden hall. The tree was clothed in a glittering coat of ice, shining like crystal in the morning sun. He gently stroked it, thinking of how it would look in the spring, clothed in leaves and blossoms. A small smile appeared on his fair features and lit up his eyes.

"Do you like our tree?"

A young, eager voice called from behind him. Legolas turned to see a young boy, with long strands of his blond hair hanging about his happy, round little face in disarray.

"Yes," Legolas answered simply studying the child before him. He was no more than six—probably not even that—with large brown eyes. He was pudgy, and wore clothes that were a little better made than some of the people Legolas had seen in the streets.

"My father planted it before I got born." the boy confided, coming up close to the elf as he spoke. His spirits seemed dampened, as he continued on with his speaking. "Father's not here anymore." The boy's face clouded, and it looked as though he might cry.

Poor child.

"I am sorry to hear that, little one," he knelt down and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "To loose a parent is a terrible thing."

"I like you." The boy slipped his hand into the elf's and looked up with great, hopeful brown eyes. "Will you play with me?"

"I'm afraid it has been a terribly long time since I have played." Legolas tried to think of the last time, and could barely recall it. It was so long ago..But this child does seem to need companionship. "I do not know that I remember how, anymore."

"Well, that's alright. I'll show you how." He tugged on Legolas's hand, eager to be off to play. "I'm Eomer son of Eomund," The boy informed Legolas, nodding his head as if to emphasize what he was saying.

"Good to meet you, Eomer." Legolas followed the eager child with some measure of uncertainty, unsure of whether this was really a very good idea.

I have not 'played' for centuries. I'm not sure it would be such a wonderful idea to begin playing in the middle of this quest. He looked down at the boy, now racing along as fast as his little legs would take him, thoroughly excited to introduce his newfound friend to his other playmates. Maybe just this once. For his sake.

And thus it was not long before he found himself engaged in a war, in which balls of snow were the weapon of choice, dogs were dragons, and mounds of snow were forts. The boys were skilled in the making of their weapons, and Legolas caught more than one of them on his body—for as the largest one playing he found himself as the target for the little invading 'armies' that set themselves against him.

I cannot think of a time I so enjoyed the company of men. He smiled warmly as he ducked behind his wall of snow. I hope they all live long and well, the brave little warriors of Rohan.

Legolas ducked behind his snow fort, avoiding a volley of snowballs launched by Eomer and his 'army.'

He tossed one over the wall, hoping it wouldn't hit anyone. Mortals can be easily wounded...I don't want to hurt the little ones.

A snowball came down onto his head from outside, accompanied by squeals of laughter by the miniature Rohirrim outside the wall of his hiding place. He surprised himself by joining them with his own musical laugh.

* * * * * *

"When I put you on guard duty, I expect you to take it more seriously!"

Strider firmly chastened his younger companion, as they rode into Edoras. The fight during the night had left him with little sleep, and he was highly annoyed with the younger man for not noticing the approaching Orcs sooner.

"I am deeply regretful, my lord." Thalion replied, looking down and studying the reins of his horse intently.

"Do not call me that."

"Yes, Strider."

"This is a serious business we have set out to accomplish, and we cannot afford to be distracted by trivial, juvenile—" Strider's chastening words cut off, and Thalion looked up to see his elder had reined in his horse and was staring incredulously, transfixed by the scene before him.

For there, by the side of the road, Prince Legolas Greenleaf was crouched behind a wall of snow, a pile of snowballs beside him. Several children were throwing snowballs at the makeshift fort, and the entire group—including the elf—were giggling and ducking, acting as silly as all get out.

"This is a fine spectacle to make of yourself, mellon." Strider sighed. Did he forget that I told him to remain as inconspicuous as possible?

Elf gave a merry laugh as a snowball struck him in the side of the head, and he called out to the child who threw it, telling him his hit had been a fine one.

Strider glanced at Thalion, who was watching the Elven escapade with a joyous look in eyes, and then he looked to Legolas who had just had his fort breached by miniature soldiers.

This is going to be quite the ordeal...