[Hama Of The Riddermark]

Edoras came into view slowly, for neither the rider not the horse had a great deal of strength left for haste. He lifted his head slowly, and the barest traces of a smile cracked upon his wearied face. He was home at last. He had come back to Eomer, as he had promised he would.

The hard campaign against the outlaws in the Westfold had taken more than he could have dreamed out of him. His force had been ambushed, destroyed utterly by the villainous cutthroats of the wilds. He, as a general, had been taken captive. He had been tortured for many weeks, subjected to the most appalling pain, but he had not broken. It was not in his blood to do so. Eomer had entrusted him with a mission, and he would die before he broke his word to the king.

His horse clopped slowly up the long path towards the gate, and the rider lifted his head to see the banners of Rohan flying proudly in the wind. All was not lost, then. He had not escaped for nothing.

For escaped he had, one night, when the outlaws were roaring drunk, he had cut his bonds on a sword they had carelessly left lying by his bed. He had taken up the sword, dressed himself once more in his general’s armour, for they had kept it as part of the ransom on his life. Roaring a war cry, he had fallen upon the drunkards like the wrath of Helm Hammerhand himself. Drunk as they were, those that escaped his sword had fled. Exhausted, he had saddled one of their horses and started his ride for Edoras and King Eomer.

The sentries on the watch were struck dumb as they saw him approach. They had doubtless though him long dead, but with an almighty cry of “Open the gates!” they swarmed to let him in. He smiled, genuinely this time, the first smile to cross his lips since many weeks ago. He rode his horses slowly up the streets, dismounting in front of the Meduseld and walking creakily up the steps to it. The guards stared rather indecently at him, and when the doors opened, he was relieved to see a familiar face come out of them.

“Haleth…” he spoke, his voice hoarse from lack of use.

“You…are the luckiest…how…we all thought you were…”

“I know, old friend.”

“You look terrible.”

“I know.” He said, his face splitting into a grin. He drew the man into his arms and embraced him like a brother.

“Tell the King I have returned, Haleth. Tell him I have survived.”

“I will, old friend, but you should get yourself to the inn. You look like you could be blown away by a gust of wind. Get some food and ale in you, clean yourself up…The King will not object, I am sure.”

“I will. Thank you, Haleth.” Embracing the captain once more, he descended the Meduseld steps and made for the inn. He felt dead on his feet, and he desperately needed a drink. People stopped and gaped in the streets as he mounted his horse and set off towards the Mead Hall. The whispers caught on the wind made their way to his ear and he smiled again, as though making up for lost time. The words lifted his spirits more than he would ever speak.

“General Hama has returned…”

Beating the familiar path to the door, he pushed it open weakly, stumbling slightly as he walked in he was very glad to find the comfort of a chair. Reversing it, he sat down at the table and called for a drink.

“A pint of the house, please.” He said, audibly.