Tales from The Old Forest
The Paddock Council
The morning sun climbed above the farmhouse, casting long shadows across the paddock between the dwelling and the library. Four horses grazed—or pretended to graze—in the aftermath of a night that had left its mark on more than one of them. Isilmë stood nearest the fence, her pale coat catching the light. Her head lifted frequently, ears swiveling toward every sound. She had not settled since the darkness, and even now her nostrils flared, testing the wind. When she did lower her head to the grass, it was for mere moments before vigilance pulled her attention away again.
A few lengths distant, Falathorn tore at the grass with deliberate force, his chestnut hide gleaming like polished copper. His tail lashed. His ears lay flat, then pricked forward, then flat again—not in fear, but in something closer to indignation. Or perhaps satisfaction. When Isilmë shifted nervously, he lifted his head and snorted, loud and derisive. Foolish mare. He shook his great head, mane flying, and stamped. The movement was pointed, directed at her. He had gone with the Dark Creature—the one that stank of blood and stone and smoke. Had felt the rough hand on his halter, the strange grunting sounds that passed for commands. And he had gone willingly enough, curious what this new thing wanted. Strong enough to take what it wished, that one. Worthy of a measure of respect, unlike the sunlight-haired pointed-ear that had tried to work him to fetch material and had earned hooves for her trouble. The memory of that satisfying thud of hoof meeting flesh made Falathorn's ears flick forward. The big male pointed-ear had shouted afterward, made big sounds about "horse meat." Let him try. Falathorn had yet to meet his match.
Haryon grazed between them, methodical and unconcerned. His plain bay coat bore no distinction, and his manner suggested he preferred it that way. When the Dark Creature had come, he had initially moved away—not from fear, precisely, but from the effort required to care. Only when the thing had persisted, cutting him off from the others, had he allowed himself to be led. It made little difference to him where he stood or what use the pointed-ears or the Dark Creature made of him. All places were much the same to Haryon. All purposes equally meaningless. He did not raise his head when Falathorn stamped and postured. Did not acknowledge Isilmë's anxious circling. He simply grazed, one tuft of grass indistinguishable from the next.
At the far edge of the paddock, Hísië stood alone. Her dappled coat seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it, giving her an unsettling quality even in full day. She faced away from the others, but her ears tracked them constantly. When the Dark Creature had come for her, she had approached easily—more easily than Falathorn, for all his pride. There was something in the Dark Creature's nature that resonated with her own. The scent of violence. The promise of disruption. She pinned her ears now at nothing in particular, and at everything. Lips curled back briefly, showing teeth. A younger horse a few strides off shied away from her area whenever she moved.
Isilmë approached Falathorn, nickering low—a sound of concern, of questioning. Why did you go? Why did you not run? Falathorn wheeled on her, ears flat, neck arched. He drove toward her, teeth bared, and Isilmë scrambled back, her loyalty to her healer not enough to overcome the chestnut's aggression. Falathorn pursued her for three strides before stopping abruptly, head high, nostrils flared in triumph. Because I chose to, his posture said. Because I am not some pet to run bleating to my master at every shadow. Isilmë circled wide, returning to her spot near the fence where she could see the paths leading to and from the paddock. Her hide twitched where no flies landed. She had heard the Dark Creature approach, had smelled it before it entered the paddock—that wrong smell, like the pointed-ears but twisted, broken, evil. She had run then, breaking for the far corner, dodging when it reached for her. Had kicked out once, felt nothing connect, and fled into the deeper shadows where the fence met the farmhouse path. From there she had watched. Had seen Falathorn stand his ground, head high, as if daring the creature to try him. Had seen it take his halter and lead him away without resistance—Falathorn following like he owned the night himself. Had seen Haryon allow himself to be herded, passive as stone. Had seen Hísië, worst of all, go to the Dark Creature as if summoned by some understanding between them.
Now they were back. All three returned before dawn, their halters removed and cast aside, the Dark Creature vanished as if it had never been. But the wrongness lingered. Isilmë whinnied, high and sharp—a call that might bring her healer if the pointed-ear was near enough to hear. A warning. A plea. Haryon continued grazing. Hísië turned her head just enough to show the white of one eye, fixed on Isilmë with something that might have been contempt. And Falathorn pawed the ground, once, twice, then dropped his head to tear savagely at the grass. The pointed-ear who had tried to work him was nowhere to be seen. The male who had threatened him had not returned. The Dark Creature had used him for whatever purpose it required and let him go. He was Falathorn. The Stormface. Unyielding. Let them come again if they dared. Let them try to make him bend. He would show them what it meant to face a beast that chose its own path.
Behind him, Isilmë trembled and watched the shadows. Beside him, Haryon chewed, indifferent. Beyond them both, Hísië stood in her circle of wrongness, waiting for the next disruption. And the paddock, for all its morning sunlight, held the memory of baleful darkness...
"Not all those who wander are lost…"
— J.R.R. Tolkien