Blackthorn.
What a queer name for a horse that was neither black, nor thorny as far as she was concerned. Annuviel sat astride the dappled courser, a light hand on the withers and a relaxed sway in her shoulders. She was three days ahead now, already well within the tame countryside after having rode hard across the Weather Hills, and staunchly avoiding the East Road as it wound around Weathertop, for the skies above it remained unsettling. Their path had been a winding one if not treacherous, carefully weaving through low valleys and making no concessions for ease of foot. They had been watched. From their passing across the Bruinen, until they disappeared into the Chetwood, Annuviel had felt the eyes of some nameless, wicked thing turn onto them and give chase.
Now they crossed the mild country of gentler folk, slowing their pace where they could while moving ever onwards. They had ridden long and Annuviel sought to rest to her steed's weary legs but even so, Nenuial was her destination, and no amount of pleasant weather and sweet green foliage would bid her to tarry overlong. Her host awaited; she would make camp soon enough.
"Blackthorn is not the name you should carry," she proclaimed suddenly, to fill the silence. "How you came by it, I'll never know. Perhaps something new. Tâltaug?"
Blackthorn snorted his disapproval.
"Mm. Ardvel? I knew a horse named that once. Brave and beautiful."
An annoyed flick of his tail and another fussy grunt refused that name with haste. Her laughter rose gaily, a silken song on the breeze. She couldn't help but admire the steely opinion of a horse.
"Then something reminiscent of your homeland. You were foaled on the Westemnet, no? And so you should bear something from it. How about... Oh, what is the word?.... Ah! What of ... Eordweall?"
Her brow arched at the suggestion, quite liking the sound of it herself, and she stared down at the space between his ears that flicked to and fro as they silently trudged along the unbeaten path.
"Eordweall," she repeated, tasting it on her lips. No snorts, nor grunts, nor stamps, nor any other argumentative noises seemed forthcoming from the great grey destrier. He was large, built for war but was reputed to be too troublesome and thus, was resigned to a workhorse.
As fate would have it, despite his humble occupation, Eordweall would yet see the world.
Image credited to Tony O'Connor.
Not far off, three hobbits foraging amongst a bramble of wild strawberries stood huddled behind a tree.
"What were it?" One whispered.
"T'was a ghost!" The second cried. "It was glowin' as it drifted through, and you heard the voice just as honest as I did, you'll not say you didn't! Spoke in some foreign language, no less."
"Elvish," the first nodded. "Must've been a ghost! I felt the oddity in my bones, I did. Light as a feather, felt myself being lulled to sleep like the stories say. Oh, they'll never believe us down at the watering hole!"
"The both of you are fibbin'," the third said shakily, clutching his hat to his chest. "It must've been nothing more than a...a neekerbreeker. That was all. Some of em glow, everyone knows that," he insisted.
"This far from the marsh?" The first two exclaimed, in unison.
"They got wings!" The third choked, though he wasn't so sure anymore.
