Disclaimer: I am merely a poor fool, I know nothing of the world of which I speak the events, and I own not any of the characters which have appeared elsewhere in Tolkien literature or cinematography, what I do own are mere works of fiction and exist purely in the context that I place them.

Notes: This may eventually be a bit of a spoiler, but this chapters pretty clean, only R rated so it’s a nice easy introduction to the main character.
Set in Gondor toards the end of the second book, just as things near Mordor get a bit heated, and well, you’ll see the rest.
Feedback will be greatfully accepted, along with any writers block relief, i.e. suggestions
Thankyou and enjoy the story.

Chapter 1
Fullmore rode hard, his horse, black but for the glistening streaks of white sweat flecking his hide like dwarven jewels, his haunches shuddered with the sheer effort of the gallop. As horse and rider thundered unstoppably along the streets of the once great city of Osgiliath, the ancient cracked marble slabs pounded once more by the latest of many thousands of passengers which they have bourne. Statues, once upright and proud, lay at broken angles, like the jagged peaks of Ephel Duath to the South East. Their shadows were cast long across the wide piazzas and ancient carriageways. The shadow of Mordor’s foul overlord Sauron, too haunted this place, spreading wide its deathly chill. Fullmore’s ears rang with the Nazgûl screams, the roars of their dark beasts and the sounds of battle carried to him on the gentle Easterly wind.

But nothing could distract him from his task, as he beat his fine Rohanion steed, Raynin, into a frenzy of speed, the message which he carried echoed in his mind, its importance clear even to him, a lowly outrider of the Gondorian foot. For that was his place in life, and in war. Not to fight, but to carry the messages and orders upon which the army relied, more than it did on arms and armour. He had, of course received his half day of compulsory combat training, and been granted his horse, his plate armour and helmet, and the short sword, which, as the very sign of his loyalty to the Stewards of Gondor, he carried with reverential pride and serviced regularly with oilcloth and oil.

Despite the relative mass production of this simple weapon, it was still a fine example of its art, equal to any blade forged by the races of men, and in Fullmore’s humble opinion, even to the fabled blades of the elven forges. Though, this opinion was based on little more than Gondorian pride, Fullmore never having seen an elf, let alone held one of their weapons.

Man and steed hurtled through street after street, ally after ally, to any onlooker they must have seemed merely a glint of silver armour and a blur of black, hide and tunic, rider and mount, in both vision and purpose, made as one. And there were many onlookers, though few took the time to observe the graceful movement of the well-born steed and the admirable effort of its rider, as he clung determinedly to the black leather reins. To the warriors marching eastward, little of the momentous event of Fullmore’s passing crossed their troubled minds other than thoughts of a slightly earlier death, under the heavy hooves of the bit chomping, frothing black monstrosity which bore down on them along the narrow rubble strewn street. The men dived out of its path with as much haste as they could muster, only a very few cursed the rider and even fewer thought of obstructing his hectic passage through their ranks.

“It can’t be far now,” thought Fullmore, the burden of his onerous task beginning to trouble his mind. He glanced left and right, more in hope of finding some landmark than in belief that he actually would. For a second he thought he recognised a crossroads, but he couldn’t be sure, the surrounding buildings were levelled to cellar height, and the statue only one of a thousand other likenesses of the great Stewards of old. By his rough reckoning he was near to the Eastern Market, where he had once run away from his parents following an argument over a hobby-horse to which he had taken a liking, though he was sure he wouldn’t recognise the market anymore, the stall long gone and the once grand fountain most probably runs red with the blood of Gondor if it runs at all. Where exactly he was he had little idea, he had long ago abandoned the map with which he was provided, and which now permanently resided in his saddlebag. The great thoroughfares and buildings so carefully marked on it, now little more than piles of rubble and fine marble dust. Now he had little more than his wits and luck to guide him, and that was little indeed.

Today though it seems he was either in luck or in good wits, for ahead over a mound of rubble, which judging by the carving on the sole standing doorpost, was, in a former life, an alms house, he sighted the assortment of flags and standards which accompanied the battlefield generals entourage. Fullmore breathed a sigh of relief and sunk down into his high saddle, and carefully guided the tired but still alert Raynin through the rubble towards the bright regalia, which marked the end of this errand and the beginning of the next.