Outracing the Flames RPG

[Folwren]

Athwen looked from the woman to the man when she finished. The 'Uncle-of-sorts' didn't appear too pleased by her rather unclear description of the ambush and she dropped her eyes rather guiltily from his face as he continued to sit in grim silence. Meghan appeared to hear her story with more lenience and accepted her invitation to come to the camp ahead of the rest of her group. Athwen lifted her gaze again to the woman's face and a small smile came to her face. She didn't like being mistrusted, and though she understood why Rædwald might doubt her tale and believe that their misunderstanding was indeed real, she was thankful that Meghan was at least willing to trust her a little bit on the matter.

'Athwen and I can start off at a slow pace. . .you'll catch up to us in no time,' she said.

Athwen turned her large, blue eyes towards Rædwald, wondering what he would have to say to that idea. He wasn't looking too enthusiastic about it, and she could hardly blame him for feeling a little doubtful. Once again, she dropped her gaze. She didn't like feeling guilty when the crime in question wasn't her fault.

But Meghan, not caring what Rædwald thought of her idea, immediately urged her horse forward towards Athwen. Athwen lifted her head again, cast one last rather anxious glance towards Rædwald, and then turned Parith's head about and started riding back towards camp once again. Meghan rode by her side and they went at a walking pace.

For a little while there was a silence between the two of them. Athwen didn't know quite what to say. She wasn't even sure exactly why Meghan had agreed to accompany her back alone. 'Are you-' she began, but then stopped. What to say? 'Where were you from again? You mentioned across the river. . .you mean from outside the border, didn't you? Not that it matters too much,' Athwen added rather absently. She had never been one to care one way or the other in such matters and she didn't pay attention to such politics. 'What are you on this side of the river for? It's a long way from your home town, isn't it?'

[Eowyn Skywalker]

Eowyn Skywalker's post

It startled Eostre to see Meghan go running off after some... foreign woman like a lit branch had been tied to her horse's behind. It didn't seem right. Who knew what this woman was? Perhaps she had slain whatever it was underneath the bloodied blanket.

But somehow, in that time, Raewald appeared to go after Meghan (she hardly blamed him), and her and Sythric were left alone with... whatever it was.

In the end, they had ended up poking the covering off, peering underneath to observe nothing more than a dead deer, much to the dismay of the cynical Eostre. What was the reason to be suspicious about that? Though it hardly let her suspicions run away... she still doubted the safety of this situation. After all, the village had been—

Her thoughts cut off, not wishing to bring back the memories as the two brought their horses around and made towards Raewald and whatever news that would have to offer. At the very least, she thought, no one had been impaled, brutally murdered, or bound hand and foot yet. There was a start. Perhaps whatever Meghan had chosen to go galavanting after was a friend...

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Nogrod's post


So,a deer. Thank the earth! But killed by whom? Why is it covered? Who’s that girl? What is going on? Sythric was relieved and baffled, full of questions. ”Shall we pack this thing on your horse, as mine is quite loaded already?” Sythric asked Eostre. She agreed, and they lifted the deer behind Eostre’s saddle, tying it just loosely. Sythric took the bloody blanket. Then they mounted.

They went after Raedwald and Meghan, who seemed both now to be talking to the young girl. Then happened something a bit curious. Instead of waiting for them that little moment it would have taken Sythric and Eostre to reach them, Meghan and the girl started towards the edge of the forest. Raedwald again started towards them.

”It was a deer! But no sign of Osmod or Fion there. What’s going on in here?” Sythric called to Raedwald from a couple of yards away. Raedwald turned around, towards the girls riding away from them, and nodded both Sythric and Eostre to follow him. As they rode, Raedwald told them about the fate of Osmod and Fion, and about the girl, Athwen. They were taking on the girls quite fast now. Raedwald really seemed to be worried about Meghan. No wonder, for she seems to have been quite reckless today…

Sythric was amazed by this easterling thing. These people, whoever they were, clearly hadn’t met an easterling before. Or then there was something else there. He remembered the easterlings he had met in his life: there was no way to confuse Osmod or Fion to them!

There were the roving bandits he had met a couple of times as a rider. They all had long black hair that was tied – he hadn’t met even one with the hair open. And they seemed always to carry something in their heads, either some sorts of weird hats or at least some ribbons. And their eyes! They were dark but at the same time also shining, almost flaming. But the thing that was most curious to Sythric,was, that no matter how filthy they might otherwise be, they seemed to be always wearing beads of some sort, neclages, bracelets, ear rings, headbands…

And then there were the easterling soldiers. He had only met a small light cavalry unit once on a daring scout mission to the east. And what a sight they were! Bright colours, shining leather, all the garments beautifully adorned; real gentle craftsmanship comparing to Outlander-art. All gold, silver, deep blacks, burning reds, shining yellows… And what about their horses! Smaller and gentler than Outlander-horses, but their agility was just astonishing and their speed downright incredible. Add to that their marksmanship, and you really have a mighty foe. We were just poor and ragged beggars compared to them… and almost got all ourselves killed back then. There were four dead on our side, and only one on theirs... Sythric got the shivers a reasonable-sized compartment of easterling light cavalry would just butcher a refugee village in no time, with no more effort, than it would take a full grown man to poke a child down.

They caught the women. Sythric nodded to Athwen as she turned to look at the newcomers. Raedwald rode beside her and said something to her Sythric didn't hear. THen Raedwald turned to Sythric and Eostre, suggesting that they should sheath thweir weapons.

"Aye, you're right", Sythric answered, ans stuck his riding sprear to Thydrë's side, taking hold of the reins with both hands. They all slowed down and slipped into the woods.

[Undómë]

Meghan


‘. . . you mean from outside the border, didn't you?’

Meghan turned a little in her saddle and gave Athwen an appraising glance. Was she one of those people who considered those who had settled on the east side of the river as highly suspect? Perhaps not . . . since she had followed up with, ‘Not that it matters too much.’ It was the “too much”, though, that had sent her wondering what the woman’s real feelings about those from the “wrong” side of the river were.

She did not want to nitpick the point, however. Athwen seemed a little fragile and a loud argument might send her flying. Then what would they have to do find where Osmod and Fion were? Instead Meghan grinned at her, a conspiratorial look in her eye. ‘Yes . . . outside the border proper. My village is called Bregoware. About two days north of here and a day’s journey east of King’s Ford.’ She drew up closer to Athwen and leaned toward her, pitching her voice lower as if to keep the lone bird flying overhead or the mice in the dry grasses below from sharing in the confidence. ‘We’re the good King’s secret, you now . . . we villages across the Great River. He’s set us there to take the first blows should enemies come.’

Meghan’s expression turned to one of sadness as she recalled the burned village she’d so recently seen. She sat up in her saddle, face gone pale. ‘Though, all light jesting aside, it seems we did not prove the bellwether for these new assaults.’

She cast her eyes down an overwhelming feeling of sorrow taking hold. ‘There was a village just to the north . . . it was horribly destroyed. Some grace spared Bregoware this time, and some ill-spirited luck of the enemy put those people in the path of dark death. It could have been us raised in that funeral pyre, our good lives destroyed and us scattered on the winds.’ She wiped the back of her sleeve across her eyes where tears threatened.

‘Ah . . . enough. Tears will do no good. Let’s ride a little faster if you don’t mind. Once our two companions are with us we’ll be on our way.’ Meghan hesitated for a moment. Ah well, in for a coin, in for the whole purse . . .

‘We’re on our way to Edoras. To see the King and tell him what is happening here on his far borders. And to ask for his help. My village has packed itself up and is even now moving across the river and westward to the safety of the Riders. Our lord has asked us to deliver his request for help to the King, himself. So that some Riders might be spared to see us safely westward.’

-------------------

Rædwald


As they neared the small encampment from which Athwen had come, Rædwald drew his mount up near her. ‘Perhaps you can ride at the head of this little column so that your friends know we have not come to attack them. And we will keep our weapons sheathed, yes?’ he asked looking to Eostre and Sythric. ‘So as not to look so threatening.’

At a slow pace the five riders rode into the camp . . .

[Folwren]

‘It could have been us raised in that funeral pyre, our good lives destroyed, and us scattered on the winds.’

Meghan didn’t know what she was talking about. She had only seen the remains of what had been done by Brand and Incana and the others the evening before. She spoke only from later observations, when only a little smoke still wisped up from the ruins.

Athwen had seen more. Much more. And she had felt more, too. She wasn’t expected her home to be mentioned so suddenly, and spoken of so sadly, and not only in passing. Meghan had been touched by what she had seen, Athwen was sure, but no amount of sorrow or pity from anyone could help put away the empty sorrow and fear that the burning and killing of the village had put into Athwen. Her calm mask she had somehow managed to wear while greeting them was suddenly and unexpected stripped entirely away. Tears darted into her eyes and the lump in her throat was choking. She dropped Parith’s reins and her hands flew to her face, covering most of it in her futile attempt to keep from crying in open.

Shooting a swift glance towards her companion, she saw that Meghan had not become aware that she had so affected Athwen. She herself was actually in the action of wiping her eyes with her sleeve, and she drew a deep breath before she went on. ‘Ah. . .enough. Tears will do no good. Let’s ride a little faster if you don’t mind. Once our two companions are with us we’ll be on our way.’

Athwen made no immediate response. She didn’t mind going faster. A quicker gait would mean less talking, and Meghan’s words had undone her enough. But before they did urge their mounts onto a faster speed, Meghan continued. ‘We’re on our way to Edoras. To see the King and tell him. . .’

Athwen started and looked up, surprised and so shocked at the words that she just about missed the rest of what Meghan said. When she finished and looked at her, Athwen was nearly gaping.

‘But that’s exactly what the others are going for!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s what they told me when they found me and we were going to start again tomorrow!’ Meghan gave her a swift, questioning glance. ‘I can’t explain it all, I don’t really understand all of it, but Brand will tell you. He’s the leader, I think.’

Meghan may have been wanting to reply, but at that moment, her three other companions rode up to them. Rædwald rode up to Athwen and told her she had better ride in the front of the column, a logical idea, which she immediately took the post of. It was an excellent place to ride, with her back to the others and her pale, teary face turned towards the wind and to no one’s eye. Perhaps it would look less as though she had been crying when they reached the camp.

In very few minutes at all they came to the trees and bushes. Athwen led them, threading her way easily through, and finally stopped. She slid from her horse and walked to his head.

‘I’ve brought some more people,’ she said to everyone there. She nodded towards Fion and Osmod. ‘They’re friends of them.’

[Farael]

Osmod got another cup of tea for himself. He was sitting by Fion’s side, sharing a comfortable moment of silence. Or as comfortable such moments could get in the midst of strangers. He felt safe for the time being, but he worried about his friends. They could not go back looking for them yet, Fion was not ready, yet he feared they’d think them dead and ride on without them. The strangers were busying about their camp, talking to each other.

It seemed no-one had noticed the figures riding towards them, and Osmod thought about warning the others. It was not too late to get ready to defend themselves, and nobody knew who roamed through the lands of Rohan anymore. Yet the riders did not look too threatening. As they got closer, he realized that the first rider had been in the ambush. She had talked to Brand, interceding in his favour. But it was not until he saw the second rider that Osmod realized who this group was. ”Meghan!!” he jumped to his feet and ran towards the others. They were all there, and he was glad to see them. Sythric and Rædwald went over to introduce themselves while Meghan and Eostre stayed behind. Osmod lead them to where Fion was sitting, and the young man seemed just as happy to see them all as he had been. They talked animatedly for a while, telling their stories to each other. Osmod grinned at Meghan when she told how she had met Athwen and praised her peaceful instincts. His hand wondered to his chest, where a dull pain still remained from his earlier misfortune. He was really glad to see them all, but he was specially glad to see Meghan again. Just looking at her reminded Osmod about the good things he had left behind. Perhaps he reminded him of something else his heart ached for, but he ignored the thought for the time being. Sythric and Rædwald were approaching and they would probably want some of the tea as they all decided what to do next.

[Maeggaladiel]

Fion was still a bit confused. First these people had attacked him (and judging by the pain on his scalp and the odd little cut under his jawbone, had dragged him around and pressed something sharp to his neck while he was out cold), and now they were fussing over him. An elderly man was pressing bandages to his head, and both he and Osmod were urging him to drink some strange-smelling tea that they claimed would help the pain. He wasn't sure he trusted these people, but he drank it anyway. (If it helped ease the throbbing in his skull, that was fine with him. If it was poison, well, at least his head wouldn't hurt anymore.)

After a moment, Osmod's attention was captured by something on the horizon. Fion considered looking too, but the constant drum-beat of pain at his brow kept his attention focused on the tea and the bandages. Whatever it was, he could let Osmod handle it.

The ambush had dampened his normally high spirits. Any other time, he would have taken this opportunity to joke that his own thick skull had saved him from any lasting damage. Right now though, all Fion wanted was to drink his tea, end the throbbing pain, and get away from these people.

The elderly healer tried to engage him in conversation, but Fion kept his replies short and vague. He wasn't in the mood to talk. Besides, Osmod had told him not to give any information away. He wasn't about to betray his friends. He would--

"Meghan!" Fion's head jerked towards Osmod, hearing him yell. His brow screamed out in protest at this action. The boy spent a moment clutching his head in pain, barely hearing Osmod talking excitedly to someone. Finally, he looked up. Meghan, Sythric, Eostre, and Raedwald! They had found them!

"Aren't you lot a sight for sore eyes!" He said, relieved to see his friends again. His spirits were lifted, and the next sentence out of his mouth was: "Although in my case, you're a sight for a sore brow!" His hand went to the bandage, trying to coax the throbbing to die down a little.

"Well, at any rate, I'm glad to see you!" He tried to stand up, but the healer grabbed his arm and scolded him. Ah well. Sitting was fine.

[Tevildo]

Leod had finished applying salve to the gash on Fion's head and carefully bandaged his wound. He had helped the man sit up, encouraging him to swallow a few mouthfuls of hot tea. The brew contained herbs that were intended to combat the pain so that he would hopefully rest easy when nightfall came. For the moment, however, since Fion wanted wanted to stay awake for a bit, he kept talking and asking questions.

Leod's hands moved deftly to tighten the bandages and to examine a small bruise on Fion's left side. Despite his dazed state, the injured man was alert enough to stay on guard, being very careful not to say too much about who he was or why he was here. Leod had tried to set his patient's fears at ease by explaining that he was from the nearby village and that the travellers had been welcoming and respectful, taking time to lay the dead to rest despite the urgency of their mission. But still the man was curiously silent. Leod began to wonder if perhaps the pair had something that they wanted to keep to themselves.

It was only when Athwen walked into camp with the other strangers following behind her that Fion's eyes had lit up in recognition and relief, and a torrent of words poured forth. For one moment, Leod felt a pang of yearning. If only a few of his neighbors could reappear in such a way that these folk had just done! But, alas, that was not to be. Their best hope was to get quickly on the road, to waste no more time in this distant glade, but to let the King know that a great new danger threatened their beloved land. If these strange folk were going to get in the way, it was best that their own party took off in the morning, leaving the others behind.

While Fion and Osmod were still talking animatedly with the strangers, Leod sidled over towards Brand, Athwen, and Dorran, who now stood in a small clump. Apparently forgetting that he himself was a relative newcomer to the band, Leod grumbled, "Is this all, or are there more? We seem to be encountering a surprise behind each bush and tree. And what are all these folk doing here? I never knew that romping through the woods could be such a common occupation for the young men and women of Rohan. In my day, young folks stayed put in their villages and minded the words of their elders! If we've a mission to carry out, perhaps we'd be better off splitting the group in the morning, and leaving these strangers behind. If our party gets any bigger, we may never make it to Edoras since the tramping of our horses' hooves and our loud jests and conversations will surely waken every miscreant between here and the king's palace."

[Folwren]

Athwen looked over at Leod as he spoke and then reverted her gaze back to the others. 'Come, Leod, be reasonable,' she said quietly. 'They might be minding the words of their elders. I don't mean to be rude or disrepsectful to you, but times are drastically different now than they were, and they-' she nodded towards them 'and these folks-' indicated Brand and Dorran 'had to go.' She paused again and her eyes looked over every person there swiftly. There were twelve in all, including herself.

'These are all of them, yes,' she said, in reply to Leod's first question. She turned to face Brand and Dorran squarely. 'They're on the same mission you are, I think,' she said. 'They're going to Edoras to the seek the King and his protection for their home and people. Meghan told me as we were riding back to here. She's the one there, almost as short as I am. I brought them so that they could see that we didn't hurt their companions too badly. I hope you don't mind. I stopped and talked to Meghan and told her that I had seen the two men and tried to say what had happened, but they weren't very happy with what I said, so I had to bring them. And she told me where they were going on the way.'

Brand and Dorran both turned their eyes towards the strangers, a new interest coming to their faces. Athwen stepped away to stand and wait to see what happened. She knew no more and had nothing further to offer.

[Nogrod]

Soon enough, they came into a small clearing with fire going on, and Osmod and Fion were there! What a relief! Both of them alive –although Fion didn’t seem so well with the heavy bandage on his head. There was an old man tending his wound. Osmod was standing beside them. And there were others there too.

These are strange times indeed. I thought that out party was a motley crue of youngsters and old warhorses, but look at these people here! Four youngsters, a girl and a grandfather! Are these the survivors of that unhappy village?

Athwen dropped herself from the saddle and took to walking, greeting the people at the clearing. All the Bregowarians dismounted too and headed to see Osmod and Fion: to embrace them, to ask what had happened. After patting Fion to the shoulder in encouragement, Sythric turned towards Osmod. He embraced him warmly, and with a great relief. “I’m really happy to see you two alive! For a moment we really feared you dead. Now I just hope, we are among friends, and not enemies.” Before Osmod could answer, there came others, hugging Osmod and asking about things happened.

Sythric stepped back and tried to configure the situation out. The old man that had been tending Fion’s wound had drawn aside, and was talking to three other strangers some ten yards away. The Deer! It must be their kill? Sythric walked back to the horses, took the bloody blanket from Thydrë, whispered some comforting words to Eostre’s horse and untied the deer from his back. He took the deer and the blanket, and walked towards the four strangers. He stopped about two yards from them and addressed them.

“My name is Sythric, Sythric of the Skara, Bregoware, sergeant of the Rohirrim – not in active duty, as you can see from my age, I suppose.” He nodded politely to everyone of the strangers, Athwen included, for they had not been introduced to each other. “The other senior with us there is Raedwald, also a veteran of the rohirrim. We served at Croacht, under the warden Thygulf some ten years ago. I don’t know, what our leader Osmod, and this young Fion here have told you, but we are on an urgent mission to the king himself, and would not like to be distracted. So I find these latest happenings quite unfortunate. If you are good people, loyal to the king and Rohan - as I do believe - you should see, that it’s not wise to go on ambushing each other? Especially at times like these.” He studied the men quite boldly, except for Leod, for he had been raised to honour older people, and that lesson he had learned well enough.

Before they could answer, he threw the deer to their feet. “This must be your kill?” He asked, and then threw the bloody blanket after it, to cover the deer. The deer’s hind legs were sticking from under the blanket. Sythric lifted the blanket from the corner and kicked the legs under it. As he let the blanket fall, there were no parts of the deer to be seen: it was just a bloody body under a blanket. “This is what we found from the grass, as we were searching for our friends here. So please understand us being a bit upset. Thank’s to this young lady here, we didn’t attack your encampment and continue the misery you have started.” As he thought Leod to be the leader here, he then looked questioningly into his eyes.

[Arry]

Brand watched as the newcomers greeted their companions. He’d heard what Athwen said about them and what she thought they were doing so far from their homes. How on earth did we ever think they were Easterlings! He tsk’d at himself for having been so jumpy. One small crisis and your clear thinking turns all muddy . . .

His eyes flicked up toward Leod as the older fellow finished grumbling about the new happenings. ‘I agree,’ he murmured back. ‘And I’m thinking we’ll be on our way tomorrow morning, and they can continue on with their own journey.’ He paused for a moment, his thoughts rolling about in his head. ‘It is an out of sorts thing, isn’t it, for us to be traveling so far from our village; I’ll give you that. But then these seem to be out of sorts times, don’t they? Given my own wishes I’d be in the little rolling hills west of Wulfham. With my horse and dog to keep me company. Watching out over my woolies. Going home at night to the good company of my family and my dear mother’s cooking.’ He swept his arm in a short arc about the campsite. ‘Not here, in this unfamiliar place with these unfamiliar people.’ He rubbed at the raised pink tissues of his cheek. ‘And with my face scarred and hurting all the time.’ He shrugged his shoulders and took a deep breath. ‘But here I am. At the bidding of Wulfham’s Lord, until the task is done or I am dead.’ He looked wearily toward the west. ‘With any luck, he’ll set this all to rights and there’ll be an end to all this out of sortness.’

By this time, one of the newcomers, Sythric he called himself, an older man, had gone back to one of the horses, returning with a deer carcass. He’d thrown it at their feet and spoken in a harsh, accusatory manner, or so it seemed to Brand’s ears. Brand’s cheek’s reddened, his fresh scars burning with the sudden rush of blood to them. He bit back his first thoughts which were simply to tell them he would be more than happy to see the hind end of their horses as they rode out of the camp. The one young man, though, Fion, did not look in any shape to be traveling.

Brand schooled his tongue to some civility and apologized for the actions once again, the Wulfhamers had taken against the two scouts. He offered no excuses, as the man seemed not in the mood to hear any. To his own surprise, he found himself inviting the other group to stay for supper and to bed down with them for the night if they wished. ‘You’ve so graciously brought in the deer we killed, you might as well share in it.’

He stepped away from the older man, leaving him to speak with Leod. ‘I’m Brand, from Wulfham,’ he said nodding in greeting to the other older newcomer. Brand pointed round to his little group, naming each. Eostre was greeted next, and then Meghan. ‘Please do stay with us the night and share a meal,’ he said taking them all in with a glance about. ‘A simple journey meal . . . plenty of meat, I think, to satisfy hunger. And whatever else we can pull together from your packs and ours.’

[Undómë]

Meghan


Meghan was more than glad to see her two companions all in one piece. When Athwen had spoken about the ambush, Meghan had gotten the idea that while the two were still alive, they were quite battered. She grinned widely at the two and ran to see them.

Osmod seemed fine. She looked at him appraisingly. No nicks or big bruises. She smiled a little wondering if the incident had ruffled his feathers a bit though. Best not tease him at this point . . . she told herself. Not in front of anyone, at least.

To Fion she spoke gently. He’d taken the brunt of the pummeling, it seemed. ‘We should have all stuck together,’ she told him. ‘Taken them on as a group.’ She rested her hand lightly on his arm. ‘You were very brave to scout ahead for us, Fion. Thank you for taking that on.’ She leaned in close to whisper to him. ‘Sometimes I curse the ill luck that set me on this journey to the King. Honestly, I don’t know how I’ll stand up to an attack, if one comes my way. Sometimes I find myself thinking I’d just run off like when my little flock scatters at the first hint of danger.’

She was about to say more when one of the other group’s men came walking over and began to introduce himself to Rædwald and the others of her group. Brand, he said his name was. From Wulfham. She frowned for a moment, the village name rousing some dusty memory in her thoughts. She could not quite catch the connections and shrugged it off as just some odd passing thought.

Meghan’s belly rumbled as he mentioned eating. Her eyes lit up at the thought of roasted bits of deer meat, sizzling hot from the fire. ‘Well, I for one would like to accept your invitation.’ She turned to Rædwald. ‘Didn’t you say you’d brought a little sack of oats? We can make oatcakes to fill in the empty spaces.’ She looked about the entire group. ‘I’m sure someone here will give me a hand.’

She stepped a little closer to Brand, her gaze traveling over his cheek wounds and those on his arms. ‘What happened to you?’ she said, her voice sounding genuinely interested. ‘I hope whatever did that is dead now!’ Her hand traveled up toward his face, but was quickly recalled as she realized he might take the action amiss. ‘Sorry!’ she murmured, her cheeks coloring. ‘I didn’t mean to be so bold.’

[Nogrod]

"I’m Brand, from Wulfham", Sythric heard Brand introducing himself just after he walked out from the situation. From Wulfham? Wasn’t old Griawan at the riders from Wulfham? A good man he was indeed. Raedwald would surely remember him. But why this oldtimer and the girl? Are these the only survivors of Wulfham? Wulfham burned down with only six survivors!

He had been angry. He had had justification to it. They had been over-jumpy and attacked clearly innocent people – with possibly disasterous results, if Fion could not continue. Where could we leave him? We couldn’t wait anyhow... And the bloody blanket there at the grass just had kicked him into the belly with a force of ten bulls. Now this Brand was clearly offended by him. That should have to be repaired, and hopefully soon. We are all in this same mess, all thrown asunder by these rough times, and would have to co-operate. Maybe we should take the swift riders of them with those of us able to ride fast, to tell also the story of Wulfham, and the slower ones would try to join the next refugee village together?

He heard Brand inviting them to eat and overnight with them. It sounded promising to his ears. But still he was faced with the old man – and the other young man and the girl. They had said nothing – they were all listening to Brand making the invitations.

Sythric addressed Leod: “So you are from Wulfham? Are there any other survivors? These surely are dark times! I knew a Wulfhamer back in the riders, Griawan was his name. He was a good man, and so I trust you others to be as well. Forgive me my anger. It’s not so much us who talk and act like that, it’s the times and the disstress, that talk and act through us with that impatience. I think we all will have to talk about this, maybe at the fireside, with some roast deer to go with it?”

[Valier]

Vaenosa had tried to stay quiet and tend the fire, but she was becoming restless. Now there were even more strangers in their midst. She did not like the look of the lot and was getting more irratated with every second that went by. The last straw came when she heard Brand offer these people a meal and for them to spend the night in their camp. How can he do this? Is he daft? There is a young girl in this camp, as well as three other females. How can we be safe? The look of these men! I swear, I will sleep not while they sleep near!
Vaenosa shot a look towards Brand, then whistled for Nay. He had finished playing with the tree bark and was about to come bug her for attention anyways. Grabbing his reins, Vaenosa stalked towards the small river. She didn't care to tell anyone where she was going or what they would think of her.

Stooping Vaenosa picked up a handful of rocks and began to chuck them into the water with great force. She was as stressed as She had been in a very long time. She was prone to harsh actions and words as if they would protect her, but now she was scared that with all these strangers she might let her guard down and be hurt in some way. I think I'll stay here for awhile. I am sure they can cook the meat by themselves. I did not come here to make friends, only to save my Mother.

"Nay what do you think of all this? I guess you could care less, the more people the more trouble you can get into eh?" Vaenosa said as she stroked Nay's mane. "Well you will have to sleep with me, my friend because there is no way I shall doze long and if someone approachs you will let me know." Nay answered her back with a snort and a tug on her hair. "Oww you creatin! I hate it when you bite my hair! It leaves it all crusty with your drool!" Trying hard not to bite him back, Vaenosa resumed to whipping rocks into the water tring to regain her calmness, so she could return to the camp before someone came there to find her. She was almost certain no one would come to find her, they probably wished she would just stay behind or get lost on the journey..

[Farael]

His friends were all there, and as they made arrangements for what promised to be a good dinner away from home, Osmod drifted back into his silent self. Some of the men were busying themselves with the deer carcass and Meghan was asking Rædwald for some oats while Osmod and Fion rested for another moment. Then, Mother Nature made her call felt and Osmod excused himself from the rest of the group. He found a suitable clump of bushes close to the river, and then he decided to wash himself before dinner time. It was far too cold to take his clothes off and get into the river, but he kneeled on a big flat boulder on the riverbed and washed his hands and his face.

…plock.. sounded once. plick… plock… sounded again.

Osmod looked up to see the cruel woman –he could not force himself to think otherwise- throwing stones onto the river. For a moment, he thought that stone-throwing must be a popular skill wherever these people came from -looking at what they had done to Fion- but he disregarded that thought as silly. Dying himself as best as he could with his cloak, he walked over to the woman. Her horse was nearby and not knowing a better way to start a conversation, he approached the stallion and patted his neck slightly. He was bitten for his effort. ”Brute..” He muttered to himself, before regaining his composure and addressing the startled woman. ”Oh, I’m sorry… I did not mean to scare you. I saw you here and thought we never got a chance to talk, you know, after our… meeting. Sadly, your horse surprised me before I got a chance to say hello. I am Osmod, as you probably know, and I used to lead the Bregoware group. After my last mistake, I don’t know who could possibly follow me into yet another ambush.” He shook his head ”But that is not something you need to concern about, would you walk with me back into the camp? It is getting dark and we should all stay together.” He tried to smile, reassuringly and did his best to hide his feelings from this woman. She had threatened Fion’s life and that was not something he would forgive easily. But in any case, the other people in her group seemed civilized enough, and if she was with them she must have been useful in one way or another.

Osmod just hoped she was not useful as a cold-blooded killer.

[Valier]

Vaenosa was busying herself trowing rocks when someone approached from behind, startling her. It was the man they had netted, Osmod she was pretty sure was his name. He appologized for scaring her and asked if she would walk back to the camp with him. He gave a weak smile, which Vaenosa knew held more then what he led on. She was sure he had came to seek vengence for the way she had treated them. No man in her mind would be able to let the shame of a woman beating them go unjustified. His words were a front, she was sure. But why would he even approach her? Was he just letting her know he had not forgotten her or was he mearly attempting to make friends? Well she would be weary every second she was alone.

" I was just about to head back myself, since I know how wandering off goes unappreciated with most of these people. I see no harm in you joining me in the quick walk back." Vaenosa said as she smiled coyly. "Just watch Nay if he's behind you...He likes to bite!" With that Nay bumped Osmond from behind as she said it, giving him a slight push. " So you were the Leader of your group then? Why do you say were? Have they all mutanied against you?" Vaenosa could not help herself, she always felt the need to try and belittle men. She intended this time to put on a smile and keep her enemies close.

Vaenosa flipped her long, slightly matted hair off her shoulder and looked back to the man who followed behind her. She looked to see if Nay was following still and sure enough he was, but he seemed to have other plans as well. He slowed almost to a stop then pounced towards the man landing him squarely in the back with his head. Osmond gave a slighty yelp as he was taken by surprise and fell forward onto the earth.

Vaenosa held her sides for a moment at the sight of the man on the ground with a crazy prancing, pouncing horse romping around him. She tried hard not to laugh, but let out a quick "Ha!" Vaenosa leaned over and offered her hand to the man. "Sorry, he just....he thinks he's a Dog... or maybe a goat...I do not know, but well sorry!" She waited to see if the man would erupt with anger and retribution or would he let the moment go and not be angered at his vulnerability.

[Eowyn Skywalker]

It was impossible for Eostre to help but falling into her traditional silent state, observing and taking everything in, but saying nothing. Her horse had carried in the fallen deer; walking back over to him, she rubbed him gently between the ears. "A slightly different situation, eh there? All these strange people?"

Leaving her horse to whatever he chose to do, Eostre sat down on a nearby stump. Of course Meghan would fit right in, making friends with everyone and probably winning all the men's hearts while she was at it. Friendly, chipper, naive... was everyone like that? Was she the only one who saw life and just knew it would turn around and bite you in the behind?

Hah.

She examined those who had previously been the rest of her party. Fion seemed to have taken the worst damage, but all in all, everyone was in tact.

Perhaps we'll be able to eat, then.

[Tevildo]

Leod glanced sideways at Sythric, and then nodded his head. "Aye, I've a mind to eat myself. And talk always goes better over food. And your questions will take some time to answer. Some of the others have already started to clean and dress the deer, but it may be a while till it is ready for us. But come with me. I think I can get us a bite while we're waiting."

He beckoned to Sythric to follow him to the far side of the camp. "That's Dorran," Leod explained. "That young lad is a whiz with the cooking pots and he's got some fish smoking over that smaller fire. Let's sit here and rest our feet. I'll try to explain the rest."

Leod went over and snatched up two plates from Dorran, depositing a large smoked fish on each. Then he handed the plate with the larger portion to Sythric and sat down beside the man to eat. The stranger looked to be about forty. He was a bit stocky and had his light brown hair pulled back into two braids. His steady demeanor and serious look, suggested that he was a householder of some sort, not simply a rag-tag wanderer. For a moment, Leod sighed. This man looked little different than the neighbors he'd left behind, lying still and silent in the dirt. Perhaps his sharp words had been too hasty, and there was less difference between them and the strangers than what he had first thought.

"I'm no Wulfhamer. So I'm afraid I don't know the man you mention. And thank goodness, Wulfham still stands whole, or at least Brand says so the last time they saw it," Leod explained. "No, I'm from the village upstream that met its end at the hands of the Orcs. I'm a healer by trade. That place is burnt to the ground. As far as I know, Athwen and I are the only ones who managed to survive. But I will say this. Brand and his fellows, even the women with their feisty ways, are not a bad sort. They've been kind and decent to me ever since I met them. They could have left me behind, but Brand would not hear of it. And this one....." Here, Leod pointed over to Dorran. "He's a good young 'un. Tries his best and can cook up a storm."

Leod reached out and helped himself to another fish before continuing on. "We do need to get out of here tomorrow and run lickety split down to Edoras, as fast as the horses will carry us. If not, we could have the blood of more villagers on our heads. And I've no wish to see that happen twice. The sooner we get word to the king about what's going on throughout the countryside, the faster help will be on the way, and the women and children will get some protection as they travel south."

"I suppose then, you'll prefer to go off on your own? But if you don't want to answer me, suit yourself. Either way, we'll get some of that roast deer a few hours from now and, hopefully, we'll both get a good night's sleep." Leod glanced over and wondered if Sythric would explain more about why they were here or what they planned to do.

[Maeggaladiel]

Fion gave a lopsided grin, hearing Meghan's remark about his bravery.

"You know, that's the first time I've heard someone label 'getting hit in the head' as 'bravery,' " he said. "Maybe I should take the scouting duty more often. I'll be decorated in medals of honor in no time at all!"

Ignoring this remark, Meghan leaned forward and whispered, ‘Sometimes I curse the ill luck that set me on this journey to the King. Honestly, I don’t know how I’ll stand up to an attack, if one comes my way. Sometimes I find myself thinking I’d just run off like when my little flock scatters at the first hint of danger.’

Fion blinked in obvious surprise. Meghan was... afraid? His mind tried to focus on what she had just said, but most of it refused to consider anything other than the throbbing at his brow.

"But it wasn't ill luck," Fion tried to say. "We're a Company; we'll watch out for each other." That's what he MEANT to say, but Meghan had already walked away to answer Brand's invitation. Now Fion was alone again.

He stared down into the murky depths of the tea. Apparently it was helping, the pain wasn't as bad as it had been. It was kind of the elderly healer (Leod, did he say his name was?) to help him. But that didn't mean that Fion trusted these people. They had practically bashed his brains out with that stone, and knocked Osmod from his horse. To top it off, Fion didn't know where his own horse had gotten off to; she was a skittish thing to begin with, and having Fion fall of the saddle must have frightened her. Those bedamned Wulfham Riders made him lose his only mode of transportation. He was just beginning to like that sneaky nag, too.

And now they were inviting his friends for dinner. "Pay no mind to the fact that we just ambushed your leader and scout; Why don't you have some tea and biscuits with us? We'll have a grand party, while little Fion can slip into a coma in the corner over there." "Oh yes, that sounds lovely! We can munch on this deer carcass you left in the middle of the field for Who-Knows-How-Long!"

His mood dampening again, Fion put the tea down and shifted his weight. He looked back up, noticing Eostre standing by her horse. She was silent, as usual.

"What do you make of all this?" he asked her.

[Farael]

”So you were the Leader of your group then? Why do you say were? Have they all mutinied against you?"

-She was doing it on purpose, wasn’t she? No-one would ever be so tactless, even if he had commented on it himself- Thought Osmod. ”Well Miss, they have not mutinied against me, not just yet… but after they see how easily I lead Fion and I into your trap, I don’t think they’ll…” he never got to finish his sentence. The horse pounced on his back and threw him straight into the ground. From there, he looked up at Vaenosa, who was offering him a helping hand. The whole scene struck Osmod as funny. There he was, thinking that the woman was evil, possibly a murderer, and walking towards the camp with her just because she was still part of the Wulfham group and her horse decided to show him what humility meant. The woman didn’t seem so bad after all, maybe a little uptight, but she was not evil. With a chuckle, he took her hand and thanked her for the help. Then, with a curious glitter in his eyes, Osmod excused himself from Vaenosa for the moment.

He turned around to face Nay, who looked pretty content about himself. Knowing that the horse might expect some foul play, he approached him slowly, smiling and trying to look as harmless as he could. The horse had his eyes fixed on him, and that was not what Osmod wanted. He extended his arm and snapped his fingers a few times, which caught Nay’s attention just like he expected. Nay tried to bite his hand, but Osmod quickly took his hand away and, before the horse could recover, he jumped on to his back. He secured himself as best he could without a saddle and got ready for what was to come. First, Nay seemed oblivious of the rider on his back or perhaps confused. And then it started. Kick… Jump… Kick… Kick… Turn, Jump…. Kick The horse tried his best to rid himself of Osmod, but the man had managed to secure himself firmly. The horse kicked and Osmod laughed. The horse jumped and Osmod braced himself, for Nay was a strong animal and many times he was close to rid himself from his assailant. Finally, they both calmed down, tired and sweating. Still chuckling, Osmod dismounted and patted Nay’s neck in a friendly way. ”You give good fight my friend… next time I might not be as lucky” he told the horse, forgetting that Vaenosa was standing right there. He looked up at her, with a big impish grin as he ran his fingers through Nay’s mane ”You have a great horse, Miss. A little playful maybe, but he is a strong one. I am sure he will help you through your mission. He smiled as Nay took another friendly bite at his shoulder and shook his head in disbelief. He would have thought the horse would be too tired to bother him, at least for a few minutes.

[Arry]

Brand stepped back a pace. He found the nearness of her somewhat disconcerting. Not unpleasant or off-putting, but rather an unfamiliar inclination or curiosity that made him uncomfortable with its presence. He could not tell if he was glad she had come to her senses and let drop her hand or if he were dismayed.

‘It was a big cat, a cougar, that attacked our camp some days back,’ he offered in explanation. ‘It was after Lady, my horse. I couldn’t let Lady be brought down by the brute, so I foolishly took the cat on. And she nearly did me in before I could best her.’ He rolled his tunic sleeves down, shielding the scars on his arm from her gaze. There was nothing he could do to hide those on his cheek. And so he simply gazed toward her with as unconcerned an air as he could muster.

And broke the brief silence that had fallen thick between them with a change in subject. ‘You know . . . I’m a fair hand at oat cakes.’ He nodded at her. ‘No, really, I am. At least Lady thinks so, as does Patch . . . my dog,’ he said with a grin. ‘And even my more well done, crispy sort are relished by my flock when we’re out in the summer pasture . . .’

[Undómë]

Undómë's post

Meghan


‘Burnt oat cakes, eh? Hmmm . . .’ She stepped back and hands on hips gave him an appraising look, looking him up and down through narrowed eyes, brows raised. Had she been taller, it might have proved more effective. Still she was a large spirit in a small body and what she lacked in stature, she made up for in words . . . which were often not well thought out aforehand.

‘I can only think of one sort of animal who goes about in a flock and who might be so daft as to think a lumpy, charred offering would be tasty.’ Meghan shook her head and snorted. ‘Sheep . . . those dim-witted great lumps of yarn!’ She laughed, saying, ‘The only thing more feebleminded than sheep is the herder!’

Stifling another laugh, she glanced up and caught the change of expression on his face. Her mouth formed and ‘Oh!’ of sudden realization, her eyes opening wide. ‘Oh, no . . . tell me you’re not a sheep man . . . are you?’

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Arry's post


‘Oh, no . . . tell me you’re not a sheep man . . . are you?’

Now how was he to answer that one? Was he to admit to feeblemindedness simply because he kept sheep? He found himself on the horns of a dilemma . . . and there she stood a great grin on her face, her eyes snapping with delight at having bested him.

He wanted to be angry with her and found he simply couldn’t. Much as he composed his face into some semblance of seriousness, still he could feel the corners of his own mouth inching up into a similar grin.

‘And from the tone of your voice and the tenor of your comments, I’d say you are one of those . . . yes, those . . .’ He wrinkled his nose as if smelling something quite noxious. ‘Goat people.’ Now it was his turn to look down his nose at her . . . as if she were a bug of sorts. ‘Always butting into everyone’s business . . . that’s what goats do. And honestly, I’ve found for the most part their owners have quite similar temperaments. Nosy, bossy, demanding . . . and have you ever noticed how opinionated they are . . . goats and goat-herders . . .

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Undómë's post

Rædwald


Rædwald looked on with great amusement at the teasing play between the young man, Brand, and Meghan. He smiled at the words that passed between them; thinking all the while to himself that just such banter is how it should be between those their age. His eyes took on a certain sadness looking at Athwen as she knelt next to one of the other young men from Wulfham – Dorran. Pain and sorrow should not be the lot for these youngsters . . . it was not right. He spat on the ground thrice and cursed the lord of those dark lands who could not, would not, value lives such as these.

He untied the small sack of oats from his saddle and offered his horse a meager handful. ‘Sorry Lis,’ he told her. ‘But I fear the rest will be used to fill our own bellies, so best enjoy this little treat as there’ll be no more.

‘Come you two!’ he called out to Meghan and Brand. ‘For all your boasting of your cooking prowess, these oats won’t be mixed and seasoned and patted into tasty cakes by your words.’ He held up the bag, looking at them expectantly. ‘Time to put your hands to work and give your mouths a rest, eh?’

He threw the bag to Brand and winked at Meghan. ‘Time for the sheepman to prove his worth.’

[Nogrod]

Sythric really enjoyed the freshly smoked fish while listening to the old man. Fresh food really tasted after that dried lamb! At a moment he realized himself thinking, that the others should be offered some too. It would do good to all of them. Well I hope they notice this chance-lunch themselves, for this discussion will have to be made first.

Sythric started to get the hang of all this. It was at the same time more comforting but also more vividly tormenting. Wulfham might be still standing, even though without its people who were making their journey westwards – as were the Bregowarians. Hope they still were... But the picture was more real now. All of the eastern Rohan was on the move.

Leod fell silent. Sythric chewed the bit in his mouth and cleared his throat. He watched the old man seriously and said with some real compassion. “I’m really sorry about Scyffold. I did visit your town a couple of times, long time ago. It was a beautiful place, and the people I met there were goodhearted.” He took a small bite more of the fish, just looking at the old man who seemed to be in anguish after he had mentioned his town. No wonder, Sythric thought to himself.

“But anyhow. We rest are afraid for our cities and their people, and just hope the fate of yours hasn’t already turned on them – and to all the others. You might not know Bregoware, where we come from. It’s something like a bit more than a day’s ride north-east from the ferry of Arnanaes – or the King’s ferry, as some people call it. Our mission seems to be similar to that of the Wulfhamers here. So we share our destinies.” He fell silent again, just watching the slow fire, and Dorran handling the fish skilfully, as if he had done that all his young life. And young he was, just as Fion... But how about Fion? The thought came back to him, and he got concerned again.

“Oh, how about Fion, the young lad from our party who had himself shot in the head? Is he going to be able to ride tomorrow? This really worries me.” He asked lowering his voice, not wanting Fion sitting some ten yards away from them by the larger fire, to hear them, and looking at the old healer questioningly. Luckily the hassle and toil of Dorran made a shield of sound of some kind also. The words of old Hugebryth echoed in his head once more: “Just remember, that this message to the King, no matter how slim are the chances that it will affect anything in the end, is the single most important thing on your journey. It’s more important than the lives of any one of those youngsters”. Still he couldn’t think of leaving Fion behind, even with some others who would not be fast riders enough. He just couldn’t – even though he knew, that it might just be the thing required from them.

[Folwren]

Athwen had retreated and drawn back when Sythric asked Leod if they had come from Wulfham. She knew what the answer was and she didn’t like it. She didn’t want to be near when it was told that she and Leod weren’t initially part of the group riding to Edoras. Questions would have to arise, and they were already beginning to, but she didn’t want to have to answer them. It was too near, and too harsh. She actually feared their questioning looks and their pitying words - words that would try to put into understandable thoughts what the speaker was thinking but that would only end up causing uncomfortableness and remembrance of sorrow to deep to be fathomed yet by even the bearer, and far too fresh to be calmed by mere words from strangers.

Athwen was a coward and she knew it. She would have been able to face hardships and hunger and danger, so long as she had someone to go to during it and when it all was over. But now she had no one, and she couldn’t even face people who would like to befriend her.

She watched as Leod and Sythric walked to the fire, beginning to carry a conversation. They looked like they would get along well together. Meghan was fussing about Brand’s wounds, and the adventure of the cat they had met was being explained. Fion sat by the fire, and she couldn’t tell what he thought of everything. Eostre stood by her horse, and before Athwen had decided if she should approach her, Fion addressed her. She looked away.

Her eyes traced the trees and bushes towards the river. She remembered, as she looked, having seen Vaenosa and Osmod both head off from camp in that general direction. Briefly she wondered if they had met up with each other and how Osmod would have gotten along with Vaenosa. She sighed and looked back at the people near her.

‘Dorran,’ she said, walking forward suddenly. She knelt beside him. ‘I have absolutely nothing to do,’ she told him, holding out her hands, palms upward, ‘Can I help you? I desperately need something to do to keep my mind from working too hard.’

[Nogrod]

Suddenly all, at least all by the smaller fireside, nearer to the river, were alarmad by the stomping and neighing of a horse from the direction of the Great river. As Sythric turned his head with the others, he could see the figure of Osmod making his best with a strange horse - seeing who’s the master, principally - with one of the Wulfhamer girls checking out the result near them. It really was a show-off - even probably not intended as such.

Osmod, my dear boy! I already called you a man! And what are you doing now? Giving a show to a strange young lady about your horsemanship, while we really should be thinking about what to do! Leadership, Osmod, leadership! Now we would need it more than ever. We oldies shouldn’t do it, for we will have a company of miles to win in front of us. And we need all capable men and women in, wholeheartedly with this, not some grumpy oldtimers going on telling others what to do. It’s not a party then... C’mon Osmod, come to your senses! Or maybe this Brand-fellow could do it?Unluckily he seems to think very badly on me, and with reason, I must admit.

Simultaneously he heard footsetps approaching, and turned around. It was Athwen, who was coming to the fireside, clearly now following the match between the man versus the horse too, as she walked on. Their eyes met for an instant, and Sythric just had time to react with a symphatetic smile. Poor girl. Your life has just taken a direction anyone of us would fear as their worst nightmare! Athwen passed between him and Leod and addressed Dorran, clearly wanting to be of help. Sythric watched the two for a while – and then looked back to Fion, who was resting further from them by the greater fire, with a teacup in his hand, looking just nowhere in particular.

“Dorran!” He called, nodding to him as he raised his gaze towards him, “I am very much taken by this delicious fish you have produced us, master Dorran. If you know some fine ways to make chicken, I could provide us all with the next meal, for I found four chicken from Scyffold and have them with me. So maybe tomorrow... And if you need help in it, let me be the one to volunteer, I also know one or two things to do with chicken! We could exhange our ideas and have a perfect meal?” With that, he opened a wide smile, but as he met the eyes of Athwen, his face revealed a more serious attitude – although he tried to encourage her with his compassion. This is so wrong, that people so young have to endure things like this! Sythric felt the teardrop forming in the corner of his eye. He wiped his face hastily and turned again towards Leod.

[Naria]

Incana was not sure as to what to make of the new comers. She still felt bad as she looked over at the man called Fion. He seemed to be fairing quite well considering the blow that she had inflicted upon him. She struggled with what to say to him and wanted to aid in his comfort, but just as she made up her mind to approach him he asked a question of one of their female companions, stopping Incana's feet at once. She sighed and looked around in confusion where did Vaenosa get to now? Incana was so preoccupied with everything that had happened that she didn't notice the woman's retreat.

She immediately felt worried about Vaenosa. She must be horrified with all of the men staying at our camp and she had just begun to trust and get along, somewhat with our men. Incana headed off through some trees and found herself out in an open field with a clear view of the river. The woman noticed that Vaenosa was not alone, she was with a....a man! What was she doing? After all of the turmoil and grief she had put our men through, what did she think she was doing?! Incana couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy and anger, why her? Why not me? I want and deserve a husband, Vaenosa certainly has shown that she does not!Incana shook her head,what foolish thoughts you have! It did, afterall, look like he was having fun with Nay and for once Vaenosa too looked like she was enjoying herself. Incana thought, maybe Vaenosa has found something in this man that she can identify with and likes.

Incana decided to take the long way back to camp as to clear her head. She was plucking her way through some small bushes when she suddenly came upon a horse. It seemed to be acting like it had not a care in the world, happily grazing and swatting at some flies. Incana cautiously approached the horse not knowing what it would do. She wanted to keep to the side of the horse so as to not be in a direct kick from the hind end and also to keep in the line of sight, so the horse would not get spooked. The woman made low nickering sounds and somehow put her body into a swaying motion as she got closer--this had worked on several occasions in the dealings with a new horse that her father brought home. As Incana got closer it became clear that the horse was a female and was still saddled. She must belong to one of the riders back at camp, I have to get her back. "Easy girl. Come now, we need to get you back to the safety of the fire." The mare was hesitant at first and walked away from Incana's advancement. The woman did not give up though, she quietly followed the horse and waited until she stopped. Incana once again made the same low nicker and this time added some kissing clicks. The horse did not walk away this time she just stood still and allowed Incana to let her hand caress the horses back until her hand made contact with the reins. "Good girl." Incana made another click with her tongue and with a nod of agreement from the mare the pair made there way towards camp.

With horse in tow, Incana walked through the last bit of trees that surrounded the camp and tied the horse to a tree next to her own. "You two are very beautiful, I must say." While she was tending to the horses she caught wind of fish and something else. What was it? She couldn't quite put her finger on it. As she was giving the last horse some water and a light brushing her stomach gave a loud growl letting her know that the smell of the food was not being entirely ignored.

Ahhh....the other aroma was oatcakes, or so it looked to her like they were. It seemed that there was not going to be enough to go around. Incana squatted next to the woman that had prepared and was in the midst of cooking some. "May I be of some assistance?"

[Undómë]

Meghan


‘Yes, please join us!’ Meghan scooted to one side and nodded for the woman to crouch down next to her. ‘Incana . . . right? I like the sound of your name.’ she passed one of the bowls to the women and showed her where the oats were. ‘Seems like he,’ she glanced over to where Brand was forming his dough into thin cakes, ‘makes his different than what I’m used to.’ She held out one of her own uncooked patties. It was thicker than Brand’s and had a peppering of herbs kneaded into it. ‘This is how my family has always made them. It will be interesting to see what you do.'

The three worked in a comfortable silence for a while; the pat-pat sound of the dough as they slapped it back and forth from hand to hand the only sound among the trio.

‘I remember learning to do this with my Grandma Ada when I was just a little girl.’ Meghan’s voice broke the silence as she laid her finished oatcakes in the pan over the fire.

‘She learned to make them from her Grandma, too. And she was very particular that we put a little pinch of thyme in it. Not just any thyme, either, but lemon thyme. She said her Grandma Gerdë insisted on it. She had a twin brother, Grandma Gerdë did. Name of Garan. He liked the lemony taste and so she always put it in her oat cakes . . . to remember him by.’

Meghan reached up and pushed and escaping lock of hair out of her face with the back of her arm. ‘Not that he was dead or anything like that. But he crossed the river one summer, saying he was going up north a bit to take his goats to newer pastures. And he didn’t come back. Nearly broke Grandma Gerdë’s heart . . . or so Grandma Ada said.’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I guess he did send a message back to the family once . . . with a Ranger who was going east. It seems that my long gone Uncle Garan met some woman, Eolyn, from another village and married her and stayed there with her. Meghan laughed as a sudden thought struck her.

‘You know . . . I must have an odd cousin or two somewhere out there that I’ve never met! Isn't that funny!’

[Folwren]

There was little to be done, Dorran had told her. The meat would have to be carved from the bones of the deer, but that was hardly work for a woman. He didn’t voice that thought, but Athwen somehow knew it. She wouldn’t have wanted to do it anyway. Then Sythric called them and they were introduced almost properly. She bobbed a curtsey, or something of the like, and looked him in the face. When their eyes met she saw what she knew would have to be there - pity, and maybe just a little understanding. They looked away at the same time and as soon as she knew she would no longer be wanted or needed, she turned and walked away.

There was nothing for her to do, and relatively nowhere to go. She would have offered to help make the oatcakes, for she could cook well, but Meghan already had the helping hands of two of her companions. Her eyes rested on Fion, now sitting silently, his head in one hand, staring listlessly in the fire. She wondered briefly if his head was hurting him a terrible amount and took a few steps nearer. Next she wondered what he thought about her and her companions for what they had done to him, and she took more steps towards him. Before she quite realized it, she stood by his side and he very slowly looked up at her, barely turning his head.

‘Do you mind if I sit by you?’ she asked. ‘You don’t look like you feel well at all and I thought that if you had someone to talk to, it might take your mind off things. Not that I’ll be a particularly jolly companion, like Brand or Incana, but I’m willing to keep you company if you’ll have me until dinner is ready.

[Maeggaladiel]

There was a sound behind him, as though someone was sneaking up on him. Fion tore his gaze away from the fire, giving a halfhearted glance at the woman who was slowly approaching him. What now? Oh, perhaps the Wolf-Hammers (as he had come to think of them as) had found another rock that needed to be forcibly introduced to his forehead! What fun! He could--

"Do you mind if I sit by you?" she asked, interrupting his grouchy thoughts. "You don’t look like you feel well at all and I thought that if you had someone to talk to, it might take your mind off things. Not that I’ll be a particularly jolly companion, like Brand or Incana, but I’m willing to keep you company if you’ll have me until dinner is ready."

Fion thought about this for a moment. As far as he was concerned, he had every reason to dislike these people. All right, perhaps he was being a bit harsh; they claimed it had been an honest mistake. But still! Rock in the forehead!! Mistaken for an ugly old Easterling!

On the other hand, though, Fion didn't like being left alone, either. He had in fact harbored secret fears that the others would leave him behind if he wasn't well enough to ride tomorrow morning. Certainly, the fate of Bregoware was more important than the well-being of one young man, and the message to the King couldn't wait. But he didn't want to be stuck here, in the skeleton of the old village...

"That's.... fine," Fion grunted to the woman, his eyes glued to the ground. There was a sound of rustling fabric as she sat down next to him. An uncomfortable silence settled beween them for a moment, and Fion finally broke down and tried to start a conversation.

"You're from Wulfham, then?" he asked in a monotone voice, swishing the tea around in the cup. There was a pause from the woman, and Fion almost thought she had left him. Then he looked up, and saw her staring at the cloud of smoke at the horizon. Why was-- Oh...

"Oh, I'm sorry!" he said quickly, realizing his mistake. "I didn't know... I'm so sorry!" He stared back at the ground. He felt awful; all this time he had been complaining about his forehead, where this woman had lost her entire village and said nary a thing.

She looked sad, but shook her head.

"It's all right," she said. She looked as though she was about to say something else, but then she seemed to push the idea aside and instead asked, "How old are you, Fion?"

Fion assumed that the conversation topic had been changed for a reason, so he didn't press her any further.

"Seventeen," he replied truthfully. Normally he would have lied a little and rounded upwards, but somehow he felt like he should just be honest this time. "I'll be eighteen come spring-time. And you?"

[Folwren]

The question was a simple starter for conversation, and Athwen sighed inwardly as she consciously kept tears from coming to her eyes. She looked up and glanced towards the horizon, biting her tongue for fear of saying anything and not being able to finish. She was aware of Fion glancing up at her and before she could quite get a hold on her feelings, he guessed the answer to his own question.

‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ She looked back at him quickly. ‘I didn’t know. . .I’m so sorry!’ Athwen tried to smile, she really did, but she couldn’t. Instead she just shook her head.

‘It’s alright,’ she told him gently. He looked back at her. Something else had to be brought up. The easiest thing that came she used. ‘How old are you, Fion?’ It was partly out of curiosity, that much was true. She hadn’t asked anyone their age and she had begun to wonder if she was so much younger than the others as she had first thought.

‘Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen come spring-time. You?’

‘Just turned sixteen,’ Athwen admitted. She leaned back on her hands and considered him. ‘You look older than seventeen. My - I mean, a friend of mine from back there was seventeen.’ A short pause. ‘I’m really sorry about what happened to you,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if anyone’s made any proper apologies, but we were all very frightened when we thought Easterlings were coming. You can imagine what we thought when Incana and Vaenosa came galloping back to camp saying they’d seen two riders who might be enemies. We were too hasty and clumsy to look before we shot, though, I guess,’ she said, lowering her eyes. ‘It could have been worse, though, you know. At least it wasn’t an arrow.’

Now that was clumsy. Her eyebrows went up in surprise at her own words and she didn’t look back up at him. Apologizing was one thing, explanation and making mild excuses for the actions was, too, but saying that ‘it could have been worse’ and therefore assuming that he ‘shouldn’t take it so hard’ was absolutely another thing.

‘You have every right, no doubt, to be rather put out,’ she hastened to say. ‘But you will forgive us, I hope.’

[Valier]

Vaenosa's eyes went wide at the sight of the young man attempting to trade wit with Nay, of all animals. Nay thought this had to be a game, so he kicked and jumped and tried to buck the heavier man from his back, without succeeding. Osmod leapt from Nay's back and gave him a friendly pat, and in return Nay bit his shoulder. " I am afraid you have now made a pesky friend forever!" Vaenosa sighed as she talked to the young man. She gave Nay a slap on the rump and he went speeding like a demon back to the camp.

Vaenosa almost felt the need to apologize for her rash choices when the ambush occured, but she did not know this man and thought she should keep her apologies for another time, perhaps they would choose to travel with them to Edoras, which would give Vaenosa time to judge his character.

The two of them stood uncomfortably in silence for a moment while Osmod brushed the dirt from his clothing." I uumm am going to head back now....sorry about Nay I hope he hasn't taken too much of a liking to you or you may never get a Nay free moment." Vaenosa produced a slight smile, then turned and headed back.

Everyone in the camp seemed to be busy preparing something for the meal they would share. Vaenosa had never really been too fond of cooking, she had left that to her mother as she roamed the countryside with Nay. Her mother had insisted that she learn some skills so when she married, she could cook for her husband. "Mother, I will never marry! Who would have a woman who hates to cook and can barely sew?" Her mother would always just shake her head and smile. Sometimes Vaenosa was sure her Mother had planned all along for Vaenosa to go on this journey. The march warden had called her name, she had not volunteered. She was sure her Mother had something to do with that.

Vaenosa felt a little lost with all these people around, she did not want to talk with Incana at the moment, who seemed to be fitting in nicely with one of the other woman and the prospect of introducing herself to the others was out of the question. Scanning the camp, she saw that they would be needing more wood for the fire tonight and for their journey. She whistled again for Nay, who was headed towards the group of horses, who were calmly eating grass. She knew he did not plan on just grazing, so she would use him to carry more wood back to the camp.

Staying close enough to see what was going on in the camp, Vaenosa began to break branches and sticks placing them in Nay's riding blanket to carry them back. Vaenosa began to notice as she was placing more wood on her pile, that it was slowly going down in size. She continued with her gathering but kept her eyes on the pile of wood. Sure enough when she turned to grab another stick, a big brown head reached into the pile extracting the stick she had just placed there. Vaenosa pretended to ignore him, until he reached in for another stick. She swiftly reached up and grabbed ahold of Nay's perky ears,"Hey you! Your making this much harder than it should be! Stop it! Go on go find someone else to pester then." Nay happily obliged, with a jump and a nicker he was off intent on causing more frustration.

Vaenosa was wondering what had gotten into her horse today, he was usually a little more tactful with his play, but the ride with the young man had gotten him all hyper and ready for fun. Vaenosa was lost in her thoughts when she heard someone yell. "Hey you dang horse, give that back!" Nay was prancing away from the fire with someone's drinking cup in his mouth. He had his head high, thinking he was so smart. Vaenosa gave a sigh, was she going to have to abandon all attempts at work today and just keep an eye on her horse?

"Nay! You drop that! You are not a Dog and that is not your cup!!" Vaenosa called to him as she attempted to get close to him to extract the now drooled up cup from his mouth. But of course Nay thought this to be a game of tag, so he ran around in circles, just out of arms reach. Vaenosa began to get a little put out by all his nonsense. "Nay, you drop that right now, or I'll...I'll.....Oh just drop it!" Vaenosa said with a stamp from her foot. She was sure that the people in the camp were all laughing at her, she could not even control her own horse. Embarrassed and infuriated she stood there in the middle of the prancing fools circle and waited for him to stop.

[Eowyn Skywalker]

It was a shock that she had been briefly addressed; enough of one that Eostre didn't have the time to think up a sane reply before Fion had been called back by another person—another excuse, of course, for no one to speak to her. But, then, why should they care to talk to her? She was nothing more than a seemingly irritable nag, an alien to the theory of just letting loose.

Perhaps they were simply afraid of her.

Exhaling, she stood up and abandoned the nearby area, leaving the reach of the fire in search of something quieter to do. If no one would talk with her, she thought she may as well bore herself to tears.

But she was startled out of her misery by a horse, stomping about as if it were a dog. Her eyes widened a bit, examining this scene with a silent and almost critical eye; it was so outragous in the midst of this calamity that it was almost laughable! Of course she couldn't bring herself to laugh, though, but it was still strangely amusing, some foreign occurance in chaos.

[Tevildo]

Dorran

Dorran stared helplessly as Athwen retreated and went over to sit near Fion. What a terrible fool he had been! The young woman had come over asking if there was some way that she could help, but behind her simple words had been a hundred questions left unsaid. She had wanted a bit of kindness, and all he could do was stumble over his words and gawk. While sometimes it was hard for him to talk with a lass, there had been more going on than that.

He wished he could have spoken to her the way he did with his own sister---in an easy, familiar way that showed kindness and respect. Still, it hadn't only been the presence of a young girl that had so rattled him and thrown him off track. The plain fact was that the Orc attack on the village had totally unnerved him. There were too many bleak memories still in his mind. Wherever Athwen walked, the ghosts of the village seemed to tred quietly in her path. And those ghosts were too much like things that Dorran had already heard and seen. Still, that was no excuse for rude behavior.

He managed to mumble his thanks to Sythric for his offer of help in cooking. Then, thinking of the only thing he could do to make some amends, he grabbed two wooden trenchers from the supply sack, piled these high with fish and added a few nutty sweets to the side of the plate, the last treats that he had from those his sister had put in his pack. Running over to where Fion and Athwen were seated, he impulsively reached out and shoved his offerings towards them, mumbling out an apology. "I must ask pardon from both of you. Fion, if truth be told, it's because of me that you bear a fearsome lump on your head and are feeling so poorly. When they spoke of men coming after the Orc raid, all I could think about were the Easterlings who descended on our own village and dragged all the survivors off to slavery. I'm really, really sorry. I made a fearful mistake. You're certainly no Easterling. And lady Athwen, forgive my rudeness. It's true I have nothing for you to do right now. But with all these newcomers in camp, I would truly appreciate some help in preparing things in the morning before we set out on the trail. Perhaps, you'd like to help then and we could talk a bit."

Dorran stared down at the ground and shook his head, "It's hard. I know. You see, the same thing happened in my own village when I was a little child. It was a horrible day. Just horrible. My parents survived but my older brother was....." He stopped and backed awkwardly away, reluctant to say more. "Anyways, here's the food, and I hope you're both feeling better soon."

****************************************

Leod

Leod turned towards Sythric and sighed, "I am sorry. I've said nothing to answer the question you posed to me, as to the health of Fion. If truth be told, I am siting here and wondering the same thing myself. He looks to be in amazingly good shape for one who has gone through what happened this afternoon. And yet, I wonder......"

Leod's voice drifted off before he began speaking again, "Sometimes there are wounds inside, ones that can't be seen to a healer. I just don't know if that is the case. The wound on the head is still nasty. Plus he has lost blood and is weaker than I would like to see, for one about to set out on a long journey. If the trip is light and easy, I don't imagine your friend will have any trouble. But if we must ride hard, if there are new blows or wounds, then, truthfully, I am not sure what might happen. Perhaps it would be best if he could journey more slowly and not try anything so ill advised as a madcap rush for Edoras. But, then, I am not a member of your party, and it is not I that must decide this...."

[Nogrod]

“... But, then, I am not a member of your party, and it is not I that must decide this....", Leod turned to look at Sythric. Is he waiting for me to agree on this? He’s right in a way, and then not: we are in this mess all of us, together.

“I thank you for your being quite outspoken, considering Fion, but I still think I have to disagree with you.” Sythric looked at Leod firmly, but also respectingly. He had learned to honour the elders, and he sure did, but now he really had to disagree. “I guess, we have lots of decisions, possibly some grave ones to make, all of us. I don’t think we can any more talk of us as separate parties. We are Rohanians in trouble, again all of us. I can’t see any outsiders here any more. The land is insecure, and there are a host of messages to the King waiting for delivery – messages, that seem to be gaining in importance day after day. Wulfham and Bregoware are abandoned, as is Aernanaes. Scyffold is burnt down... We have to think about these things as one now, as Rohanians with a common end: how to balance between the effectiveness of our delivery and the safety of all of us individually?” He paused for a while, checking Leod’s reactions. He seemed not to disagree, at least not outright, as his expressions revealed not a thought behind them.

“But that’s something we should discuss together, all of us, with a roast deer to go with it... Which kind of reminds me of...”, he looked to his left where Dorran and Athwen were sitting besides Fion and talking something. He turned his face back to Leod. “It seems, that our master chef has more important things at hand just now?”, with that he winked an eye to Leod and smiled jokingly. “Maybe we should continue preparing this deer, so that we would all have a good dinner before it gets dark?” Leod nodded in agreement. They rose up and took themselves to where Dorran had left the half-carved deer. Together they were pretty fast with it, both knowing the trade well enough. The deer was skinned in just a moment.

“I have some seasoning at my packages, and I could also go and make us a spit of sorts, if you would wash the blood from the deer and see to the fire so that it burns nicely? I quess we should roast this at that bigger fire where Fion and others are, as this has been used to smoking, and would take quite a time to generate enough heat? I could then take care of the internal organs – if Dorran won’t be rushing to it before I have a chance.” As Leod agreed to this division of labour, Sythric took to the nearby trees, and noticed Eostre standing alone, just having fun by herself. Eostre, so you are alone again... How do we get you out from your private jail you’ve created?

It was only now, as Sythric walked towards Eostre, that he paid attention to Nay’s private show that clearly seemed to be the thing amusing her. It sure seemed funny – although Vaenosa seemed pretty frustrated with it. Has that girl ever trained her horse? How has she dared to take that kind of a horse to a mission like this? They both watched it a couple of moments silently, but then Sytric addressed Eostre. “Would you like to do something? Kind of joining us others? We would have to make a spit, needing two strong young trees with boughs at the top, about a yard long, and one two-yarder, thinner but thick and straight. Could you get them? I could then go and unpack all our horses for their comfort, and get the seasoning. Leod, the old man there, is preparing the deer to the bigger fire. Or we could change the jobs: I’ll get the spit and you’ll unpack the horses? My seasoning is in a small box, in the backbag at Thydrë’s left side.”

[Folwren]

Athwen looked from Dorran, slowly walking away, to the trencher he had put into her hands, and back again. Blinking in surprise, she then averted her gaze to Fion who simply shrugged and repositioned himself so that he could eat more comfortably. The food indeed looked excellent and Athwen was hungry, no mistake, but. . .

'Dorran, wait.' Her voice trembled slightly, but she couldn't help it and she wouldn't put it off. She put the plate down and scrambled quickly to her feet, pushing her skirt impatiently away from her ankles as she rose. He turned at her voice and she approached him and came to a stop right before him. He looked down at her, and she looked back at him. 'I know what you mean,' she said after a short pause of not knowing what to say at all. 'I don't blame you for not knowing what to say or do, I really don't.' She could have cursed the tears in her eyes. It was hard enough for the young man as it was without seeing them and hearing her voice quavering as though it were about to break. She broke the gaze and looked down.

'I wasn't. . .I wasn't offended at all when you said there wasn't anything to do,' she said. 'Honestly. I didn't want to cut up the deer and I don't know, even if I did want to help. But I would like to help with breakfast tomorrow.' She paused. That wasn't even the most important part of it all. She lifted her head again and looked at him. 'You've been through what I have, too?' she suddenly asked, unaware that her voice had dropped almost to a whisper.

'We'll talk later,' he said quietly. 'When there aren't as many people around and possibly listening.' He took a swift, cursory glance around him before looking back at Athwen.

'Alright,' she said, stepping back. 'So long as you're alright.' He nodded, and she was satisfied, and she turned away and went back to her seat by Fion. Sitting back down, she took up the trencher and set it on her lap. 'I've not eaten since morning,' she said, pealing some of the smoked fish from the bones. There was a slight pause while she was intent on her food. In a moment, however, she became aware that the silence between them was probably awkward, and now, becoming aware of it, she found that it was. 'Um. . .have you known your companions long, from your home?'

[Eowyn Skywalker]

Eowyn Skywalker's post


The request jerked her from the bemused and amused state Eostre had let herself sink into. She glanced over at Sythric; he seemed to be vaguely concerned about her, but she didn't have the heart to tell him she preferred being this way. Silence was safer, it didn't scream at you and assume things that didn't always ever make sense. Didn't assume you wanted this or that, or perhaps this and that and that while you were at it.

"I don't have an axe," she responded dutifully, perhaps a bit dully. "I can unpack our horses though, certainly."

They seperated then, Eostre going over to unpack the Bregowarian horses. They weren't overpacked, she noted with relief—though packed heavily enough she felt certain the creatures had to feel a strong sense of relief at being let to breathe again. She stacked the packs silently nearby the logs about the fire, rubbing the horse's backs a moment after relieving them of their burdans.

At Sythric's horse, she paused a moment, digging the spices from the pack before finishing the job. Having pocketed them, she was uncertain who to give them to... Leod, wasn't it? The older man.

Walking over to the larger fire where the deer was to be cooked, she sat down nearby, the spices in hand. Surely whoever required them would ask.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nogrod's post


Making the spit it is then, Sythric thought, and took himself to the sparse thicket, searching for suitable young trees. He found a fitting two-yarder quite easily. But getting the vertical ones weren’t as easy. In the end he found two small birches by the side of the river that had thick enough boughs in them.

Sythric hacked them down with his great uncle’s knife “I don’t have an axe”, he remembered Eostre’s words and smiled lightly. Then he sat down on to a large rock by the river and started to peel them. It was then that he realized, how blissful it was to be alone for a moment. Just doing something routine-like, not having to think anything in particular. He watched at the willows by the riverbank, their leaves and branches hissing softly in the wind. He remembered his father, teaching him to make a willow-whistle when he was seven. When have I made a willow-whistle the last time? It must have been the one I made to Winflaed. But how long ago? Must be six years...

It had been a hot, latesummer day. The crickets were chirping and the bees were buzzing, the dragonflies flew over the water searching for pray. The sunlight was gently filtered through the leafs on the trees around the stream. They were sitting by the little stream that ran beside Skara’s minor fields. Just behind the stream’s corner, they could see the little watermill, it’s wheel revolving slowly by the weak current. The main building on the top of the hill was just hidden from view by the few small trees and bushes by the streamside. Those trees also sheltered the people sitting beneath them from the cruelly hot sun of the early afternoon. Waermund and Waerferth were fishing with hook and line their father had made them. It was always a great wonder to Sythric, how young boys could be so taken in with something that they managed to concentrate and focus on it, even for a short while. The little boys watched the float intently, in total silence.

He had given his great uncle’s knife to Winflaed, and she had cut down a nice finger-thick willow for them. Then he had shown her, step by step, how the whistle was made: how the bark was loosened whole by tapping it with the knifehandle, where the airhole should be carved, how deep the mouthpiece should be cut, how it could be decorated etc. The eleven year old girl had watched in awe and wonder how the man had turned a mere greyish stick into an instrument with soft, curvy indentations running by its side. She just had to make one herself! Her little fingers handled her knife skilfully – Sythric had given it to her as a birthday present, when she had turned ten last year. She clearly had some talent with the knife. Only now that talent and skill was clearly directed more to decoration than making the whistle sound. After some toil Winflaed was happy with the result. But as was to be expected, it didn’t work. She bit her lip and fought against the tears.

They had reached a deal in the end. Sythric had made a new whistle, which Winflaed decorated. So as almost everything you could see, was made by her, then that way it was a whistle made by her. So went her reasoning, and Syhtric happily accepted it. She had been very proud of “her first whistle”, playing it for the rest of the summer everywhere – and getting most of the people quite annoyed in the end.

How dear memories! Did I ask Swithulf to take that whistle with him or not? He had preserved Winflaed’s unsounding whistle for himself as a memory of those days. But where was it now? The whistle that was so enthusiastically been carved by those little girl’s hands in times that were so much brighter and happier than the present. Where was that little girl, now a young lady? Running for her life, raped and abused, imprisoned, dead...? Now there was nothing to stop the tears. No one around seeing him cry. He sobbed his heart out there at the riverbank. The knife dropped from his hand and his body trembled with every new burst of tears.

But it was over soon enough. The chill, wintery breeze from the river helped to carry away the memories of golden summerdays. Pull yourself together man! There are pressing things at hand, and you sit here alone, crying like a child. He calmed himself down while peeling the last stick and then rose up. He dried his eyes and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He checked his image from the water. So wary, so old now with grief. Well, this might be your last chance of doing some decent deeds before you’re gone. He walked quietly back to the camp.

Leod had cleaned the deer, and was rubbing the seasoning to it with Eostre as he came to the fireplace. Sythric adjusted the vertical spit-holders to their places, while Leod and Eostre ran the two-yarder through the deer and tied the legs to its body. Then they all three lifted it up to rest on the boughs. The fire was burning brightly. It was only now, by the heat of the fire, that Sythric realized the weather being much colder today than it had been yesterday.

[Folwren]

Maeggaladiel's post


"Have you known your companions long, from your home?" Fion turned his attention back to Athwen as she returned. She had gone off to speak to Dorran, the young man who had confessed to thinking up the rock idea. He looked even younger than Fion, and from what he gathered, that was saying something. Dorran had been afraid. Afraid that his companions were in danger, like the people of that town had been. Fion could sympathize. His anger towards the Wulfham riders began to subside. He wanted to speak to the lad as well, but just thinking about standing up made his head spin. Oh well. Perhaps they would get a chance to talk later.

Athwen was staring at him, and Fion realized that she was waiting for him to answer her question. He opened his mouth, and suddenly something occurred to him.

"You know, I really haven't," he said, somewhat surprised. It was true. They had lived in the same small village, but he had never known any of them prior to this adventure. It seemed odd, but he supposed it made sense. They were different ages, different genders, from different social standings....

"I really only just met them," he continued. He chewed a piece of fish thoughtfully, pondering this. "We've never really had a reason to get to know each other, I suppose. Most of them herd goats or cattle, or are old enough to never have needed to bother with someone my age. My family are farmers, not herders. We tend fields of vegetables and the like, and we raise chickens and geese. My father might've traded with Meghan's family once or twice, but I've never really had much reason to be with them, in all honesty."

[Undómë]

Rædwald


‘Hmmmm . . . well, it smells good.’ Rædwald picked up an oatcake gingerly between thumb and forefinger, juggling it quickly from hand to hand as he blew on it. ‘Hot, too!’ he added, grinning at the three cooks. He took a bite of the cake, one of the ones Brand had made and chewed on it thoughtfully. ‘Not bad, not bad,’ he said, nodding his head at Brand. ‘I think you’ve held up the honor of us Men of the Mark!’ He winked at Meghan as he turned the oatcake round for a closer inspection. ‘And not a sign that it’s been burnt to be seen.’

Rædwald took his battered helmet and wiped it clean with his shirttail. He piled the oatcakes in it and brought them to the gathering group near the fire. The deer had been cooking on the spit for a while and the spices that had been put on it gave it a tasty, enticing smell. The hungrier of the group had already begun shaving off the outside layers and greedily downing the hot, savory meat.

He cut a good long strip for himself and sat down on the ground close to where Meghan had plopped herself down. Brand he noted sat near also. Have to keep an eye on that young cur….. he thought to himself.

‘It’s a passable and pleasant company, don’t you think?’ he offered to no one in particular. ‘And now that we’ve all seen none of us is the enemy, I was just thinking perhaps we should all ride along together. What do you think? Strength in numbers, as they say. Or in a grimmer reflection, we have more chance of at least part of us . . . even one of us . . . reaching the King’s Hall with our dire report . . .’

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Meghan


For her part, Meghan sat quiet, waiting for someone to give their thoughts first. She liked these Wulfhamers, and really did not want their brief meeting to end. And surely they could go just as quickly with the addition of these new friends as they could by themselves.

She looked over to where Incana sat . . . there seemed something so familiar about her as she caught the woman’s profile. Her eyes flicked toward where Brand sat and flicked away just as quickly.

[Arry]

Arry's post


Brand was fully conscious of the assessing look Rædwald had given him. He kept his eyes on the strip of meat skewered on his own knife and occasionally his eyes strayed to the oatcake balanced on his knee, as if the both of these foods were the most important if not only objects in his world. He wondered what exactly Rædwald’s thoughts were and whether he had been found wanting.

He was relieved as the older fellow spoke aloud. ‘It’s a passable and pleasant company, don’t you think?’ Rædwald had said aloud. ‘And now that we’ve all seen none of us is the enemy, I was just thinking perhaps we should all ride along together. What do you think? Strength in numbers, as they say. Or in a grimmer reflection, we have more chance of at least part of us . . . even one of us . . . reaching the King’s Hall with our dire report . . .’ Words strung together into observations and questions were something he could deal with.

‘I’ve had some thoughts on that, too,’ Brand said, sticking his now empty knife in the dirt next to him. He looked round the gathering, taking them in at a quick glance. ‘I’m glad we’ve gotten past our first meeting. And I hope there are no lingering grudges.’ He looked at Osmod and then at Fion, meeting their eyes. ‘I think it would be good if we did ride together. For my part, the truth of that was brought home by our coming upon the burnt out village. It was only by luck that one of us was not killed by the cougar, and had we come any earlier to the village, we would be dead at the hands of the Orcs who raided it.’ He lowered his eyes to the ground before him. ‘I’m beginning to think that not all of us will make it to the King. But for our villages’ sakes, some . . . or even, one as Master Rædwald says, must.’

‘I can’t speak for you from Bregoware. You’ll have to decide yourselves what course you think is best for you. But we Wulfhamers are leaving early in the morning. By my calculations and Lord Aldwulf’s instructions, we are about three days north of where the River drops down in a great fall. We will turn west, then, and only a few days will bring us to the River Entwash where the Snowbourne flows into it. And at the western end of the Snowbourne lies the Hall of the King. We will be more than glad for you to join us tomorrow.’

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Maeggaladiel's post


Fion's ears had perked up as he heard Brand and Raedwald discussing the possibility of a joint mission between the Wulfhams and the Bregowarians. He found that now, he really didn't mind the idea at all.

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Arry's post


Brand plucked his knife from the dirt and wiped the blade on the leg of his breeches. Now the Bregoware folk must make their own decisions. He picked up the oatcake from his knee and took a fair sized bite from it. It was one of Meghan’s; he could taste the herb she’d kneaded into her dough. He nodded his head from one side to the other, slowly, knowing that she was watching him. With a long exaggerated swallow of water from his cup, he swallowed the morsel. ‘Not bad,’ he commented getting up to gather his things together for the morning departure. ‘I think even my sheep might like it,’ he said, grinning as he walked away.

[Maeggaladiel]

Nogrod's post


As Brand had come up with his suggestion, he rose up and left the fireside. Sythric followed his going, and noticed Raedwald watching after him too. “This Brand doesn’t seem to be a negotiating sort of guy?” Sythric hissed to Raedwald beside him with a half-voice. Raedwald agreed. They exchanged looks, not saying anything. But he surely shows more leadership than our Osmod does...

Well, fellow-Rohanians!” Sythric addressed the others around the fire. “I think our friends Raedwald and Brand have spoken wisely. Come morning, I will be riding with you Wulfhamers. I hope we all are. But Fion here makes me anxious. If he is not able to ride tomorrow, we’ll have a problem in our hand. So let’s pray the good earth for him.” Then he turned to Leod: “Leod, if there is just anything more you can do for him, please do it?” Leod nodded slowly, a thoughtful look in his eyes.

Sythric rose up from the fireplace. “By the way, I guess we should start trusting on each other already this night. Doubleguards should not be necessary. I have slept very well last night, which probably is not true with all us Bregowarians.” With that he made a quick, smiling glance at Osmod and Meghan. “So let me take the midnight watch then. Just wake me up in time.” With some people nodding in a sort of agreement, he left the fire.

[Tevildo]

Tevildo's post

Dorran pulled the edges of his cloak tightly about his shoulders and shivered slightly, as a gust of wind blew down from the north and went rattling through the trees. After finishing dinner, almost everyone had settled down for the night, buried under as many blankets as they could find. The entire camp had quickly fallen asleep. Dorran had volunteered to take the first watch. He had not explained his reasons for wanting to do this to the others. The real truth was that, although his body was tired, he couldn't stop thinking. The events of the past few days still weighed heavily on his mind. He'd checked the outer perimeter of the camp several times and then sat down close to the fire, finishing up some cooking duties left over from the evening.

He found himself thinking about his sister, wondering what she was doing and whether he would ever be with her again. The carnage in the village had been a grim reminder of the fragility of life and the uncertain ways of the world. He was so engrossed in his reflections that he barely noticed when Athwen slipped up beside him and sat down on a nearby log. Seeing the young woman's weary face, Dorran stood up and offered her a cup of herbal tea that he'd just finished brewing.

"Can't sleep?" he inquired gently. "Neither can I. I figured I might as well take the first watch rather than lie in my blankets and toss." The young man glanced over at Athwen and added softly, "I really did mean it. I have some idea what you're feeling. When I was little, I lived with my parents in a small village just to the south and east of Gondor. One day the Orcs came through, burning and killing everything in their path. The next morning the Easterlings arrived and anyone left alive was dragged off to work on the plantations as slaves." Dorran shuddered slightly as memories came flooding in. "not that there were too many, of course. The stupid Orcs were so bloodthirsty that very few made it through the night.'

"We were lucky....or so my mother said. Both my parents survived and also one of my aunts. But all my other cousins and neighbors perished in the first attack, and my little brother....." Dorran stopped for a moment and shook his head before going on. "My younger brother was killed. Anyways, we had little time to mourn. The next morning the Easterlings dragged the rest of us off in chains to work on the big plantations under the great smoking mountain. A horrible land, just horrible, with Orcs everywhere you looked. Nothing like Rohan, where we managed to escape later on."

Dorran took a gulp of air and forged ahead, afraid that if he stopped talking for a moment, he would never get the words out. "So I do have some idea what you're feeling.....the bad pictures running through your head and the times when you wonder why everyone else died when you're still here alive. Anyways, i'm sorry, terribly sorry for what happened. If we had only gotten there sooner, maybe..... But it's no good thinking like that. We all do what we can and learn to live with the rest. But that learning to live, it'll take time, lots of time. It will get better, though, after a while. I can promise you that." Dorran picked up a long stick and poked it into the dirt, drawing a series of circles and wondering if he'd said too much.

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Folwren's post


Athwen lay in the dark, her eyes blinking wearily in the fire light. But she couldn’t sleep, for all the tiredness in the world. She sighed and tried to get comfortable, turning her back to the flickering flames. It was impossible, she knew. Try as she might, keeping her eyes closed, and lying very still, she just couldn’t entice sleep to come and take her. It didn’t. It positively refused and soothing slumber was kept out at bay, as though waiting for a particular wave to b ring it in.

With another sigh, she sat up, letting the blankets fall away. She shivered suddenly as the outer air caught her on unawares and she reached out her hand as she stood up to pick up one of the blankets. She turned her back to the campfire and as she walked away, she wrapped the blanket around her head and shoulders, her hands grasping it about her throat securely. She left ring of firelight and looked about for Dorran. She knew he had taken first watch and she didn’t want to be alone. To him she went and when she reached him, she said nothing, but slowly sat down on a large fallen tree near him.

Dorran saw her and rose to his feet, taking in his hand a cup. As he drew near she looked up at him.

‘Can’t sleep?’ he queried. Athwen shook her head. He extended the cup towards her and she stuck one hand out from beneath the folds of her blanket to take it. ‘Neither can I. I figured I might as well take the first watch rather than lie in my blankets and toss.’ There was a pause. Athwen was looking at her tea and was unaware that Dorran stood considering her. ‘I really did mean it,’ he said softly in a moment. ‘I have some idea of what you’re feeling. When I was little. . .’

With bowed head, Athwen listened to Dorran’s own story. He told her about the attack on his village when he was just a boy. He had seen it. . .and he had been just a child. Tears brimmed in her eyes to overflowing and when her dark lashes fell, the drops broke free and ran like little rivers down her cold and pale cheeks.

‘So I do have some idea what you're feeling. . .the bad pictures running through your head and the times when you wonder why everyone else died when you're still here alive. Anyways, I'm sorry, terribly sorry for what happened. If we had only gotten there sooner, maybe. . .But it's no good thinking like that. We all do what we can and learn to live with the rest. But that learning to live, it'll take time, lots of time. It will get better, though, after a while. I can promise you that.’

Athwen lifted her head and looked up at him. He was trying to give her hope. . .hope of the future, and he was also offering her strength. And somehow, she felt she was receiving it. He knew, and that was enough.

‘Dorran,’ she said after he had finished and had stood in silence for a moment. ‘You were just a child then, weren’t you? How did you get away from the Easterling’s plantation? And did your parents live?’ She wanted to know. Did he come out of his hardships quite as alone as she had? How had he learned to live, even in time? To her eyes, her future looked bleak. She would be with these companions until they reached Edoras, and then what? Where would she go next?

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Tevildo's post


Dorran shook his head and then replied softly, "That was over five years ago. I try not to think about it. My mother and I, plus my little sister Creide and my brother Wulf, worked on the plantations several years. They were large spreads on the outskirts of Mordor......grim and dark places, with the land so blighted that it was hard to grow anything. Not that those in charge would brook any excuses if you could not turn out what they wanted."

"My father worked in an iron mine some distance away. He tried smuggling messages to us, and sometimes he was able to slip something to those who came and delivered the supplies. We thought of trying to escape, but we couldn't just leave my father behind and there was no way to get through to him."

"We didn't hear news for a long time. Then, one day, the word came from some workers who'd been sent to the mines with a wagon of food. They heard my father had died, killed by one of the Orc masters. They brought us the medallion he kept about about his neck so I knew they spoke the truth." Dorran's fingers inched upward to feel the raised outline underneath his tunic where the necklace lay nestled against his chest.

"Once he was gone, there was no reason to remain. My mother and aunts ran errands for the Easterling captains, hauling things in two wagons. We managed to slip out under the load of supplies that was supposedly being taken from one plantation to the next....my mother and I, my sister, my aunt and my older brother. It was a tough journey out of Mordor. My sister and I made it along with my aunt, but not my mother or older brother." Dorran continued speaking without a break in his voice or any further explanation.

"We made our way north and west, and eventually ended up in Wulfham. My aunt died shortly after we came. Since then, I've helped to raise my sister. We both went into service. Anyways, she's all I have, but I am lucky we're together. Wulfham has been good to us and especially the Lord of the hall. I just hope the village is alright and my sister and all the others will come through safely to Edoras. I don't want to lose her."

Athwen sat silent as Dorran finished his story. Then he jumped to his feet and added, "I have to go check the outskirts of camp. You'd best get to bed now. Going without sleep won't change anything, and we have to get through to Edoras as quickly as we can." With that, Dorran walked off into the distance.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Folwren's post

Athwen was silent and very still for some time, even after Dorran had left her. She followed his retreating figure with her eyes until the darkness hid him and then she turned and dully looked out towards the trees. A sigh came to her lips and she dropped her eyes to the half drunk tea in her hand.

'Poor chap,' she murmured to herself. 'But at least. . .at least his sister was spared him.' She found herself on the verge of crying again. She lifted her hand and covered her eyes while at the same time tried to swallow the hard lump in her throat. 'I would that someone else had lived for me, though,' she whispered. Only the wind heard her, and that was just as well, for no one could give her that wish.

After another moment she rose and walked back towards the camp. The fire was dying down. Athwen knelt beside it, drained the rest of her tea, and then put the cup down. She glanced around herself quickly and then reached out and grasped one of the larger peices of wood earlier brought in by Sythric. With it she stirred up the old logs and then she laid it across the new flames. It would keep it going for a little while and after that, the person on watch would have to enliven it. She was going to take Dorran's advise and go to sleep.

[Nogrod]

Dorran had taken the first watch - insisting on it, as he could roast the rest of the deer and cook the organs while on guard. So they would have something for tomorrow too, from today’s kill. Dorran woke Sythric in the middle of the night. It was even colder that it had been during the evening, and the temperature seemed to be falling all the time. The mist rising from the river had spread all over the camp. In the dark of the night, the faint glow from the two dying fires made the mist look eerie enough.

Sythric started walking to get warm, stopping every once in a while to listen to the sounds of the night. There was not much to be seen, as it was dark enough. Back on camp, Sythric noticed Fion sleeping quite restlessy. He had already trampled his blanket to his feet. Sythric readjusted his blanket and tried his forehead. It was moist and warm. Sythric was concerned, but obviously couldn’t actually do anything.

It was probably the second hour of the night, when Sythric realized, how cold it was getting. The little drop of tea at the bottom of the cup near Fion had frozen. The night has been quiet so far, so making a good fire should be safe enough? Even easterlings won’t move away from their fires during nights like this... And compare the risks with Fion, or anyone! So it was decided. Sythric got to the thicket and brought a good armful of sticks and some heavier wood to the larger fireplace. He relit the fire, letting it rise high, producing much desired warmth around. Then he woke Fion up, and carefully helped him to change his sleeping-place nearer the fire. Fion’s dreams and the fever had somewhat unbalanced the young man, but as Sythric gave him some water to drink from his flagon, and talked to him soothingly, he fell back to sleep. Sythric sat by his side for a moment, wondering what tomorrow might bring up with him.

Sythric took a walk outside the camp’s perimeter again, this time venturing all along to the edge of the grassland, again listening to the now dying voices of the night. The owl whistled somewhere quite near, but then it was all silent. As he returned to the campsite with some more wood to burn, he noticed that most of the people had changed their places, sleeping tightly around the fire.

As soon as he had relit the smaller fire too, he noticed, that the few remaining people had moved to sleep by the fires also. No. One is missing... Sythric counted the sleepers again. Only ten? Then he saw him – it has to be Brand, as Sythric gazed over the other sleepers around the fires. Quietly Sythric walked to him and woke him up carefully. Brand was startled by the sudden awakening, but calmed down quickly. “Please, do not get yourself a cold sleeping here. All the others sleep by the fires. And no, it’s all safe. I’ve only seen one fox and heard an owl. That’s all there is on the move around us tonight. And it’s freezing cold in here.”

Brand rose to sit and rubbed his eyes, shivering as he got out from under the blanket. Then he asked for the time. That seemed to be something Sythric had totally lost track of, while occupying himself with the fires! It clearly was a long way into the third watch already. “I guess we’re approaching “the wolf’s hour”, as we say in Bregoware – you know, the moment when everything just stands still for an hour before nature starts to wake up again to a new dawn?” Brand nodded, seemingly knowing the idiom well enough. “And I think, I should’ve woken someone up, already a good hour ago...” He smiled to Brand with that comment. Brand managed to smile back: “Well, you’ve just woken one up, so why don’t you let me take the watch from now on?” he asked Sythric. “You are welcome, Brand” Sythric answered, and with that, offered his hand to Brand, to help to get him up. Brand grasped Sythric’s hand by the wrist and Sythric did the same, then Sythric half-pulled Brand up, and they both walked to the fireside: Brand starting to poke the fire, and Sythric finding a place to sleep for the last hours of the night.

They all woke up early. Despite the fires, it was chillingly cold. Athwen and Dorran came up with some light breakfast, while Sythric and Leod studied Fion with Raedwald. Fion assured them that he was alright, but Leod insisted on checking and at least Sythric was a bit suspicious. Fion seemed to have no fever anymore, but otherwise he did look quite feeble to Sythric. In the end Sythric managed to insist, that Fion should make a little test with him. So they ran, with easy pace, to the edge of the grassland and then back with full speed. Even though Fion was back first, it surely seemed like a greater exertion to him than to Sythric. After Leod had examined him a little more, he told others, that Fion could ride with them. Sythric was relieved, but still worried about the hardships they might have to face - and how Fion would manage them.

[Undómë]

Meghan

‘I don’t care what you told my brother. You do not need to ride by my side like some hound guarding a prize nanny!’ Meghan’s teeth were clenched as she spoke; her words barely audible as Rædwald held her horse’s reins. Her fists were gripped tightly about her saddle as she placed it atop Ash’s blanket, knuckles as white as the frost that laced the ground. A barely banked anger made her body stiff with the effort to keep it under control.

Ash shook her back as the saddle was placed, protesting the vigor with which Meghan had put it down. ‘Sorry!’ Meghan’s voice took on a less indignant tone as she spoke to the nervous animal. She cinched the saddle on securely and grabbed the reins from Rædwald’s hands.

‘Go eat! Go polish your helmet! Go do something and leave me alone!’

---------------------

Rædwald

Now what had brought on this fit of temper? Perhaps, he thought in hindsight, it might have been better had he simply stayed close to her as they rode, rather than to try his reasoned arguments on her; the ones concerning how much safer she would be by staying near him. Worse yet, he conceded, was that he had actually tried to order her to comply, citing his own expertise in fighting and her brother’s express requests of him.

He paused for a moment and turned back to her. She was just tying her bedroll onto the back of her saddle. A pale light filtered down through the bare branches of the trees and caught her face in profile. The planes of her face had softened as she spoke to her horse in a soft, sing-songy voice. And the cold breeze brought a flush to her cheeks. Several strands of pale gold hair strayed from her thick braid and curled along the hollow of her jaw.

It struck him how like her mother she was. Esme had been beautiful in those long gone days. Without, and within, her beauty. And a kind, gentle spirit, too. Old memories flooded in, hitting him with an almost physical force. He shoved them away, knowing there was no profit in pursuing them . . . the what-ifs, the might-have-beens. He had gone soldiering. And when he’d returned she was married, with two children to look after and Alric, a good-hearted man, at her side.

Tsah! Water under the bridge, old man! he reminded himself. Though Alric is gone, Esme is but a fragile ghost of herself. Best leave the memories for your dotage.

He drew in a deep breath and looked away to where the sun’s light struggled through the grey haze of early morning. And then looked back once more, the light of this present reality forcing the picture before him into sharper detail. Esme’s daughter . . . Esme’s spirited daughter . . . Yes, he would see her through safely . . . for her mother’s sake, he must see her through.

‘That’s it, then Lis,’ he said, turning back to his mount who was already packed and ready to go. ‘We’ll simply have to outmaneuver her . . .’

[Arry]

Head looking down as he checked his horse’s hooves for cracks or any lodged stones, Brand looked for all intents as one absorbed in seeing his horse ready for the journey. Truth was, though, he had already seen to Lady and found her in want of nothing. What did absorb his interest was the little scene playing out between the man, Rædwald, and Meghan.

She was angry; he could tell that from the look on her face. And she had sent him away. And Rædwald, what was in his mind about her? He had gone off willingly enough. But had stopped and turned to look back at her. The man’s face had taken on a considering look and then softened into a look of fondness and regret. What was he to her, Brand wondered. And even more so, he to her.

Brand set Lady’s leg down from where he’d held it against his knee. He stood up straight and looked about the camp. In little groups of twos and threes, the riders were gathered; their horses packed, and only the last few adjustments to packs and such were being done.

He mounted up and walked Lady to where Meghan was waiting astride her little mare. He reached into his small bag that hung from the front of his saddle and fished out one of last night’s oatcakes and a piece of smoked fish. ‘I didn’t see you at our hasty breakfast, Mistress Meghan. May I offer you this to tide your over until we’re well down the river?’

‘Are we ready?’ he called out in a louder voice to the other companions. ‘Who will take the lead for a while this morning? And who will be the rear guard?’

[Undómë]

Rædwald

‘I’d be happy to take the lead for a while.’ Rædwald moved up near Brand. ‘Be helpful if you rode with me a bit. Let me know what route you’d like to take.’ Osmod, he could see, was moving toward the rear of the column. Good man! he thought to himself, giving the young man an approving nod as he caught his eye briefly.

‘And who will want to go out as scouts?’ he asked as the group lined up, ready to go. ‘One or two would be good. Range out in front of us and look for any signs of trouble.’

[Valier]

Vaenosa shivered as she pulled her bed roll up higher, it was going to be a cold day for riding. Sitting up she pulled on her boots and threw her warmer tunic she had packed, on. Nay lay sprawled on the ground beside her bedroll. I better pack up my stuff now, I presume we will be leaving soon. She packed away all her belongings into her pack laying her bow and quiver as well as the large blade she had found ontop of her pack ready to go. I could sure go for some of that left over deer and a cup of tea.She headed towards the fire and the few figures that stood around it. Already others seemed to be up and about, two of the strangers, a woman and older man seemed to be having a disagreement and Brand and some of the other men were discussing the plan for the day.

Vaenosa quickly gulped down a cup of tea and wolfed down a slice of the deer. By the time she was done she noticed Nay was up and she thought she would ready him for the trip. She hoped today would not be a repeat of yesterday, Nay had become overly excited after his little show down with the man Osmod.He seemed to be calmer today, perhaps he knew they were off again.

After a good brush and rub down Vaenosa let him go and graze before she packed him up.Everone was now up and mulling around, tending to their horses as she was and hurrying to tidy up the remainer of the camp.

After a short time everything was packed and ready to go, even Nay gave no resistance to being loaded up. Brand called from the front of the group, asking if everyone was ready, which was followed by a number of yay's." Who shall take the lead and the rear positions?" He also asked them. Vaenosa spoke up," I will take up the front, I see far and Nay should not have another horse's tail infront of him for at least awhile today...I shan't have him misbehaving today." With that she looked around and caught Osmod eye, she almost smiled momentarily, but hesitated. She took from her pocket a leather tie, and tied her hair back from her face and pulled her hood up to shield her from the wind. Nay gave a nicker and they headed towards the front of the now fairly large group.

[Folwren]

Athwen sat hunched in her saddle, shivering uncomfortably in the cold. She was without cape or cloak and the dress she wore had been donned on a warm day for Autumn. The wind teased her hair and she pushed it impatiently and rather snappishly out her face. She was tired and as much as she liked horses, she didn’t want to be riding on such a cold morning.

There’s really not much of a choice here, she reminded herself sternly. Her jaw clamped tighter as another soft gust of cold wind sent another shudder through her. Think of something else, why don’t you? . . . Not that there’s much else to think about.

Yes, there is. Her eyes darted in the direction of Dorran. He rode to her left, just a few feet ahead. Their conversation from the night before came back to her and she sat and considered it until her cold hands brought her back to the present.

‘Now, you be good, Parith,’ she muttered to the horse. He only deemed her worthy of one ear being turned in her direction. She didn’t even notice as she tied his reins together and looped them over the horn of the saddle. Once they were secure and not in danger of slipping off, she rocked first to one side and then to the other, slipping both her hands beneath her to sit on them. ‘If nothing else can be warm, at least my hands will,’ she told him. ‘It doesn’t do to ride with numb fingers.’

She looked around her at all the companions. Her eyes passed over all of them until they spotted Fion and then she looked twice. She hadn’t thought about it yet that morning - how did he feel? Was he doing alright? She certainly hoped so, and from her lack of knowledge of the sort of thing, she guessed that he would recover from the bump quite as easily as a child would from being cracked over the head with a stick by one of his siblings. She pulled one hand out and reined her horse about and came to Fion’s side.

‘Good morning, Fion,’ she said, as she approached him. ‘How are you doing today? Is your head hurting?’ She gave him a smile with her welcome, brief and small, and then dropped the rein once more and once more sat on her hand while he replied.

[Maeggaladiel]

Fion looked up as he heard Athwen speak.

"Oh, I'm fine, thank you," he said. It was partly a lie; his forehead still ached, and he found himself getting dizzy if he turned or stood up too fast. But it was a great improvement from yesterday, and Leod had pronounced him fit to ride, and so Fion saw no reason to let anyone think otherwise.

Fion tightened the girth strap on his horse's saddle. Apparently, the mare felt absolutely no sympathy for Fion's injury and decided to act as contrary and spirited as she had on their first day of riding. This might be a problem.

"I think this nag will bring me more headache than this bruise will," Fion grunted, trying to secure his pack on the horse's back. She took a few taunting steps sideways. "Not that I'm not happy to have her back; I was almost certain she'd be halfway to Gondor by this morning, the way she takes fright and bolts. I'm glad Incana managed to find her." He looked up at Athwen again and grinned. "Otherwise, I'd end up being a Walker of Rohan instead of a Rider. I don't care as much for that particular title."

With Athwen holding the reins, Fion climbed up into the horse's saddle. For a horrifying moment, the world seemed to spin and dance around him, but then the moment passed. So far, so good, Fion thought to himself.

"Ha!" he said, grinning again at Athwen. "Another triumph for riders everywhere."

[Undómë]

Meghan


There had barely been time for her to say ‘thanks’ before Rædwald was calling Brand to come ride with him. She kicked Ash lightly in the flanks and urged her just behind the two men. Munching on the oatcake and piece of fish, she positioned herself a number of paces behind their horses. To be honest, she didn’t trust Rædwald not to warn him off her – him thinking he was doing what her brother might do.

Leof! I swear once we are back face to face, I will give you a good piece of my mind on this stunt you’ve pulled. Nice as it had been at the beginning when he’d first showed up, a familiar face from home. Now his presence was beginning to grate on her . . . and all the more so since they’d found the burned village. If he could, she thought, he would send her back to be with the other villagers on their slow march toward Edoras and he would take her place here.’

From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of one of the Wulfham women riding to the fore of the group. Vaenosa, she thought her name was. She had not really met her, though. The woman seemed to want to hold herself apart from the rest of the group – Wulfham as well as Bregoware, or so it seemed to Meghan.

Soon the woman had passed by the two men in front of Meghan. Perhaps Vaenosa was going to be one of the forward scouts. Her estimation of the woman went up several notches. ‘Brave choice, Vaenosa!’ she said quietly to herself, wishing her well as Vaenosa passed out of view.

[Nogrod]

As Sythric mounted Thydrë, all seemed to be quite ready. Raedwald and Brand were at the head – and this Wulfhamer girl, Vaenora? - was gaining speed, heading forwards, away from the others. Osmod seemed to be settling at the rear of the party. How like him, and that’s good. He rode past Osmod and nodded to him approvingly, giving a little smile as he passed him. “Let’s enjoy a fast ride today, otherwise the cold of the riverside will catch us!”, he said to Osmod, and then spurred to the front, approaching Brand and Raedwald.

Raedwald and Brand noted Sythric’s approach, turning to see him. “If you don’t mind, I think we are numerous enough to afford another scout. If this Vaenora there will ride about the route you will take, I’ll take my path a little bit to the inland, just covering the flank. Is that alright?”.

After approval, Sythric spurred Thydrë to a full gallop, teasing her to make the best of it by every now and then patting her neck, and whispering to her things that were only between them, their talk. Thydrë was in her element now, racing through the open land. The wind ringed in Sythric’s ears as they almost flied away from the group. Sythric was enjoying the ride too – even though it was cold, it was indeed really cold.

Soon he saw Vaenosa looking back, after hearing the approaching sound of the hooves. She was still over fifty yards away. Sythric pointed with his hand straightforward, then pointed to himself with the same hand, and turned the hand a little bit to the right of the straight course. After that he motioned Thydrë to start lightly to angle rightwards. Slowly his path started to diverge from Vaenosa’s. She seemed to get his meaning, as she continued on the trail she had begun.

Sythric looked shortly backwards. The whole group was on the move now, in steady canter, but gaining speed. “C’mon Thydrë, we should be up front now – far away from those people! Or is there not a girl enough in you for it?” he whispered to Thydrë’s ear, and then she really flied.

[Undómë]

Meghan

Soon the entire group had moved forward. . . . leaving the camp behind. Both Vaenosa and Sythric had gone on ahead as scouts. Meghan wondered how often they intended to check back with the main body of the group.

And as the sun rose near the mid-day position against the grey sky, the riders could see in the distance the sharp drop of the rocky cliffs as The River cut its way downward into the limestone layers. The river's waters she had heard in tales picked up speed here in the Sarn Gebir, and went rushing southward to the great Falls of Rauros.

[Arry]

It had always been Brand’s habit to let the older person speak first, or even to let them direct the conversation. But Rædwald, it seemed, was a tough nut to crack. And so it fell upon Brand to move their dialog along.

At first, they discussed their villages, and then ensued a general bit of talk on goats versus sheep; ailments in the flocks and their medicines; best types of feed; the use of dogs to tend the animals; how the pasturings were determined by season. Brand had a good head on his shoulders for this type of discussion on the relative merits of sheep and held up well against a die hard goat man.

The route to Edoras was also discussed, though not in such detail. Brand had never been far from his village and its surrounding lands and so intended to rely fully on the instructions his Lord had given him. It was with some relief he learned Rædwald had been to Edoras a number of times, and would be able to find it if there were some reason they could not follow the river any longer or were unable to head straight west to where the Snowbourn met the Entwash. A tale or two of Rædwald’s days among the Riders of the Mark were interwoven at this point of the conversation. Brand hoped that he did not seem like a gawking child as he listened wide-eyed to stories of battles and danger and the easy camaraderie of those in the Riders.

It was not until later in that long morning’s ride that Brand got up the courage to pursue the line of questioning that was burning at the back of his mind. He started out in a general way, asking how did Ræedwald know each of his present companions; getting round finally to the questions he really wanted the answers to. ‘And that Meghan,’ he began. ‘She’s a friendly one isn’t she? How old is she, do you think? And have you known her long?’ He asked it in a casual, general sort of way, hoping that Rædwald would feel as inclined to talk about her as he had the other subjects.

[Eowyn Skywalker]

The morning had approached from evening all too quickly, Eostre finding that things took off easily. She had been silent through repacking, through what little breakfast there was; through leaving the camp and bringing their horses into somewhat of a line.

And, as usual, she let herself slip closer to the end of the line. She was little use as a scout, and the foul mood which had seemingly beset didn't do anything for her. It seemed as if everyone loved the most naive members of the parties, disliking the idea of contact with any of the ones more world-wise. If there were any, that was to say.

Who didn't love Fion, after all? And now that he was injured...

She sighed, her horse at a steady canter as well as the rest of the party, silencing the thoughts that wanted her to say why shouldn't they love him? He's nicer than you are. Same with Meghan. They're all nice and friendly and caring. You're just scary, firm and silent. A chronic stoic who scares the meek and humbles the high.

The river slicing its way through limestone was more friendly than those around her, she thought.

It was more friendly than she.

Why do you think no one likes you? Because you're ugly? No, it's because you're a mean-spirited, cynical, agnostic...

[Folwren]

Athwen rode in silence once they started. Fion was not much for talking (she guessed it was because his head hurt him so). She was sorry for him, but she didn't know what to say. So she did what didn't always come easily to her and remained silent. She remained sitting on her hands even as they went out, for Parith was not going to cause trouble, apparently. He generally did well with other horses riding around him. They were traveling at a fast walk, occasionally breaking into a trot, and reining in again. At this rate, they would cover a great deal of ground that day. Athwen did some calculations, and if they traveled with little rest until nearly dark, they could cover close to seventy miles, but she doubted the horses would be kept at such a pace for ten hours.

She shook her head and looked around. For some reason, her eyes and attention were drawn abruptly towards Eostre. Athwen couldn't actually remember that that was her name - she hadn't talked to the woman, and she couldn't remember hearing Eostre talk to anyone else. She wondered. . .and when Athwen wondered, she generally got curious, and when she got curious, she wanted to find out. So she did.

Parith turned to her cue and slowed slightly until Eostre came opposite her and then Athwen rode to her side. Eostre shot her a doubtful glance and said nothing. Athwen said nothing, too, for a moment. Then started it quite as easily as she could, and said,

'Quite a cold morning, isn't it?'

[Eowyn Skywalker]

Glancing over at the woman riding beside her, Eostre couldn't help the doubtful look that lingered over her face. Though perhaps not so much doubtful as distrustful—everyone wanted to talk, to blather, to break her out of a shell everyone presumed she wore.

"Cold morning, isn't it?"

She snorted slightly. "Of course it's cold. You wouldn't expect it to be a warm day, would you?" came the reply from the woman, as she pulled her horse to the same pace as Athwen out of habit. Even if she didn't want to talk, there was such thing as respect. She wasn't going to shove it up someone's face, scream I don't care about the weather! Let them take a hint themselves, if they wanted...

Their paces now matched, the two horses carried along comfortably beside each other. The question had been a rhetoric; Eostre carried on without missing a beat. "What do you want?"

[Folwren]

Eostre's answer had been sharp enough. So, the woman didn't like small talk. Simple, mindless matters discussed between strangers. . .she didn't want that?

'What do you want?' Eostre asked immediately afterwards, having pulled her horse to Parith's speed.

That question was very close to ringing in Athwen's head, too, but in a different manner and with a different meaning. Well, she was blunt, that was certain. And tactless. But Athwen figured that she could be just the same if she wanted.

'To see why you were riding alone, and to talk to you to get to know you. If we're riding far together, it would probably be a good idea to get to know everybody. How old are you, and why did you come?' She had to have some reason. Athwen had already guessed that a woman like this wouldn't leave her home with a group of evident strangers if she didn't have to, or if she didn't have some extreme reason to go.

[Naria]

Starlight slowly plodded forth with the rest of the group and Incana found herself reflecting on the past evening and morning. It had been quite a chilly night and she remembered wanting a body next to her for warmth. This brought her to thinking about where Pup and gone to. Incana had not even realized that her friend had not been around at all since the new group arrived in their camp. She thought about getting up to look for him or at the very least call out for him, but she considered against the idea since she was relatively warm in her bedroll.

Incana awoke the next morning, noticing the frost that had creeped into camp and devoured everything that was on the ground including her own bedroll. Shivering she reluctantly crawled out into the chilly air and brought herself closer to the warm fire. Incana was having a bite to eat and some of Dorran's wonderful tea when she heard a yelping bark. Pup came through some bushes just to the right of her and he licked her face. "Well, well aren't you a sight for sore eyes" she said to him ending with a giggle. He was covered in soot and mud again. Oh dear she thought, he must have gone back to the village. "I am sorry that your home is gone, but I promise to take good care of you". A tear came to her as she tried to wipe some of the grime away from his eyes.

Her attention was immediately torn from the dog when she heard Brand announce that we were to pack our horses and move out right away. Incana's heart skipped a beat, either from excitement or dread, she was not sure and it gave her an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Incana finished up the last of her packing and secured everything to Starlight. She made one last glance around camp as to not leave anything behind and mounted her horse. Incana gave a quick whistle to Pup and Starlight and the three companions followed the group in the direction Brand had told them.


They had been riding for some time with little conversation. Incana had dozed off a few times and was in need of some stimulus. Since Vaenosa had decided to take the lead, yet again, and scout ahead. Incana thought it best to talk with someone else instead up catching up with the elusive Vaenosa. She just then remembered what the woman making oatcakes with her had said. Incana gave a click of her tongue to Starlight and caught up with Meghan. She herself had heard stories of a family that she had not known or met in Bregoware and wondered if maybe this young woman was a relative of hers. "Excuse me, I don't mean to be a bother, but I have heard stories from my Father that we have family in your village" Incana suddenly felt uncomfortable and did not know what to say next. "I am sorry miss, I guess what I am trying to say is....are you or do you know of the family I am speaking of?"

Incana felt foolish for being so brazen and just coming out with such a question to someone she barely even knew. She felt her cheeks grow warm and turned her head away from Meghan. Incana gazed at the sky and took note at how bright the sun was overhead and she also took note of that very sun's rays reflecting off of a dark ominous cloud that was just ahead of them. She could only hope that the older men would have them set up camp again before the group got too close to the storm.

[Undómë]

Rædwald


‘Well, I’ve known her since she was a wee girl . . . her and her brother, Leof. Her parents and I were friends.’ Rædwald shifted in his saddle to have a better view of Brand. ‘And when I returned from my years as a Rider, I settled in a small cottage on my brother’s land, not too far from Meghan’s family. I have no children of my own, never married. She and Leof are like my own niece and nephew.’ He held back a smile at the expression of . . . relief, it appeared . . . on Brand’s face.

He turned his face back to the trail, wondering what the two scouts had managed to find out about the way ahead. The two men rode along in companionable silence for a while, Rædwald beginning to think a bit more favorably about this man of Wulfham. He broke the silence with a casual comment, remembering that Brand had asked some other questions about Meghan. ‘She’s seen seventeen summers, by the way . . . and, I know you didn’t ask, but I could tell it was on the tip of your tongue to do so. ‘No, she has no “intended” waiting for her return . . .’

He chuckled to himself a little at the thought of Meghan’s quite firm opinions on the matter of sheep.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Meghan


One of the women from Wulfham had come up to ride along with her. Incana, the one who had helped make the oatcakes. ‘Excuse me, I don't mean to be a bother, but I have heard stories from my Father that we have family in your village. Do you know of the family I’m speaking of?’

Meghan wrinkled her brow, trying to think of any of the villagers she could associate with Incana. Perplexed, she shook her head ‘no’, saying she could not recall anyone who had relatives that had come from Wulfham.

‘But maybe you can tell me if you’ve heard of one of my relatives,’ Meghan said, her face brightening that perhaps Wulfham or at least a village near it had been where her Great-great Uncle had gone off to live with his bride. ‘My Gran’s grandma was named Gerdë. And Great-great Grandma Gerdë had a twin brother named Garan. He was a goat farmer. And one summer he took his flock across the river and north to some newer pastures. And . . . well, to make a long story short . . . he never came back. And I guess for a long time the family thought he was dead. But like I said yesterday evening when we were making oatcakes, a Ranger passed through our village and left a message for the family. Garan had married a woman from one of the villages up north – maybe close to yours, Incana. Her name was Eolyn. But I guess they never came back to Bregoware to see Garan’s family. And all through the years, though now I know he must be long gone and his Eolyn, too, we wondered was he happy and had he prospered there with his new wife. And were there children?’ She turned a wistful face toward Incana. ‘If there were children, surely I must have any number of cousins, wouldn’t you think? I don’t suppose you’ve heard those names, have you?’

[Nogrod]

Thydrë was relieved to fly through the landscape. She enjoyed this crisp morning gallop to the fullest. And so did Sythric. But soon Sythric came to think about things, and kind of catched on the problems he was facing. He was used to ride dangerous missions with men like him, or Raedwald: battle-hardened professionals. During the later days, he had also joined similar missions, with able-bodied men, at least knowing the trade somewhat, and under a decent leadership. At both occasions, he had been able to trust, that everyone along would know the basic manouvers, would be able to defend himself in trouble for awhile, would know what to wait for, would have a stern heart, would know who to aid first...

He was also used to ride with young people like these, a bit younger maybe, but not so much. And anyhow, at least Fion and Athwen could have been his apprentices. But then, he had been their warm-hearted tutor and teacher, and there had been no real danger. Now it was different. There were so many factors to pay heed to!

Don’t delve into these things now, my man! Enjoy the ride as you used to – and do a good job! With Gillsfang, all would have been different: she would have chosen the track by experience and instinct, but with Thydrë it was different. She had been scouting only a couple of times, and thence had to be steered all the time. Needing to take care of their path badly broke his concentration of the surrounding landscape. “You’ll learn one day my girl, you’ll learn”, he whispered to Thydrë’s ear, as they galloped forwards through small gorges and beside lesser hills. How long a time will we be allowed to practise these things?

As he had volunteered to scout, he had already marked the one bit higher hill than the others, some twenty miles ahead of them to their right, as a place to go for. Using all the natural covers, he had approached it from the small gorge, as unnoticeably as possible – and had found the lower edge of it quite empty. So he started climbing up the lower slope and looked back. The party was riding two or three miles behind him with steady pace. Vaenosa was speeding forwards ahead of them, almost at the level of himself, and just passing out of sight, behind a small knoll, some two miles away south, south-east. Everything seemed quiet and peaceful from this higher vantagepoint.

Soon he got to the top of the hill. He jumped off Thydrë, patted her easily and encouraged her to take some rest, fastly unpacking the couple of the heaviest packages on her. Then he walked the few steps to the highest point of the hill, and took a look around. In bright daylight, he could fathom out the silhouette of Croacht up north. Croacht, the biggest and most important city of the Rohanian Wold-land. The city where he – and Raedwald – had spent their prime-years, almost fifteen of them: riding as the defenders of the Wold, but in the first place, as the defenders of that city. There it laid, seemingly intact, as there were no great smoke rising on above the horizon from the city, or any great armies marching over the land towards it. Sythric was so relieved! Good earth, bless my eyesight at this moment!, he thought to himself. This was the sight he had wanted to see, and been afraid not to have seen. And the best was, that he couldn’t find out any larger or smaller bands of orcs or easterlings going around the landscape. The plains were just empty of movement, the few individual groups of people, seeming refugees, notwithstanding. Of course there could be anything behind any one of those hills, cliffs, hillocks, coppices or small woods about, but still, the scenery looked calming enough.

Sythric walked to the southside of the hilltop and took a look towards the route their party was taking. Farther in the distance, there was a small hillock, covered by some trees. That could be a perfect place for the afternoon break – and some light-lunch! Sythric became aware of his stomach giving its view of things by a great rumble. He was hungry indeed. Just a lunch and some rest before the afternoon ride. And I still have those chickens! What could this Dorran-guy come up with them? That's the place.

He re-packed Thydrë, regretting it to her, and mounted again. He was surely relieved, almost happy. His worst fears had not shown to be true, as Croacht seemed to be still standing. Maybe the enemy was not so strong after all to lay all the Wold in fire? Maybe these were just concentrated, but still minor attacks, not the full war he had feared?

He reached the wood by the hillock sometime after the mid-day. Vaenosa was riding towards him, somewhat to the east of him, about a mile away. He had shown her all possible handsigns to show the place he meant, and Vaenosa had turned towards him some time ago. Sythric jumped down at the edge of the trees and was about to unpack Thydrë, as his eyes got notice of something. There were wide scratches at the barks of the trees near him, one tree had been fallen quite recently, and the boulder beside them had been rolled out of its place. He started studying the ground more carefully. Judging from the marks and footprints, there had been a party here, not more than two days ago. And that had been a party of orcs, not men! He was familiar enough with these traces to interpret them with some confidence. He remounted Thydrë in haste, taking a look at the immediate surroundings: they had come from the east and continued towards the west...

He heard Vaenosa coming and turned to face her. As she was some twenty yards away, he shouted: "Orcs! No more than two days ago, maybe nearer, going westward! We should rest here for a while, but this is grim news indeed!"

[Arry]

Brand fell into a satisfied silence as he and Rædwald rode along. It was just after noon; the sun having barely begun its downward track toward the west. The day was still chilly, though there had been a brief period where the sun shone out brightly in a cloud free sky. That respite from greyness had gone all too quickly, as a grouping of large, dark clouds scudded up from the south and covered the sun. The cold wind, too, began to pick up a little and Brand was certain he could smell the promise of rain borne on it.

‘Rædwald,’ he said, bringing Lady near to Lis. ‘Looks like a little storm is brewing. I think we should sit it out somewhere sheltered, don’t you? We’ve been riding for a long time now; the horses and riders need a rest and a little something hot to eat before we turn west and push on.’

He looked far to the south, scanning the gently rolling lands for a suitable possibility. ‘Look there!,’ he said, pointing to a low hill with a covering of trees. ‘It’s only a short ways away, let’s make for that and rest for a while.’ He turned his horse about, saying he would head back along the line of riders to let them know what they were doing. ‘I’ll count on you, then, to keep us moving toward it . . . yes?’

The companions were strung out, some riding alone, others riding alongside a companion. He headed first for Osmod, the rear guard to let him know the plan, then worked his way forward until he’d reached where Incana and Meghan rode.

‘Begging your pardon, ladies,’ he said in a genial tone as he came up alongside Starlight. ‘We’ll be stopping soon to eat and rest the horses.’ His eyes flicked up toward the cloud swollen sky. ‘And to wait out the rain, too, before we turn west. There’s a little hillock with some trees we can shelter under – put up tarps if we need to. Down south . . . just a little further. It’s about at the place Lord Aldwulf said we should make the turn to head westward. We’ll have something hot to eat and drink and then go on ‘til evening.’ He glanced past Incana only to catch Meghan as she looked quickly away.

‘Yes, well then, I’ll just go back up with Rædwald . . . see you ladies at the rest stop . . .’

It was a lame transition, and he wanted to kick himself for not being more clever. On the other hand he felt quite pleased with himself. He had caught for the briefest of moments, before she drew them away, her light blue eyes looking keenly at him. One could shed the regret of not being clever with that bright image firmly fixed in his mind . . .

[Tevildo]

As the riders plodded onward towards the low hill that Brand had shown them, one or two large raindrops came plopping down upon their heads. Dorran pushed his hood up and pulled his cloak tight about his shoulders. Once again, Brand had been right. This light sprinkle was likely to pick up and turn into a true rainstorm by the time they reached the hill he could just see in the distance.

Dorran had started the morning in good spirits, flashing a friendly smile at Athwen and waving once at Incana. As the road had spilled southward and the clouds had blown in, the young man had found his spirits sinking for no fathomable reason that he could spell out in words. He could feel a definite foreboding in the pit of his stomach, a sensation that he found impossible to ignore or wish away. But why that feeling was there or what it might portend, Dorran had absolutely no idea.

It was only after the rain started to fall that shadowy images, vivid and horrific, began to intrude on Dorran's conscious thoughts. He glimpsed images of a place far away in time and place: women and children shackled together at the ankle with an Easterling master parading up and down the line. Dorran shuddered as he recalled how Urik and his captains would pull the younger women out of line and then drag them off to some unknown destination, never to be seen again. The rest of the slaves were sent out to the fields, with many of them silently weeping to see their beloved kinswomen so cruelly torn away.

Dorran shuddered as he remembered the sharp barbs of the whips of the Easterlings. The men were not as powerful or overtly brutal as the Orcs, but many of the Easterlings exhibited something even more frightful. Their captors had possessed a keen intelligence and cynical spirit, taking absolute delight in causing mental as well as physical pain---not the sharp, rapid blows of the Orcs that would be over in a minute, halted either by their own stupidity or the merciful release of death, but a slow torture, more like the dripping of rainwater onto a hard dirt surface. Eventually, the persistent water would have its way and transform the hard dirt into a muddy bog.

Dorran gasped in surprise as fragmented images of blood and pain that he had intentionally repressed for many years came slinking back into his mind. The last time he had mentioned Easterlings to Brand, he had made a terrible mistake in judgment. They had ended up attacking some good men and women. Perhaps he should keep his mouth closed and say nothing. Everyone else was fearing the attack of Orcs. Why then should he be thinking of the Men of the East? But what if his fears and premonitions were real? Could he forgive himself for saying nothing? Dorran promised that, once they had gotten to the safety of the hill, he would try and pull Brand aside and quietly speak with him again.....

[Undómë]

Rædwald

Rædwald urged Lis to a gallop. Given her head, her long strides ate up the distance to the little tree-topped hill. He’d left the steering of the group in Brand’s capable hands as he went to string up a few tarps between the trees where the riders and the horses might shelter.

The clouds were just opening up more overhead; what had at first just been a few cold spatters on the ground of icy rain now pounded with increasing intensity as he reached the top of the hill. Sythric was already there. And between the two of them they put up several sheltering canvasses.

A small fire was built at the northern edge of the little shelter. It would be protected from the rain and the little wind would blow the smoke out from under the tarps. By the time the flames were crackling the group was just coming up the short path to the hill’s top.

[Farael]

Brand had gone all the way to the back of the column and informed Osmod they’d be resting at the hill that was now visible ahead of them. He nodded his agreement and watched as the other man went up the rather dispersed line of riders, telling them all where they were heading.

”Alright then, I guess I should talk to this Brand when we stop. I shouldn’t let him think he’s the leader of us Bregowares as well.” Osmod chuckled to himself, even though he didn’t mind Brand. On the other hand, he’d been feeling rather put off by the way Sythric had all but unilaterally decided to join groups with the others. Even if Osmod himself would have supported the idea, it seemed the old man was just as quick taking his support away from Osmod as what he had been giving it on the first place. Yet the old rider was scouting ahead and now Osmod could make choices without having to deal with his stares. The way the old man looked at him whenever Osmod seemed to do something he disagreed with, made the young leader feel like a kid who had let his father down.

As the rain started coming down in big, cold drops Osmod decided they were too spread out and it would be best for them to stay closer. Now all they could see and hear was the rain, doubtlessly sent by the gods to cleanse the earth from the orc filth, it would not do to be ambushed and too far apart to help each other. Again.

He approached Fion whom he’d been keeping an eye on all day long and patted his back. ”Come my friend, we are not too far from rest. You have been doing great today, my brave fellow scout” Osmod said, smiling at the young man. Then, he hurried his horse to catch up with Eostre and Athwen, who seemed to be conversing. The young girl had a good heart, that was for sure, if she worried about the other riders in spite of the grief she ought to have been feeling. He told the women he would rather have everyone riding closer to each other for the time being and hurried his horse again, knowing they’d follow him. Then he stopped abruptly, almost causing a small collision.

”Athwen, would you like us to stop for a moment so you can get your cloak out of your bags? It’s raining now and you will be cold when the night comes if you let your clothes get soaked”

[Folwren]

Athwen looked up as Osmod addressed her again. She had instantly assumed that he would continue on ahead when he spurred past them, but when Parith pulled himself up sharply to avoid colliding nose and rear with Osmod's horse, Athwen realized she was mistaken. Her hands jerked out mechanically to grasp the reins and while she heard Osmod tell her to pull out her cloak she evened them out in her hands.

'I don't have a cloak,' she told him, looking up as she spoke. 'Everything was burned, remember? I came back too late to save anything, much less clothing. I'll live, though. It is a bit chilly.' She looked up with regret at lowered clouds and the cold rain drops wetted her face and slipped down to her collar.

Osmod frowned at her explanation and turned his horse about. She watched as he once more drew up to her and her mount's side. He draped his reins over his horse's neck and then his hands went to his own cloak's clasp at his throat.

'You can have mine,' he said, undoing it.

'Oh, no!' Athwen cried. 'Then you'd be without it! I'm fine, really I am. I don't-' the cape was placed over her shoulders - 'need it, really,' she ended, sounding rather lame. 'Osmod, please. . .'

'You can't change my mind,' he told her with a smile. 'You need it more than I do.' She smiled back at him and relented.

'Thanks,' she said quietly. He nodded and rode on. Athwen watched him go as she fastened the cloak shut and then pulled the hood over her head. It made a difference immediately, for it was warm from him. He's very kind, she said to herself, still following him with her eyes. He's so much like. . .like Korin was. At the thought of the name, she could barely keep the tears from coming to her eyes. She glanced quickly away and took a shuddering breath. To distract herself, she address Eostre.

'It will be nice to stop and find shelter. This rain is likely going to get heavier before it goes away. Let's ride a bit faster and at least catch up with the others.'

[Nogrod]

Nogrod's post:

Sythric was showing the traces orcs had left to Vaenosa, as they noticed Raedwald approaching them. “Orcs, on their way westwards, maybe two days!” Sythric called to Raedwald as he had dismounted and came towards them. Raedwald took a fast look around the place and nodded thoughtfully.

The rain was slowly getting more intense and sudden gusts of wind made it even more chilly. Storm was building up. “Hoisting some tarps, should we? It will be a wet lunch without them?” he asked Raedwald, turning towards Vaenosa at the same time: “Could you get us some wood and get a fire going? Maybe somewhere there...”, he pointed uphill, to a place some twenty yards from where they were standing, “there seemes to be just a bit of more even ground”.

As Vaenosa left to get the wood, Sythric and Raedwald started to check the trees around the fireplace to come, to see where they could tie the tarps, and should they need additional supports. When they finally got to the bussiness of actually spreading and hanging the canvasses, Sythric asked Raedwald the question, he had been thinking a lot during the morning: “How about this Brand-fellow? You’ve been riding with him all morning, I gather. What kind of man is he? And have you got any idea, how Osmod takes this? A strange guy from another village just practically leading the whole group. He did seem to be a somewhat reluctant leader, but still. He has been so quiet after that attack. I wonder, whether you should talk with Osmod on a suitable occasion?”

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Undómë's post


‘I’ve upped my estimation of Brand,’ Rædwald said as the two men secured the tarps to the trees. ‘He’s not a military man, doesn’t think in those terms from what I can see. He’s a good, solid fellow, though, who listens to what his folk have to say, and takes their opinions into account.’ He tightened a knot round a branch and chafed his hands together to bring back a little warmth to them.

‘He’s got a good head on his shoulders and an admirable sense of responsibility for what tasks he takes on. And I think that’s how he sees this ride to Edoras. As a task he’s taken on for his village’s lord, and by extension for the village itself. He has a strong sense of family, too. His first loyalty, I think is to them and then to his village. Now that’s not to say he has no respect for the King. He does seem to in his own way.’ Rædwald looked into the distance, his face thoughtful. He’s a good man, one who would do right by you. And I think that’s why the others follow him . . . not because he wants to be leader . . .’

‘And Osmod, well I’m not sure what’s going through his mind. I think the ransacked village and the unfortunate injury to Fion has put him in a reflective mood. Both these young men . . . Brand and Osmod . . . they’re just farmers and ordinary villagers at heart. That’s where their real strength lies in the husbanding of land and flock and crop . . . not in the awful, foul business of war and slaughter and grim deeds.’

He took a breath and waved at the approaching group. ‘I wouldn’t want to push him . . . Osmod, that is. If he wishes, he can come to me with his concerns, in his own way and at his own time. It’s the consideration I’d give any man.’

[Tevildo]

Dismounting his horse, Dorran went over to Brand and excused himself for interrupting, "Can I speak with you? It shouldn't take very long."

Dorran managed to steer Brand gently over to a large fir tree that provided a convenient overhang from the cold rain that was still falling. "I know you must think me daft to keep going on about this. But I feel compelled to say something. Large groups of Orcs don't march out on expeditions like this unless there are some Easterlings nearby to follow up. The Lord of Mordor uses them to keep an eye on each other, because he frankly doesn't trust either group as far as he can throw a stone. And Easterlings are much better for dragging back riches or some of the captives, rather than simply butchering them wholesale."

Dorran drew a breath before continuing, "Out on the trail I had the strangest sensation that there might be soliders from the east lurking about, perhaps even watching us. Probably I'm wrong, but when I was younger I had a good nose for such things. Some of the men used to rely on me to warn me when someone was coming. Anyways, Easterlings and Orcs are different. Orcs will come and accost you face-to-face, engaging in a bloody fight. Usually they're on foot, but Easterlings are good with a bow and can ride well. They'll stay back and watch you for the longest while and pick their time very carefully, sending a barrage of arrows into camp before riding in on their horses."

"Of couse," indicated Dorran with a shrug of his shoulders, "I could be wrong about this, the same way I was wrong the last time. I'll let you be the judge." The young man darted a nervous look towards Brand.

[Arry]

Brand listened carefully to Dorran, nodding thoughtfully as the young man finished speaking. ‘What happened after we found the burned village, regrettable as it was, doesn’t make your knowledge about these matters any less true or well grounded. Seems to me that the rest of us still need to keep what you’ve told us in the front of our thoughts.’ He pursed his lips and looked down at the ground, kicking at a small rock near the toe of his boot.

‘I have to be honest,’ Brand went on, looking back at Dorran. ‘I’ve never seen an Orc; only heard the stories about them and how vicious they can be. And I guess that was all brought home to me with seeing Athwen’s and Leod’s village. The cruelty . . . it sickened me. Had you not brought up the Easterling men and how they might figure into all this, I would still be operating in ignorance of how that foul Dark Lord lets his armies run.’ He shook his head. ‘Orcs are bad enough . . . I mean you can kind of expect something this bad from them, being as how they’re sort of like monsters or deformed beasts . . . or at least, that’s how I think of them. But to think that men . . . I mean, how can they do such horrid things . . . things worse even than the beasty Orcs, if I understand you rightly.’

Brand ran his fingers though his tangled hair. ‘Well, all we can do is be on the alert as we ride along and set watches when we camp. You especially, Dorran, if you see or smell or hear anything suspicious, raise the alarm. “Better safe than sorry”, or so my father always says.’ He nodded at Dorran. ‘If they’re sneaky, like you say, your eyes and ears may give us one advantage we have . . . something to give us just enough time to either get away or to turn their attack aside before they can overwhelm us by surprise.’

He let his breath out in a noisy rush. ‘Whew! . . . Well, let’s put that aside for right now, what do you say. There are no Easterlings in sight at the moment and I’m hungry and cold . . . how about we get us something to eat and a hot cup of tea. Perhaps our chances will look better with our bellies full and our toes and noses warm!’

Brand put his arm over Dorran’s shoulders and walked with him to the fire, making small talk about Wulfham and family as they went along. In the back of his mind, though, Brand could not shake the image of the monstrous men, as he saw them, who would take the lives of others so lightly . . .

[Arry]

Nogrod's post

The chicken were roasted quite quickly. With bread, and whatever anyone had to go with them, it made a decent lunch. The rain wasn’t getting worse anymore, but had evened to a steady flow of water, from which the canvasses gave them occasional shelter. Four chicken to twelve people. Not so bad as missions go, Sythric thought by himself while taking a small sip from his wineskin. But this is not going to last too long... still, we all are cold. He looked at the half-empty skin in his hands for a while and then passed it over.

Addressing all the people around the small fire, he said: “I can continue scouting this afternoon, but if anyone of you is willing to go for it, I will be just happy to ride with the main group. But whoever is going to scout, I would like to give you some advice, as I think that most of you have never scouted in the head of a company. Sooner or later, many of us will have to perform that duty. My friend Raedwald here”, he glanced at Raedwald shortly, “can elaborate, if I make the point inadequately”. He caught Vaenosa’s eyes, then looked at Brand and Osmod to ensure their approval, and then continued.

“Basically scouting is easy. There are just two principles involved: see all, and do not be seen by any.” He smiled a bit after his words – and received the wineskin back from its tour from Leod, who was sitting next to his right. “But to accomplish that, you need two more things. You have to be fast, and you have to plan the best route well beforehand. And even as these are neither very complicated things, you could say, it’s an easy thing. It’s just when you have to combine all these four in real situation, that scouting becomes more challenging.”

He took another sip from his skin and closed the cork. “I saw Vaenora here...”, then he got baffled as Vaenosa’s look changed, “Venoa? Sorry, I must have slipped your name. Vaenosa was it?” As he saw some people around him nodding in comfirmation, he continued, slightly embarrassed. “Well, Vaenosa here”, he nodded to her, trying to apologize from her with his eyes, “I saw her riding today, and she was doing a good job. She was on the primary task of a scout, checking the route of the party ahead. Maybe one should pay a bit more attention to approaching possible ambush-places more covered and faster, but that was a good job from someone with no military training. You have talent for this work Vaenosa.” With that he smiled openly to her, and nodded approvingly. “But as we are strong enough in numbers, we can spare another scout also. And that work is partly different. The other scout should – as I did this morning – try to find places where he would have the best possible view to the surrounding areas. Kind of widening the scope of our awareness. In the best instance, we could have knowledge of any possible enemy from a day’s or two’s distance, and could avoid meeting them altogether. And that brings me to this morning. I climbed that larger hill back there. The city of Croacht seems to be standing, and there were no armies up and about spreading over our land. So also some good news to report on these unhappy times.” With that he ended, and turned questioningly towards Readwald.

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Undómë's post


‘That lifts my spirits . . . the news about Croacht. Though at the same time, I think that it will be hit hard once the bigger battles begin and that Dark Lord in Mordor pushes west.’

Rædwald threw the leg bone from the chicken he’d been eating into the fire, watching what little fat was left on it blaze up around the knob ends. ‘I think Sythric, is right in his little lesson on scouting. I know most of you who tend flocks have some experience with it . . . though your enemy would be of the four legged variety, and less likely to be as stealthy as some of the two legged sort.’

He nodded at Sythric, saying, ‘I think it might be best if you stay on as one of the scouts. Perhaps Osmod and Brand and I can take up the rear position, and be on alert for problems following us.’

Rædwald’s eyes flicked round the circle; some were uneasy at his words and glanced over there shoulders as if to make sure no danger lay behind . . .

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Folwren's post


The food and fire had thoroughly warmed Athwen. The borrowed cloak was pushed back over her shoulders and the hood draped down her back. She sat with her legs crossed and her elbows on her knees, looking from one speaker to the other as they talked about scouting and what dangers lay ahead. She wondered if there would really be any dangers to look out for. Surely the orcs would be long gone by now, and the Easterlings. . .they would have been seen by now if they were around, surely?

All the same, the older men’s words sounded grave and they were absolutely serious. She looked around the group of twelve and then out at the grey and dull sky and world outside the sheltering tarp. Certainly she wasn’t looking forward the leaving and heading out again. With a sigh she rose and went to the edge. She stuck her hands out beyond to catch the falling streamlets of rain water running from their tent. With it she rinsed her hands from the lunch and then turned back.

As she was returning to the fire, she noted Osmod by his horse, messing with the saddle bags. She altered her course and went to him, stopping behind him.

‘Do you want your cloak back? I’m quite warm now. Thanks very much for lending it.’

He looked over his shoulder at her and one of his quick smiles flashed across his face. ‘No, keep it yet a while longer. It’s still raining and you’ll need it when we leave.’

Her eyes almost twinkled as she smiled back. ‘You’ll need it to, I’ll remind you,’ she answered. He shrugged, closed the bag, fastened it and turned to face her, but she could tell from his face that he would still refuse. Her hands were at the clasp. ‘Won’t you take it?’ He only shook his head, and she gave up. ‘I saw you riding Vaenosa’s horse yesterday,’ she said at once. ‘You ride very well. Not many of the boys at home could have kept their seats as well as you. Do you train horses?’

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Farael's post


“Train horses?” Osmod laughed slightly “No, I can’t say I do that. But I spend a lot of time among horses, dogs and cattle. I guess I have learned a thing or two about each of them… A... and Nay, the horse, was only playing.” He smiled briefly, doing his best to downplay what had happened “He could have kicked me off if he had really wanted to” He smiled at Athwen, and offered her one of the biscuits he had taken from his bag, then he put a whole one in his mouth.

It was a moment before he could swallow and speak again, but the blush on his face spoke for itself. “I am so sorry… I guess I have learned about horses but forgotten my modals.” His face was crimson red and he could see Athwen found it quite amusing.

Osmod escorted Athwen back to the fire, as the last few drops of rain fell from the skies. Soon they would be leaving again and Osmod wanted to warm himself some, as he was colder than what he let on. But of course, he smiled at Athwen when she asked him if he was cold and denied it. His cloak looked rather funny on her and at any other time, he would have laughed about it. This time, the situation was too solemn for such thing.

Lost in his thoughts, Osmod did not realize Athwen had been talking to him. This caused Osmod to blush again, but this time, neither of them said anything about it.

[Arry]

Camp is packed up and the group turns westward across the plains

From the wide and rugged shelf of rock that formed the East Wall of Rohan, near where the Nen Hithoel cascaded downward in the Falls of Rauros, the small group of travelers had turned west into the broad valley of the East Emnet. It was atop one of the hillocks there that they had sheltered as the rains pelted down.

Sythric and Rædwald had managed to string some canvas tarps among the trees which afforded some respite to the horses and the companions. A small fire gave the added comfort of hot tea and hot food while the group waited.

The rains at first fell in a thick slanting curtain of water, cutting them off visually from anything at a greater distance than the lip of the hill. Sounds too were difficult to hear from outside the little area of shelter. The rain was loud as it beat against the tarps and splashed down on the sere grassed ground of late autumn.

Little by little the downpour let up. What was once a lowering darkness as the storm pressed in upon them, now gave way to the hazy greyness as rain became a lighter mist and then stopped all together. The threatening clouds had moved on and there seemed no more to follow.

Brand was the first done with the meal, and as the day had lightened, he went to where the horses were picketed and untied Lady. He brought her round to the area near the other tarp and replaced what few items he’d got from his pack – his bowl and spoon, his little packet of herbs for tea. The pack he secured to his saddle.

‘We should move out,’ he said, knowing that would be an unpopular plan; for although the rain had let up, the day had grown more chill from the damp and the wind. ‘There are a few more hours of light left to us. And now that we are turning westward, it is but three days’ ride to River Entwash, and from there just two to the King’s Hall.

He narrowed his eyes and looked west over the broad plain of the East Emnet. In the distance he could see trees scattered across the rolling countryside in little thickets. ‘We can make for that bigger coppice there,’ he said, pointing to where a small spinney of bare limbed oak were growing on a once grassy little rise. ‘That will be our night’s camp.’ He turned back to where most of the others were still gathered about the little fire. ‘We will still have plenty of evening light to set up our shelter once we get there.’

With some reluctance the others set themselves in motion. And soon the noon camp was taken down and packed away, the fire put out. The companions mounted up once again. Osmod and Fion rode at the lead for now as Brand and Rædwald fell to the back. Two scouts went out as before . . . Vaenosa, as was her preference, and one other . . .

The horses plodded westward with as much enthusiasm in their gait as seemed on the faces of those astride them.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The leader of the Balchoth beckoned to the others to follow behind in a single line. After riding for some time, Lord Calimehtar indicated that they were getting close to the junction of the trail where the strangers should be found.

Calmehtar raised a hand in warning, his jewelled ring flashing as it picked up the last light of the day; the sun was beginning to sink below the horizon. The riders moved with perfect grace. They barely made a sound as they pushed ahead to the spot that the scouts had identified. Their leader bore an ornate bow slung over one shoulder, and an elaborate curved blade that hung down on his hip. On his chest was an breastplate emblazoned with the symbol of the Eye. For these men were Easterlings, members of a cruel clan completely under the sway of Sauron. For nearly six hundred years, the tribe had terrorized the lands on both side of the Great River, often in the company or with the help of Mountain Orcs. Long ago in the year 2510, they had launched a massive invasion to the west, but had been thrown back by the combined might of Cirion, the twelfth steward of Gondor, and Eorl the Young, who had led the horsemen of the North.

The Balchoth had nursed their grievances and injuries for some five hundred years, never forgetting how they hated the riders and those who called themselves the Rohirrim. Soon now, Lord Calimehtar reasoned, they would take their long desired revenge, dragging off the populace to serve as slaves in Mordor and taking over the lands that should rightfully belong to the Balchoth and the other servants of darkness. Their secret raids were only the first step in a campaign that had been carefully planned, an unleashing of blood and terror that would signal the advancing power of Sauron over the peoples of the west.

Earlier that day, Calimehtar had been closeted with his two scouts. They had reported seeing a good sized party of travellers heading south and west over the broad plain the locals called East Emnet. Both the scouts had agreed that the riders were ripe for the picking.

"Women, a column made up of women," one scout had increduously exclaimed, spitting crudely on the ground. "And the few men with them no more than children. I see one, maybe two, seasoned warriors....no more than that. We may deal with these fools hastily. There is no need to wait for nightfall. Get them just as they arrive at the rise, for surely they intend to camp there. We will have great pickings. Perhaps we'll run the men through with our blades and drag the women back to our lord in Mordor. Fine slaves they'll be, women as young and foolish as these." The scout rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the rich booty that such a gaggle of women would certainly command on the open market.

There had been no disagreement, and the plan was quickly hatched. Now they stood within a stone's throw of the hill, hiding on the far side. "Remember now," growled Calimehtar, "You're to encircle the hill as they are struggling to make their way up. Surround it from all sides that none may escape. When I give the signal, let the arrows fly. And after that we will go in with our swords. The muddy hill will be hard to manage, but remember that we have the advantage of surprize."

As the Easterlings saw the last of the small party of riders mounting the trail that led up to the oaks, the raiders drew their bows and shook them over their heads, letting out a combined howl that could be heard from nearly a mile away. Calimehtar cried out about the ruckus, "Forward then, leave none of the men alive. Skewer them with your swords. Throw the women over your saddles and bring them back to where Aliharmi waits at the top of the ridge. Then return to fight again. Alinarmi will guard over our living booty with his whips and prods."

With a savage cry, the band raced forward, hooves pounding hard against the wet earth. Wave after wave of arrows came streaking through the air, falling upon the heads of the small band of riders. Calimehtar was the first one to come roaring up the hill, heading straight towards those who had positioned themselves at the rear. He reached out with his sword threatening one of the riders and as lust for battle overcame him joined with one of the women in close combat. Leaning over, his fingers closed on the long hair of one of the female combattants....

[Nogrod]

A chilling cry filled the air, coming from all around them. It was followed by the regrettably familiar hissing noise that approached from somewhere up above; growing louder, slowly at first, but gaining both speed and volume, as it got nearer. Sythric went to grasp his shield quite automatically. That noise was almost instinctively tied to that action. The sky was pretty dark already, and made the approaching missiles practically invisible. As the sound of the arrows suddenly grew very violent, he managed to lift the shield to cover his body from the downpouring, lethal rain of arrows. Just before the shield cut his field of vision, he saw them coming towards them, from all over around. He heard himself shouting for “Cover!”, but that yell was overpowered by the ear-breaking whine of the incoming arrows. He heard someone yelling, but didn’t know, who it was.

Now the easterlings were clearly seen, coming on them from all the directions. Fifteen?... more, less?... Maybe two shots more. He had estimeted the distance between them. No more time to lose, he thought. The next pack is in any moment.

“Scatter around! Get away from each other!”, he shouted. “There’s not so many of them at the time, look for them! They will come from lower next time!” Byt the time he had gotten to that, the next pack of arrows was approaching. Sythric got eye on one that was coming quite straightly towards him. He lifted his shield, and hoped for the best. The impact never came, but the sound of the arrow, passing less than a yard to the left from him almost deafened his ear for a moment.

“One more round coming! After it, make a circle!”, Sythric yelled amidst the chaos and tumult of the horses. He heard, that someone else had also shouted something, but couldn’t make the message out. Suddenly he saw Brand some ten yards away from him, and called him. “Brand!... Brand! Those one’s coming down on us! From the ridge! Would you ride with me against them, to take the worst blow? We will have to slow those down!” If Brand answered, Sythric didn’t hear it, for the easterling cry was on the air again, louder as before – and the thunder of their horses coming towards them with almost full speed sounded frightful indeed. And there was the third pack of arrows, coming almost horizontally now, as they were shot only from under hundred yards away.

The shriek of an oncoming arrow was one of the most frightful noises he knew of. So haphazard, so random was the possibility of getting hit, or avoiding it. As a true rider, Sythric thought of them as kind of unfair weapons. You didn’t have to prove your qualities fighting eye to eye, just let your lethal missile do it for you from secure distance. And you gave your opponent just the hope, that luck would be at your side. No arrow flew even near Sythric this time.

The sound of easterlings changing weapons some fifty yards away, was just as chilling as the noise of the approaching arrows. The soft ringing of the almost simultaneos unsheating of swords from all around them was quite unnerving. Sythric picked his spear and yelled as loud as he could: “In to a circle, in to a circle!” While shouting, he was already making Thydrë to start uphill. He had no time to look for Brand, as he saw the easterlings coming towards, too close already. He spurred Thydrë to make all the speed she could with that short distance, rushing straight towards the avalanche that was rolling down the hill on upon them.

[Folwren]

The light was dim when the attack broke out upon them. Athwen couldn’t tell which direction the arrows came from - probably because they were completely surrounded - nor where to look for the men who uttered such horrible cries. Parith’s head went up and his nostrils flared at the sound and without warning he reared and screamed. Athwen clutched his mane with one hand, and with the other, pulled on one rein. His head came around and his dropped back to his forefeet, spinning about and half cantering downhill, before he turned again and tried to bolt back up.

Out of the corner of her eyes, Athwen saw the figures of horsemen start up the hill after her. She couldn’t count them, there were too many things going on. An arrow passed her head and she heard the whine of wind behind its feathers as it flew by her ear. Then another one grazed her arm and she clenched her teeth at the sudden, sharp pain. Hardly a moment was given her to glance down, and barely had she realized that the blood she saw was from her, that a new worry caused her to forget it.

She had reached the company again, and they were facing around to meet their assailants. Athwen tried to urge Parith forward between two of them, she was weaponless and would be of no use, but he balked, and pawed, and then tried to rear again. Athwen wanted to shriek in frustration and fear, but no sound or voice came to her throat. Her mind was numb and frozen in terror.

And then the Easterlings reached them. The sound of clashing steal invaded upon her ears. She cowered and shrank where she sat upon her trembling horse. But then a hand touched her, reaching across a gap between her and another horse, it closed on her hair, the long, damp locks, close to the scalp. It sent a spark of shattering pain through her head. Her head dropped back, her mouth opened - it was a most vulnerable position, and suddenly she knew it.

She found control of herself at that instant, and when she did, she also gained control of her horse. She grasped the reins and pulled, and he backed obediently, then she rocked forward, bowing over the saddle horn. The grip on her hair didn’t give an inch, and now he yanked, hard, and he very nearly succeeded in his purpose in pulling her from her horse. Athwen screamed involuntarily, and once more her head went back, and her body slipped towards him. She clutched at Parith’s mane.

An unexplainable fierceness flowed through her body. Her eyes darted towards her assailant. She spotted his curved dagger in his belt and she let go of Parith with one hand to reach it. Her fingers closed on the hilt, but before she could draw it out, her hair was released, her hand struck away and then another stunning blow was added to her head. Her senses reeled, but she managed to right herself on the saddle and pull away from the enemy.

But there was another Easterlings, and another, and another, and Athwen suddenly doubted that any one of them would get out alive.

[Nogrod]

It seemed, that four easterlings were coming down the hill. Two of them were too far right for him to have any chances of engaging, but the two nearest to him were riding down on a path he could have chances to intervene. He spurred Thydrë even more, calling her to do her utmost. As the easterlings noted him coming towards them, they very soon changed the angle of their approach. The first started changing his course a bit left, to pass him from that side. The other one coming a bit behind, continued almost to the same direction he was already heading, but making his trail a bit nearer to Sythrics path on the right side. The one coming towards his left side would clearly miss any attack on the party. That was good news. The bad news were, that the one coming behind, could still manouver himself on the others, if the first one would engage him successfully. And the first one was posing a threat to his life, to begin with – the second would come just seconds after that, if the first would miss it... A kingdom for just five able riders! These guys know their trade..., Sythric cursed himself.

Sythric levelled his spear and rushed forwards, pointing the tip of it towards the easterling coming over him from the left. Just before the impact he suddenly pulled the reins back and right, with all the power his left hand could make. Thydrë knew, what was meant, and made a sudden leap rightwards. Sythric ducked simultaneously, and the easterling’s sword cut only air. It would take some moments, before that man could manage to turn around and come back. Just time enough! Before the other easterling could come to grips with this new situation, he saw the spearhead coming towards him. He tried to pull the reins to avoid the collision, but that was too late already. Sythric’s spear pierced through his thin leather-breastplate, just under his armpit, and jerked him off the saddle.

“For Rohan!”, he heard himself bellowing, as he struggled the spear back. The easterling was not dead, but he wouldn’t stand for long, as blood was spurting all over from his trembling body. Turning hastily to see the overall situation, he saw that the easterling he had strayed just a moment ago, was making a turn some twenty yards from him. The battle raged all over him. One easterling was rushing up the hill towards him with speed. He seemed more adorned than the others, and then there was also that something, you just can't point so easily... something like stature. It shined from him yards away.

[Arry]

As the Easterlings came at them, Brand was torn. His gaze flicked to where Meghan rode. He could see her fumbling to get her bow ready as the foe came nearer. His sight of her was lost in less than the wink of an eye as the battle rolled down the hill.

He heard Sythric calling his name . . . something about the enemy coming down from the ridge. And would he ride with him . . .

Again the sounds and crush of battle pressed in on him. Brand kicked against Lady’s side urging her after Sythric. He had no lance as did the older man, And on horse, his short sword was not that effective. Instead he grasped his long stout oaken cudgel firmly in his hand and rode hard against the advancing men.

Lady moved upon the Easterlings as she would have against the wolves that preyed on Brand’s flocks. She evaded the sharp sting of their blades when she could and when that simply was not possible she raised up and struck at them with her hooves.

Three of the foe rushed in to surround Lady and Brand as the oak cudgel sprayed one of their fellow’s brains onto the muddy ground. Two of them slashed at Lady’s hindquarters while the one in front wielded his lance against Brand. Lady’s back hooves flew out behind her, catching one of her attackers hard in the chest, knocking him away from her. The other one’s blade connected with her flank, gouging a long slash along her side. She wheeled and struck out at him with her front hooves.

As Lady made her abrupt turn, the third Easterling thrust his lance at Brand, unseating him. Brand tried desperately to regain his balance, to no effect. He fell from his horse, hitting his left shoulder hard on the ground. His cudgel flew from his grip. Brand scrambled to his feet, drawing his sword. From the corner of his eye he could see Lady still standing, her two attackers now downed. Approaching him was the Easterling with the lance. His eyes were hard on Brand as he put down the spear and drew his own blade . . .

[Farael]

It seemed the day was finally drawing to an end, when an arrow flew across the path of the riders. It was soon followed by another, and another. Osmod’s horse had seen many a fight with wolves, but he had never seen those missiles coming straight at him. He reared, almost throwing Osmod off his mount and kicked the empty air behind him. It took Osmod a moment to realize they were under attack and another moment to bring his horse under control. By the time he was ready, the Easterlings closing in on them and there was no time for him to grab his bow and arrows. They were secured to the back of his saddle but might as well have been left in Bregoware.

Then, he heard a blood-chilling scream. The leader had indicated a charge and the Easterlings were moving in for the kill. Osmod drew his sword and straightened his back, remembering what his grand father had told him.

”Never let them see your fear, lad. A fearless enemy is the most feared enemy of them all.”

The group was in disarray. Sythric was calling out to Brand and then charging by himself, a small clump of riders still held together and Osmod found himself caught slightly separated from the rest. He heard another scream, yet this time a different one. Turning on the saddle, he saw one of those wretched men cheering as he grabbed one of the girls by her hair. It was Athwen.

Blood boiled in Osmod’s veins and he decided to charge back at them. Letting out what he hoped would amount to a battle cry, Osmod spurred his horse towards the riders that surrounded Athwen. Two of them wheeled and faced Osmod, while the third still struggled with the girl. Osmod had no time to smile, but the girl seemed to be putting more of a fight than what the brutes had thought of. Charging blindly towards the Easterlings, Osmod lunged with his sword at one of them yet his attack was repelled by a shield. Osmod’s momentum had him galloping by the Easterling’s side and he stuck out his elbow, hitting the surprised rider on the head and throwing him off his horse. It was not quite the normal Rohan fighting techniques, but it would have to do. He wheeled his horse around where Athwen was struggling bravely against the Easterling, but he miscalculated the angle and found himself too far to help her. There was still another enemy on his horse and he was coming in too fast for Osmod to change his course. The Easterling levelled his lance for a kill but Osmod was able to duck out of the way at the last second. The lance’s point found the back of his arm but it barely scratched his skin. A lunge of his sword later, Osmod had killed a man for the first time.

Athwen had struggled free and Osmod wheeled again and charged at the Easterling by her side. The man simply moved away, letting Osmod by Athwen’s side. It was small consolation and there was no time to stop and talk, the battle ravaged on around them and he could only pray his luck would not abandon him now that his anger was subsiding. He felt a cold pang of fear and tried to press it back, knowing that it was not the time for him to cower and run away.

[Undómë]

Rædwald nodded at Brand to go with Sythric. His lance was already loosed from its holder and he urged Lys forward. He could see the others as he passed along, some engaged in fighting singly, but a number in little groups of two or so, holding off their attackers. He harried the Easterlings in his path, killing two of them as he made his way toward Meghan.

He wished he might have brought the armor for Lys that he’d had in his younger days as several of the Easterlings managed to wound her as the two pushed onward. The horse, however, had not slowed down or shown the least halting in her gait from the cuts, which made him assume they were only superficial.

There were two Easterlings attacking Meghan. One of her arrows had hit the nearest one’s cheek, near the eye, causing him to fall back with a scream. The other plunged toward her with his blade, and she fired another arrow at him, missing. He swung at her, using the flat of his blade. His intention was to knock her from her horse and take her captive.

The force of the blow nearly knocked her from her seat, but she rallied as he rushed in to grab her and kicked him in the neck with her boot. He reeled back; then, catching his breath lunged at her again . . . this time only to meet the sharp tip of Rædwald’s lance as it pierced him in the side, delivering a mortal blow.

[Nogrod]

That man must be their leader! Now you can show them, who the Rohanians are! Sythric thought to himself. It seemed, that he hadn't particularly noticed Sythric yet. That's just the better... Surprise, speed, brutal strength, and then some range to add... Sythric smiled thinly, lowering his spear, staring at the easterling leader approaching him, armed only with a sword.

As he was readying himself to encounter the easterling, the voice of hooves passing somewhere near behind him got him instinctively to check his back. Brand was standing on the ground, some twenty yards behind him, just a short sword in his hand. He was facing an easterling, that was coming on him, at full gallop, a full-sized blade ready to swing. The brutal strenght and range on the one side there too... He’s already dead! “Brand!!!”

Before he even realized it himself, he had turned his body somewhat sideways – Thydrë accompanied his move by taking two steps back, and turning a bit – and thrown the heavy spear with all his strenght. He missed the easterling. A heavy rider spear was no javelin, and there had been no time to aim. But the spear had hit. It had hit the easterling’s horse, penetrating deep into its side. The horse whinnyed in pain and tumbled down to its knees from full gallop, sending its rider off the saddle, flying straight towards Brand.

At the same time, as Sythric saw the easterling tumble on Brand, he sensed the presence of the enemy, just too near now. He had neither time, nor space, to draw his sword, as the oncoming Calimehtar was already about to swing his – and within range, with the strength on his side now. Sythric could see the movement from the corner of his eye. Desperately he grasped his shield, and swung it towards the oncoming blow, trying to parry the hit that was already falling.

[Undómë]

Rædwald

No sooner had the Easterling fallen from his horse than a bone crushing thunk . . . thunk sounded behind Rædwald. His face took on a grimace of surprise fading to a look of fondness and regret as he cast a look at Meghan.

Two arrows sunk deep in his back, followed by another then as it hit him in the chest, sinking toward the old soldier’s heart. Death’s garden bloomed on the field of his tunic; its red flowers growing and spreading until the source of their nourishment was spent altogether. He tumbled from his saddle and lay at last on the cold ground of his last battle, sightless eyes staring into the bloody melee as it swirled about him.

-------

Meghan

She was no seasoned warrior to keep her emotions well in check in the twists and turns of battle. Meghan jumped down from her horse and ran to where Rædwald lay. Her face was as pale as his as she held his heavy head in her arms and keened over him.

In some, anger might then have fueled her actions, and had she been a shield-maiden of the Mark she might have risen up like a berserker and slain many of the foe. But she was not so. The fight had gone out of her at the death of her friend; his death siphoning of her spirit even as his fled his cold remains.

It was an easy thing, then, for one of Easterlings afoot to knock her senseless with his club and hand her up to one of his fellows on horse. She offered no resistance in her dazed state as he carried her back to his Lord.

[Arry]

Brand collapsed under the weight of the Easterling; the suddenness of the impact causing his blade to go flying from his hand as his outflung arm hit the ground. It skittered along the dirt, well out of his reach, and landing at last against a small rocky outcropping.

The Easterling, now astride him, had already drawn a knife from his belt and rising up was about to drive it deep into Brand’s gut. Brand fumbled quickly for his own knife and pushed it hard into the man’s chest, just below his breastbone. The thrust of the Easterling’s knife went askew. But though it did not pierce his gut, it buried itself deeply in Brand’s left shoulder with the weight of the falling man’s body behind it.

And now Brand was defenseless. His knife buried in the toppled man, his club fallen somewhere in battle. His sword, he remembered, had fallen a number of yards away. And it was with a grim determination that he scrabbled toward it.

The effort of simply moving those few yards nearly did him in. His vision was hazy with pain, and he could feel the sticky wetness of his tunic as blood from his wound seeped out. Pale and sweaty, he sat down, his back against the rocks, legs stretched out before him. He drew his blade onto his thighs, gripping it as best he could with his weakening grip. He was cold to the bone and drew his breath in short ragged gasps. The sound of hooves passed by him, and he could make no effort to rise. But the Easterling horseman passed by, intent on other grim business.

Through clouded eyes Brand could just see some body thrown over the horse, in front of the rider. A thick, honey blond plait swung down from the poor creature’s head. A woman hung there loosely; her eyes closed.

‘Meghan!’ he shouted. A sharp burning pain shot through him as he strove to rise. He fell back against the rock . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Child's post

Calimehtar's rage in battle knew no bounds. The "fools" were proving to be more formidable opponents than he had bargained for. Who knew that a ragged band of women and beardless youth could be so tenacious? Even the horses on which they rode seemed to be seasoned warriors as they twisted and turns to get out of the way of the slashing swords and then surged forward with raised hooves to lash out at the enemy.

A number of Calimehtar's men had already been cut down by the swords of the enemy; they now lay bleeding and lifeless on the ground. The lord of the Easterlings cursed under his breath. He had made a mistake in judgment, a major mistake in judgment. It would have been better to wait for the night after the camp had fallen asleep, when he could have picked the strangers off one at a time under the comfortable cover of night. But now they must fight for their life, perhaps attempt to regroup, and run off to fight another time.

While thrusting out with sword and spear, Calimehtar watched in frustration as one of the Easterling horses fell under the assault, the animal's knees buckled under his body. The rider flew off and hit the ground with a resounding thud as Calimentar rushed forward to position himself in front of the fallen Easterling, facing the Rohanite who had sent the spear into the horse's side.

Lifting his sword high above the man's head, he let go a great battle cry and thrust his blade downward at his neck and shoulder. Unable to regain his balance, Sythric would do nothing but cover his head with his shield, in a vain attempt to parry the oncoming blow. The blade was defected but the shield immediately flew from Sythric's tight grasp and fell useless onto the forest floor. Seeing his advantage, Calimehtar dashed in and slashed down with his weapon; his blade cut the edge of Sythric's shirt and sliced into the flesh below, leaving a trail of blood along the man's side. Forcing aside the pain that was just now registering on his brain, Sythric twisted his body, and dropping to the ground, managed to retreat hastily from the attacking Easterling and jump behind the protective cover of one of the horses.

Seeing his victim attempt to escape, Calimehtar raced forward to pursue the wounded man, but was stopped in his tracks by an unearthly howl coming from the top of the hill, "Calimehtar! Come now." The urgency in the voice was unmistakenable. Calimehtar turned and began struggling up the muddy hillside.

_____________________________

The rider had thought to offer his fair haired prize directly to Lord Calimehtar, but one of the others had snapped out a warning that all female prisoner must be taken to the ridge where Aliharmi waited. The man bounded up the hillside, the woman's lithe form still draped over his saddle. When he finally reached the hilltop, Aliharmi reached over and yanked Meghan's body off the horse and then bid the man adieu, telling him to return to his post below. Meghan fell to the ground with a dull thud. Aliharmi bent closer to examine the prisoner and rolled her body over onto her back so that he could gaze upon her face.

Nice, very nice. She'll fetch a pretty penny on the market. Aliharmi rubbed his plump hands together in sheer anticipation of the reward that they would garner. This one still had some life in her unlike the ruined and lifeless women he'd often seen back in Mordor. He took out a knife and rubbed his finger along the edge of the blade. It wouldn't do to ruin the merchadise, yet Aliharmi felt an unrelenting urge to press the blade against the side of her face and place his mark upon the woman. A few cuts and decorative swirls made a face interesting and surely would be appreciated by the discriminating connosieur who enjoyed wild and intriguing women. Aliharmi placed his dagger against Megha's cheek and began to exert pressure with his fingers. He let up for a moment and withdrew the dagger. How much more fun it would be to instill terror in this pretty little soul? Surely, this was an opportunity not to be missed.

He gently rocked the woman awake, patting and fussing over her almost like a young child. Still dazed and confused, Meghan groggily opened her eyes to see the Easterling lord brandishing an ornate blade in the air. He flashed it conspicuously before her face, laying the sharp edge flush against her throat. A smile spread over Aliharmi's face as he carefully began to draw it across her skin.

Out of nowhere came a howling cry like a wild beast trapped in a cage or a beserker who has lost his wits. A young lad, darker than the Rohirrim, grim of visage and utterly desperate, came racing over the hill, utterly oblivious to the danger at hand. He bore an axe in his right hand and a dagger in the left, both extended outward. Aliharmi stood transfixed, scarcely believing that a child like this would dare accost him and suddenly realized the danger he was in. Aliharmi turned from Meghan and cried out for help, "Calimehtar. Come." He stared in disbelief as Dorran charged forward, showing no sign of stopping.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Undómë's post

Meghan felt the sharp sting of the blade as the keen edge slid across her throat. Blood pooled along the neat cut, dripping down into her collar. The pain brought her to her senses; her eyes snapping open to see the horrid, leering face of one of the Easterling warriors looming over her.

She dared not scream or move, fearing his knife would be pushed deeper as he made his furrow along her skin. Just when she thought she couldn’t bear it any longer the pressure lightened; there was a loud raging howl and he turned from her abruptly.

Dragging herself up to a sitting position, she saw the younger man from Wulfham come charging across the ground toward her captor. His eyes were ablaze and he charged toward the Easterling as one gone mad.

A desperate anger rose up in her that these foul men should try to harm her or any of her companions, new and old. She felt helpless, though, her weapons were gone, and her small self would be no more threatening to these men than a flea to a wolf.

The small germ of an idea began to take hold. If only she hadn’t left them behind. No . . . there they were! Her hand slid into the top of her right boot and pulled out the two metal needles she used for knitting. She grasped them both in her hands and got to her knees.

The Easterling was focused Dorran’s attack. She scuffled up near him and drove the weight of her body toward him, plunging the sharp tips of the needles through the breeches the man wore. As they pierced the back of his left knee he turned just enough to backhand her away from him. The sharp crack of his hand against her jaw sent her flying backward. She landed a little ways away, her small form crumpled against a tree trunk.

[Tevildo]

Dorran's slender frame collided with that of the massive Aliharmi. Rage poured out from every fiber of his small being. There were too many memories flooding his mind, too many reminders of mothers and sisters and friends dragged off and tormented by the Easterlings. At least Meghan had succeeded in slipping a short distance away from her captor so that she was out of immediate danger.

The more powerful but less agile Aliharmi managed to keep on his feet, but just barely, thrown off balance by the rutted and muddy terrain. Lumbering up to confront his attacker, Aliharmi ripped out his sword and lunged towards Dorran but the attempt fell clumsily short. Attempting to step back and regroup, his feet met with a thick patch of oozing mud. With the Easterling no longer attacking, the young man again threw himself forward, this time slashing sideways with his axe. There was a resounding thud as Dorran sank his axe head into the larger man's chest. His victim fell to the ground instantanously. The body gave one shudder and then fell silent. Filled with a madness he was unable to control, Dorran lunged forward one last time. Lifting the axe above his head, he brought it down on Aliharmi's prone body two more times.

As Dorran realized what he was doing, the young man shook his head in disgust and let the axe handle slip through his fingers. He ran over to where Meghan lay huddled under the tree and bent down to help her. It was at that moment that the Lord of the Easterlings bounded up the hill, scimiter drawn, and charged straight for Dorran and Meghan.

[Nogrod]

The impact wrenched the shield from Sythric’s grip and pushed his whole body backwards. It was a mighty blow. He was just about to regain his balance, when he saw the next swing coming in from above him. Sythric tried to yank his body backwards as fast as he could, to avoid the hit.

First, after the softened impact, it just felt as a gentle touch sliding down his side. But he knew, the easterling hade managed to make a hit that penetrated his breast-armour. The pain would come only afterwards, in its due time. Sythric let his backward motion carry him off the saddle, turning his body as he fell. He got to his feet, Thydrë being between him and the easterling chieftain. He called Thydrë to run, slapping her hard to her back. Time! Time! Sythric saw an easterling horse tramping nervously but idly, some ten yards away from him – its rider had fallen dead to the ground. He took a run towards it, trying to unsheath his sword while making towards it. Glancing fastly behind, he saw the easterling-lord to get around Thydrë – with some effort. Good Thydrë! I love you! But he was after him now.

Then there was that weird, howling cry that about silenced everything on the battlefield. It came from the ridge. And it was followed by a much harsher – but not more secure – call, in a language he couldn’t understand. Sythric saw the easterling-lord’s eyes narrowing, his expression showing growing contempt. Then he spurred his horse up the hill.

That howl came from no fully grown man! Sythric was at the same time releaved as the imminent danger to himself was lifted, and even more worried. He tried to scan the battleground as fast as he could. The easterlings seemed to be on their way up to the ridge. Where were Raedwald, Meghan, Dorran, or Vaenosa? And then he saw it. The cry came from his lips without reflecting on it, his voice breaking as he shouted: “Raedwald!!!”. His eyes had went black for a moment, just as he had seen Raedwald lying on the ground, two arrows on his back. He went through simultaneous bursts of maddening anger and utmost sorrow and pain. Tears bursting from his eyes, he rushed forwards to Raedwald's dead body. But the pain stopped him. His side was in flames now. He tried to make a compromise between the speed and the pain. He was dead. He is dead!

You will not stop now! You will not stop here! He would scorn you, if you let this go unavenged. He would scorn you, if you didn’t try to save this day! All these young people here! Do it!

He called Thydrë and picked Readwald’s lance from the ground, touching the dead man’s shoulder with the tip of it, as a sign of honour - the way the riders used to do. “C’mon all of you, ready to help our friends! Let’s ride up to the ridge, after those bastards! There are people in trouble!”. He tried to jump on Thydrë as usual, and felt the agonizing pain on his side. He had to try again. On the second time he managed to mount her, but the pain almost stunned him. He recollected himself soon enough and spurred Thydrë to a gallop. He didn’t wait to see, whether anyone followed or not. This was a mission he was going to see to its end, whether anyone was in it or not. Those easterlings – and that lord, who had sneakingly got the better of him, while he was helping a friend! But where is Brand? How is he?

[Folwren]

Athwen was gasping as she rode forward. Osmod was by her side. She glanced his direction and wanted to thank him for trying to help her, but she didn't have breath or time. They were coming closer to the others now and at a glance she saw that there was trouble there. Besides the wounded and dying Easterlings on the ground, there were also the bodies of their group, and Sythric, although he was mounting his horse and urging her forward up the hill, appeared to be wounded. Athwen stopped Parith and tumbled down from the saddle, rushing forward towards where Brand lay, half propped up on a rock. She reached out and grasped his arm.

'Brand. Brand!' she cried, her voice frantic. He looked at her, and in his eyes she saw fierce pain and something else she couldn't quite place. 'Can you get up? You've got to fight!' She released his arm to look at the blood stained tunic at his shoulder. He couldn't fight. . . not with that. She looked about her, and to her dismay saw Raedwald lying senseless on the ground. She didn't know if he was dead.

Brand started under her hand and she looked back quickly. His eyes were lifted to something behind her and he gasped her name. Her hands were on the hilt of his sword in an instant and without looking she whirled about with a hoarse cry.

Athwen knew nothing of sword play. She swung wildly, only aiming to hit her enemy. The large Easterling took several paces back at the first fierceness of her onslaught, but then he stood, parrying every stroke with infuriating skill. Athwen hated it. She hated him, and she hated everything else. Her jaw was clentched and there was no maidenly look about her face, but there were tears, tears of rage that only came to women at a time like that.

She made a rash move, a large stroke, and the Easterling dodged easily to one side. She stumbled with the force of her own move. A blow then from his large fist sent her sprawling, with the sword flying from her hand. She lay still one moment, her eyes opened. Directly across from her lay Raedwald, and she had no doubt now that he was dead. Then, between her face and his, she saw, just within reach of her hand, a rohanian dagger. The sound of a heavy boot was behind her. No clear or definite thought came to her as she reached out, quick as lightning, grasped the fallen blade, twisted beneath the man and his groping hands, rose up onto her knees and then...

She wasn't expecting the tearing sound the blade made when it slipped between his ribs. Athwen didn't remember that with such a wound blood would have to come. The dagger was thrust in up to the hilt, and the dark, warm blood flowed out and stained her hand. She jerked back, leaving the dagger within his side. Her eyes nearly started from her head, and the scream she wanted to utter was caught in her throat. She looked up and just saw the brief, dying look in the Easterling's face before he turned and fell. She had killed a man.

Her senses came back in that one, sweeping, horrible moment. She trembled violently from head to foot. Her left hand, her clean hand, lifted to her face, and was placed half over her eyes, and she turned away. She didn't take a step, though, as a sudden sob wrenched her chest. More followed until she was helplessly weeping. Tears quite blinded her. Slowly, Athwen sank to her knees, and then by degrees she bent lower and lower towards the ground until her face touched the cold, wet earth. One hand still covered her face, the other was held out stiffly from her body, half coated in blood.

She cried for Raedwald, for Brand and Sythric. She wept for her home, her friends, her family and her past life. And Athwen mourned for the dead Easterling behind her.

'I can't do it,' she cried, her voice choking and her words probably unable to be made out with her face towards the ground. 'I can't go on. Why didn't you take me with you? Why? Why?' That haunting question - again. She wanted to rise, to run, to flee from death and blood shed, to leave the bounds of the earth, leaving all battle, guilt, and hate behind. But she couldn't. That road was not for her and she had no choice in the matter. And so she lay in the wet grass, completely overcome and completely helpless, crying such tears as she had cried the first day. . .tears she had hoped she would never have to cry again.

[Valier]

Vaenosa was enjoying the peace of the on coming twilight. She enjoyed the time to herself, to scout the area ahead of the group. It gave her a sense of independence and a slight hint of belonging to a group. Vaenosa shifted on Nay's back and moved her bow from one hand to the other. She was leaning Nay to turn around and head the short distance back to the group of riders, when a strange noise began from overhead.Vaenosa cocked her head to the sound, it sounded almost familiar...yet different.


Thunk..........thunk, thunk. Arrows came flying from all directions, some whizzing passed, others grazing or hitting the group. Vaenosa's eyes went wide, she was so surprised she was almost dazed. Everything seemed to be happening so fast.

With a sickening Thwack an arrow lodged deep in her thigh, bringing her back to her senses. Men began to charge from all directions.Nay squeeled in fright and took of, nearly leaving Vaenosa behind. She regained her grip on his reins and pulled back. She was facing away from the scattering group heading towards the right side of the hill. She turned Nay around and almost screamed in the effort, the arrow still lodged in her left thigh was seeping blood down her leg, but she would not leave the others to die.

Readying her own bow, Vaenosa saw Sythric fighting with two Men to her left, but before she could help, Nay squeeled and turned towards an on coming man approaching from behind them, followed closely by another.
Vaenosa let fly a missle, but it went wild, she followed the first quickly with another, it hit the man hard under his out stretched arms, but he continued towards her arms reaching for her.

As he drew closer Vaenosa grabbed for the blade on Nay's side, but Nay had other plans. He drew up in anger and thrashed the man with his hooves. The man went down. He was trampled by Nay's feet as he began to charge at the second quickly approaching man. The man had an evil look and smiled as he saw the advancing woman and rider. Vaenosa dropped the blade as she fumbled to regain her bow and attempt to load another missle, before her estranged horse ran them straight into an oncoming sword.

Nay just kept on charging, head down straight for the now slightly puzzled Easterling. He readied his sword, waiting for the on slaught. Vaenosa's heart quelled as she saw her own death approaching. She struggled to over come her fear, she had seconds left....She raised her bow and shot.
The missle landed in the neck of the surprized Man, splurrting blood from his wound. Nay did not stop, he charged the man as a bull cow would an intruder into his pasture. He plowed his head straight on and knocked the man back at least three meters. Vaenosa could no longer hold on and she was tossed from Nay's back landing hard on the steaming earth.

She lay looking up at the sky. The sounds around her were deafening. The screams, the clashing of blades. Vaenosa closed her eyes, as a tear rolled down her tortured face. But she would not give up. Get up you ninny! You are fine! Get up and do not back down! If you die, then at least you did something in your life that was not selfish! Get up! She rolled onto her right side and staggered up into a sitting position. In her hand, white knuckled she still held her bow. She reached up over her shoulder and found her quiver still there, but only two arrows remained.

She stood and looked around in horror. Many lay wounded , she could not tell from which side. Then a scream of a woman, brought her to her senses again. She saw atop the hill a woman crumpled on the ground and a figure wrestling with a Man atop him. Her mind was set. She looked for her blade, but to no avail. So she loaded her bow and dragging her leg she set off for the hill.

She passed bloodied bodies on the ground, but she kept her eyes solely on the Man ontop of the struggling lad. As she reached the bottom of the hill her leg gave out and she fell to the yellowing grass. She screamed her frustration and pain. She pulled herself up so she was kneeling and lifted her bow. She steadied her hand and let it fly. It sunk only into the leg of the attacker and did nothing to stop his attack. Vaenosa cried as she pulled out her last arrow. Please, let this hit it's mark! she prayed as tears streamed down her face. The world around her seemed to stop as she pulled back her bow string.

Two things happened at the exact same moment. She let her arrow fly and she felt a searing pain hit her in the back. She screamed out in pain as she began to slip from consciousness. She raised her head to see if her arrow hit, but she was sinking slowly to the ground. Where is Nay I wonder? Where has he gotten himself to? Was all she could think as she slumped to the ground, stuck from behind with a spear from one of the many fallen Easterlings.

She lay staring at the blood soaked ground. She tried to get up but could not. Her vision blackened.....She passed out.

[Nogrod]

Sythric hadn’t time to think about Brand, as he made it upwards, and was seeing Vaenosa up the hill, slipping to the ground, rising up, and then shooting her bow – being followed by an easterling, just going for the kill. He spurred Thydrë to make the best of it.

Just as the easterling was about to give his killing-blow to Vaenosa, he glanced back – hearing someone approaching him with speed. He had no time to curse his lord. Raedwald’s lance pierced him with such a vigour, as to send him flying from his saddle. With a quick yank, Sythric got the lance free of the man. So this is why he loved this spear! I’m beginning to get it! The man fell over Vaenosa, but Sythric had no time to check on her now. There was too much going on at the top of the hill – and he started feeling dizzy. The pain on his side started being unbearable. He didn’t know, how much blood he had lost, but clearly, things started getting foggy around him, the voices softened... Raedwald! “Just remember, that this message to the King... is the single most important thing on your journey”. Brand!! “It’s more important than the lives of any one of those youngsters, and remember also this...” Meghan!, Dorran! “your being alive is the best insurance we have for the message reaching it’s destination.“ Vaenosa! ”Don’t try to be a hero of your conscience, be the hero of your people.” The words of old Hugebryth were dimmed down, confused with his own nightmarish visions... He approached the top of the hill, barely conscious.

[Farael]

There had been one Easterling and then another. Osmod had avoided their attacks but had not managed to land a blow. He had already seen Rædwald go down and Meghan taken prisoner. He knew others had been wounded yet it was not time to stop just now. Osmod had barely managed to parry a stroke by an Easterling rider when a blood chilling scream was heard from the nearby hill. The few riders left wheeled around and dispersed, leaving the field littered with the bodies of their fallen as well as some of the Rohirrim.

Osmod jumped off his horse and kneeled by the side of a fallen woman. It was Vaenosa and she seemed to be out cold. Her hand was still grasping her bow and the dead body of a man was lying nearby. Osmod looked for any cuts or slashes and found none, so he carefully turned the woman face up and was relieved to see she was still breathing. A dark bruise was forming on her forehead so he assumed she had been knocked out, perhaps the Easterling meant to take her as they had taken Meghan.

Meghan… Osmod looked up the hill and saw that the fighting was not over. Yet he was too far to help them and there were people who needed to be looked after. Cursing himself for not being able to do more, he decided to help those he could rather than waste his time, and possibly his life, in a lost cause. As far as he was concerned, those up the hill were by themselves. He prayed the gods would be on their side as well.

[Arry]

‘Help me up!’ Brand’s voice came weakly at first and then stronger as his resolve grew. He forced his mind away from the pain in his shoulder, focusing on the present need . . . to drive away the foe and to bring Meghan safely back to the group. With an effort and a steadying grip on the rock he’d lain against, he got to his feet.

‘Stop your crying, Athwen. Bring Lady near and hold her steady.’

He’d pulled the Easterling’s blade from his shoulder. It had bled profusely, but now seemed down to a trickle. He could barely move the left arm, though, so intense was the pain from the wound. Holding on to Lady’s mane, Brand pulled himself up with his right arm until he was once again astride her. He could not help but hit his left shoulder against the horse and saddle as he clambered clumsily up. And it took all his effort not to cry out as the pain seared through him.

He asked for his cudgel, and someone, he was not sure who, handed it up to him. He grasped it tightly in his right fist and with his knees and voice urged Lady up the hill.

At the top he saw Sythric, barely sitting on his mount and there against a tree was Meghan with Dorran crouched by her. One Easterling lay dead a little ways away and one Easterling hovered over Meghan and Dorran, his scimitar raised.

With a loud cry, he raised his cudgel and bore down on the Lord of the Easterlings . . .

[Naria]

It was nearing nightfall where it was not so dark as to not be able to see ones surroundings, but not enough light to be able to see detail like one would during the bright light of day. Pup had come bounding up behind Starlight and gave a happy bark and Incana looked down with a smile; almost as though nothing at all would interfere with the rest of their journey. As it would turn out she would be terribly wrong about this thought.

Arrows, so many arrows! What is going on she thought. We must run....run as fast as our mounts can take us! Just then she felt Starlight's hind end buckle under her. The horse didn't fall, but she had a very hard time regaining her footing in the wet soil. Incana quickly looked to her right then her left. She saw them. They were ugly, horrid creatures with a relentless pursuit on the group that had become her only family out on the plains. Amidst the confusion, Starlight panicked and reared; Incana was caught off guard and fell to the ground. She saw her horse run into some nearby trees with Pup close behind. Incana, although quite winded, jumped to her feet and retrieved her long knife out of her pouch that she always had hanging from her waist.

Incana backed up, one foot then another her head whirling and her stomach tight with anxiety. One foot then another, until her back hit something which she thought to be a tree. It startled her and she turned around to look an Easterling right in the eyes. He immediately grabbed her and turned her back around to face the carnage once again. He had a choke hold on her neck and a knife in her side. "Move....my pretty," He said with a raspy gurgling sound in his voice. He didn't have to ask again, Incana put one foot infront of the other and the two of them started towards the hill and towards his leader. They were walking past Leod when she found her feet had involuntarily stopped moving. She glanced his way with a tear soaked face and a begging in her eyes for him to help her. Incana only had enough time to see Leod nod before she felt the knife break the skin at her side.

"What are you doing? Keep moving you insolent woman! My master will be very pleased indeed with this prize," He said with a snicker. Incana winced with the pain and once again did as she was told. The Easterling had reached the hill with Incana when she suddenly heard a thwack! The man that was holding her captive released his grip and fell to the ground behind her. Incana wheeled around and saw Leod holding a thick, solid piece of wood. She gave the Easterling a good kick to make sure that he wasn't getting up, for Leod had just rendered the man unconscious, but she didn't want to wait around to find out how long this would last.

Incana peerd down to the side that the Easterling's knife had pierced. She looked back up at Leod, "It's not that bad, only a flesh wound." Putting everything else aside, even her feelings, she grabbed Leod's hand and said, "We have to go and help the ones that have fallen, for we are the only ones that can do so now."

[Arry]

Brand was barely able to keep astride Lady as she made for the Easterling leader. His reserve of energy was nearly tapped out as he brandished his club at Calimehtar. As he leaned to his right to swing the heavy cudgel, he lost his balance and fell, tumbling forward after his club.

He managed to hit the Easterling in the small of the back, a glancing blow, though it would still most likely leave a good sized bruise and be fairly painful for a while. His body, on the other hand, slammed against Calimehtar's left shoulder as he fell and landed in an crumpled heap near Dorran.

Brand's last thought as he hit the ground was that now the Easterling would have three to kill instead of two . . .

[Undómë]

The force of the Easterling’s blow had driven her against a tree. Meghan had not lost consciousness with the impact, but every bone in her back seemed to ache with an agonizing intensity as she tried to move. Dorran was huddled near her, covered in spatter of blood. She hoped it was that of the Easterling he had killed, the one who’d put his knife so cruelly to her throat and cheek.

She’d seen Brand charge the Easterling leader that threatened her and Dorran with his scimitar. But he looked weak even from a distance. His face was pale and slick with sweat from the effort to make the charge. He’d managed to hit the Easterling in the back and had knocked the man a little off balance as he fell from Lady.

One of the knitting needles with which she’d attacked the other Easterling was still grasped in her hand. She lurched up to her knees as Calimehtar twisted to the side from the force of Brand’s blow. With a lunge she drove the thick, sharp needle deep into the side of the Easterlings’ left leg just above and to the side of the kneecap. It broke off just as it hit the kneecap, lodging firmly between the muscle and the bony cap. With a gasp of pain she threw herself down quickly on her back, close to the looming figure. Drawing up her knees she kicked out at his legs, aiming for the knee she’d just wounded, pushing him backward.

Meghan did not wait to see him fall. ‘Use your sling, Dorran, she said, handing him a few of the small rocks on the ground. I’m getting Lady and we’re all getting out of here . . .

[Nogrod]

Just reaching the oaks on the ridge, Sythric realized that he had to pause. For a while he didn’t practically see or hear anything. Had there been an easterling noticing him near enough, he would have been an easy prey. All of his left side was going numb and everything was spinning.

He became aware of the world around him only after the noise of a horse passing him some fifteen yards away came into his consciousness. Brand! What...? It was only then, that he came to see the situation up here. Meghan and Dorran were clinging to each other by the side of a dead easterling, and the chieftain was about to do away with them. And Brand was charging him. Where were everyone else?

He saw Brand swinging his cudgel towards the easterling. He had become aware of the attack just at the last instance, and parried with his scimitar. Brand’s hit went through the defence, but was twarthed by it – and the parrying move unbalanced Brand, sending him off Lady. He saw Meghan rising up and hitting the easterling to his leg. There had to be something in that, as the chieftain howled.

And then Sythric was just overwhelmed by anger. He felt energy pulsing all over his body. This will not do! Young ladies needing to make a desperate defence! You’ll have to stop that monster, whatever it takes! By that he spurred Thydrë towards the easterling, yelling wildly “For Rohan!”, as he went. Calimehtar regained his balance after Meghan's attack, and came to his senses soon enough, seeing Sythric charging him. He seemed immediately conscious, that the situation was not in his favour, as Sythric would have the first blow because of the lance he had pointing towards him. So Calimehtar backed rightwards, finding cover behind two stout oaks nearby, and forcing Sythric to slow down his speed, and lose some of the advantage.

So you know your trade? Well, I know mine too!, Sythric thought to himself and changed his course to meet Calimehtar head on, behind the oaks. Just as he was really slowing down, making the turn left, he spurred Thydrë to full gallop, yanking her a bit more leftwards. Sythric was still coming towards Calimehtar, but now following a trail that would make him pass Calimehtar from the other side of the trees. The easterling seemed confused, and probably got Sythric’s idea, just a moment too late. Before he could back away from behind the trees, Sythric had passed him from the other side, throwing his knife from between the oaks, with his left hand. He didn’t see, where it landed, but judging from the easterling yell, he knew he had hit.

But the throw seemed to be the final thing. The pain on his left side just bursted his brain! Everything went dark. Sythric grasped Thydrë’s neck, just to hold on the saddle. Thydrë slowed down and started carrying him downhill, away from the ridge. But about that Sythric was now totally unaware of. He wasn’t aware of anything anymore. Just pain and darkness. Then came the blissful silence.

[Eowyn Skywalker]

Time had seemed to swirl around her, passing extrodinarily fast. No time had been lent to Eostre after the travel through the day, after the bit of conversation, after lunch, and now...

Darkness.

She had remembered a bit of panic at the start of the attack, remembered fumbling for her bow and falling into the trees, her horse momentarily panicking and then falling silent when she had slipped off of him... and in the midst of chaos, she couldn't remember what she had done, if anything.

All Eostre knew was now, there were wounded. There was blood on her tunic, she knew somewhere, sometime, she must've attacked someone, something. Her mind was a blur.

Mounting her horse with a wince (she became aware that somewhere she had tripped, her ankle twisting almost painfully; there was a deep gash on her cheek as well, and with the attempt to mount she recognized an arrow's hole through her garments. Where was I?

She gave herself a critical look, moving down the ridge to where she had last saw Sythric being chased by another Easterling...

Don't let anyone have died!

[Folwren]

Athwen was there when Sythric's horse came to a stop by the other horses, grouping miserable and riderless in the falling dusk. She took Thydrë's rein and the mare came to a halt. But Athwen could do nothing with Sythric. The man was sensless, barely keeping his seat, hunched over his horse's neck. His wounded side was towards Athwen and she was loath to touch him, even if she could have done any good doing so.

'Osmod or Leod! Come quick, I need help!' Osmod and Leod were both bending over Vaenosa, and they both looked up when Athwen called. Osmod rose to his feet with a quick word to Leod which Athwen didn't hear and then came to her. 'Get him down. He's badly wounded and he's not awake at all.' Osmod reached up and gently pulled Sythric towards him. Athwen stood nervously by, waiting to see if there would be any way she could help.

There was none as Osmod lifted Sythric to the ground, using his tall, powerful frame to help him. He knelt beside him and began to unfasten the thick, leather guard to get at the wound that caused so much blood. Athwen bent towards him and whispered,

'Osmod, what should I do?'

'Can you stand the sight of blood?' Osmod asked. Athwen shuddered, and somehow the young man percieved it. 'Never mind, Athwen,' he said gently. 'Take care of the horses. Incana and Leod will help me and here comes Eostre.' He nodded towards the hill top above them. 'At least, she may not be coming directly here, but she's still in her saddle and apparently unwounded.'

'I'll make sure all the horses are here,' Athwen said, stepping away. He looked at her over his shoulder and nodded and she immediately turned away.

She went to the horses and silently counted and named all of them. As far as she could tell, they were all there. . .all of them who's riders had been unhorsed. Except Brand's. She turned about and looked for Lady, and in a moment, she caught sight of her atop the hill. Most of them stood in a tight group, but some (Nay was one of them, she noticed in the back of her mind) stood farther away. She went out to bring them in, and when that was done, she would look to their wounds. It would nothing so bad as tending people, she thought, as she started out to fetch the stray ones.

[Arry]

Lady’s eyes were wide as she watched the man and woman leverage Brand onto her back. Could she talk, she would have shouted ‘Hurry, hurry!’ to them. There were still a number of the foe on the hilltop, and she was nervous lest they set upon Brand again.

Brand could hear people talking, but found he had no strength to join in, nor could he help himself up from the ground. Two sets of hands strong-armed him up to the horse’s back. Pain shot through him as his shoulder was jounced in the effort. He found himself set in tightly between two bodies; the one in back lending him the support to stay on the horse.

Lady raced down the hill and away from danger as fast as her legs would carry her. The woman had the reins and guided her toward the group of companions with whom Brand had been traveling. Lady resigned herself to obey, though were it solely up to her she would have run with Brand all the way back to the safety of their lands. She stood still enough as the woman held her by the bridle and talked softly to her. She could see arms reaching up to help Brand down from her back. And she nickered softly to him some assurance that she was there. Then some one came and led her away to where the other horses were gathered.

Brand was barely aware as he was laid on the ground. His shoulder wound had opened up once again and was bleeding. He could hear some one giving directions and someone asking him questions. But the voice was so faint and he could not make out the words.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Calimehtar reeled under the force of the blow. Sythric's dagger had caught him in the fleshy part of his upper right arm. Thankfully, the blade had not penetrated to the bone below, but the wound was bleeding profusely. More importantly, he had lost too many men to continue fighting.

Calimehtar gave the signal to retreat, the sign that his men should gather at the base of the hill on the east side. He scrambled down to the designated spot that they had agreed on ahead of time, but was dismayed to find that only three of his men had survived the onslaught. The results were even worse than he had thought. How could he have so misjudged the Rohirrim? The women had fought like banshees and the young men had made up in determination what they lacked in experience.

Calimehtar cursed under his breath. He would never make such a mistake again. Next time, he would come upon his enemy in the dead of night when he would have a clear advantage. It would not look good to have lost so many soldiers to such a tiny band. That could be fixed, he reasoned, by altering the circumstances ever so slightly. He would tell the Lord of Mordor that the men of Rohan had grossly outnumbered them (there would be no mention of women) and that they were lucky to come out alive. That should at least keep his own neck intact. One of the men tied a bandage around his lord's arm to staunch the flow of blood, and the small party set out in the woods, heading east to find a place to camp.

[Folwren]

Osmod took command as the group drew closer together and they were counted up. Raedwald was dead, but he was the only one they had lost. Sythric was very badly wounded, and Brand had lost a deal of blood from his shoulder. Vaenosa, too, was wounded, though Leod deemed her cuts not so dangerous or life threatening as the two men's.

Sizing the situation up as quickly as possible, Osmod called Athwen and Meghan to him. 'Take your horses, and also take Rædwald's horse, up to the top of the hill where we intended to stop and make camp for the night before we were attacked. There, gather wood and start a fire. Do what you can to prepare camp. While you do that, we'll have to bandage wounds as best we can in order to move them up there.'

'But won't they - mightn't they still come back?' Athwen asked. She looked frightened from her very core out as the asked the question.

'They won't come back after having most of their men killed,' Osmod replied.

'We'll go,' Meghan said. She laid her hand on Athwen's arm and gently led her away towards the horses. They mounted and Osmod handed Meghan the reins of Rædwald's horse. They rode up to the crest of the hill where, beneath the oaks, near complete blackness met them. Athwen shuddered as she entered the shadow and she felt terrified of the darkness.

'Meghan?' she called softly, feeling suddenly a fear of being alone. Meghan must have heard the tremble in her voice - who couldn't have? She was right by Athwen's side and she reached out towards her, her hand touching Athwen's shoulder.

'I'm here. It's not necessary to go farther. Let's make the fire here.'

The two of them set to work finding wood. Their eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness and they found it was not quite so balck as it had first seemed. They continued searching for and gathering the dryest wood they could find until Meghan deemed it enough. Then, as Athwen cleared a place for it and set the wood in order, Meghan searched about in the saddle bags for a tinder box with which to set the flame.

A few minutes later they had a bright little blaze going. It banished the shadows back farther and farther as Athwen carefully added the damp wood. She was just about to ask Meghan how long she thought the others would be when she heard the sound of approaching horses entering the trees. The girls looked up to see Incana riding into the firelight, a horse in tow. Vaenosa was on the second horse, half concious.

Meghan and Incana helped her dismount and led her towards the fire as Athwen sat and watched rather uselessly. Before they had Vaenosa seated, the others began to arrive, and in little time at all. everyone was off their horses, the wounded were laid near the fire, and while they were being tended to by Leod and a couple helpers, Athwen and Dorran prepared dinner while Osmod and Fion made the last few arrangements for the horses.

[Undómë]

The fire Athwen and she had built was burning brightly. A number of the companions were busy at the task of getting the camp ready for the night. Meghan watched as Leod made the rounds of the injured, attending to those who needed him and giving direction to others for their care. Save for the aches and pains of being knocked about and dragged off, her own wounds were minor. Her left hand strayed up to touch the scabbed over cut along her neck and the faint beginnings of a spiral the foul Easterling had traced with his knife.

Someone had made willowbark tea and had given her a small cup to take care of the fierce headache pounding behind her eyes. Meghan closed her eyes and rested her head back on the tree she was sitting against.

‘Here!’ Leod directed two of those still on their feet to put one of the wounded near her. ‘I’ve just put a compress of moss and bound it on his shoulder with some strips of cloth. Just put your hand firmly on it, and we’ll keep it from bleeding. Oh, and I’ve given him some wine; so, don’t be surprised if he simply sleeps through your company.’

It was Brand. His face was pale and cool, though a thin film of sweat lay on his brow. She placed her hand as Leod had directed and sat quietly for a while watching the slow even rise and fall of it as he breathed. He moaned a little, eyes closed, and moved restlessly.

‘Quiet, you great ninny! Be still!’ she said without thinking. It was a phrase she often used when tending some injury to her goats. ‘Just sleep and let yourself heal.’ She leaned back against the tree, making herself comfortable. ‘Just rest, sheepman, the lambs are safe from the wolves. Lady is well, and grazing nearby. Leod and the others are getting everyone taken care of who was wounded. The Easterlings have gone. She bent low and whispered near to his ear. ‘Others are tending the little flock of Bregoware and Wulfham for now. It’s all in good hands.’

The willowbark tea had eased her headache somewhat and eased the pain in her muscles and bones, too. Brand had finally quieted again. A sudden thought made her laugh, of how they had teased each other on their choice of flocks. He had managed to make some points on the positive merits of sheep and as she recalled, she had not the time to make her argument.

She tapped her fingers on his bandage and gave his sleeping form an impish grin. ‘You know,’ she began, her voice taking on an authoritative tone. ‘This is probably a very good time for you to just relax and listen carefully as I tell you about how much better it is to raise goats than sheep. And lucky for you, I have many stories to illustrate my points.’ Meghan crossed her legs in front of her and settled into her monologue.

‘I was just a wee girl of five when my father gave me my first kid to raise. She was a lovely little brown-eyed doe, as pretty as you can imagine, and smart as a whip, too . . .’

[Tevildo]

Except for a few bumps and bruises, Dorran had come out of the fighting in amazingly good shape. Throwing together a simple stew to feed the others, he had then offered to help Osmod and Fion care for the horses. He missed his familiar routine in the stables at Wulfham. In the midst of all this fighting and dying, the horses seemed to Dorran to be his most enduring connection to a normal life. In a real sense, the animals were the most important members of their band. Without their swift legs, the group would never reach Edoras on time, especially now that their journey had been delayed. Dorran spent some time rubbing the animals down, tending to their minor scrapes and cuts, and lugging up an ample supply of dried grass from the far side of the hill so there would be enough for all of them to eat.

"I'll stay on guard tonight," he had volunteered to the others. "Perhaps this band won't be back, but how do we know for sure? And there could be other things in these woods...."

What Dorran could not admit to himself is that he simply did not want to lay in bed and try to sleep. His anger in battle, the way he had tried to hack away at the Easterling's prone corpse, had left him feeling distinctly uneasy.

It was Leod who came over and spoke with Dorran, as if guessing the reason for the young man's offer. "I don't think there's going to be any armed attacked, but I do need someone to sit with Sythric, and try to get him to take a bit of this brew. In a few hours I am hoping that he'll start coming to. I'll take the first shift. Try and rest as soon as dinner is over. I'll wake you a few hours after that when the moon is high in the sky. Sometimes, after a battle, the best medicine a man can have is to sit with a wounded comrade and help him through the night. If you see Sythric's breathing flag, or if he falls into a deep unmoving sleep, you must wake me immediately. Other than that just sit with him. You might even want to talk a bit and cool his head with a wet rag. Whether he hears what you're saying or not, part of his mind will know you're there and that's a relief."

"Can you do that for me?" Leod prodded in a testy voice.

"Yes, only....."

Only what?" the healer snapped back.

"I'm not sure I trust myself. Not anymore. Not after what happened on that hill. You probably didn't see, but...."

"I saw. You did what you had to do to try and protect Meghan. That's what's important. The rest was done in the heat of the battle."

"But then I'm no better than them. I'm just a savage hacking away at a dead body. I hate them, Leod. I really do. I don't want to turn into them but that's what all this fighting seems to do."

"It's a problem, lad. I can't deny it. We have to fight because there's no choice. But the fighting can do strange things to people. Just look at what happened to Athwen. Anyways, you're not a monstor because anger got the better of you for a few seconds in battle. If you were a monstor, you wouldn't be sitting here now and agonizing over what you did. Go on. Get some sleep, and I promise to wake you later to take the watch....."

[Nogrod]

Tevildo's post


Immediately after eating, Dorran had pulled out his bedroll and gone off to the far side of camp to try and get a few hours of sleep as the healer had suggested. He had expected to lie on the ground with eyes wide open as disturbing images from the day's events flitted through his mind. What actually happened was different. One moment the young man was lying quietly and watching the others from a distance, some of whom were talking, others eating, while still others rested or slept. The next moment he was sound asleep, remembering and seeing nothing till several hours later when he was woken by Leod.

Dorran went over and sat down next to Sythric just as the healer had suggested. He bathed the injured man's head with a cool rag and kept a close eye on his chest and face to make sure he was breathing normally. Leod had said that Sythric might begin to come to and that Dorran should feed him a special potion if that happened. But so far there were no signs of that.

Dorran was so occupied with his duties that he thankfully forgot to think about the earlier battle or even his own killing of the Easterling. Sythric had been sleeping comfortably for some time when Dorran noticed that the wounded man was beginning to show some signs of movement. His eyelids were still closed, but his hands and legs changed position, and he even tried to roll over once. Surely this must be what Leod had expected, Dorran mused happily, thinking that Sythric would soon recover. The young man ran over to the coals and looked at the pot brewing there. The medicine seemed a bit thick to drink so Dorran added some water to it and then poured some into a flagon.

Dorran bent over to smell the concoction, and a sharp fishy odor assailed his nose. Curious to see what the brew tasted like, he popped a finger inside the flagon and then brought it to his lips to lick. That was his first mistake. The stuff tasted utterly awful. Ugh! He was glad he did not have to drink that horrible liquid. He felt a little guilty trying to feed it to Sythric, but if this was what was needed for him to get well, the poor patient would just have to suffer! After all, Leod was a healer and he must know what he was doing.

He tried to pour the potion carefully to Sythric's mouth. At that instant, Sythric's eyes opened, he gave a deep groan, and struggled to try and sit up. Dorran reached over and mumbled, "You'll have to drink this. Leod says so if you want to get well".
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Nogrod's post


Sythric came out from the void gradually, passing from nowhere to a light sleep. There were vivid images in his mind now. He was wrestling on the ground with an orc on top of him. This was years and years ago, but still more clear as the present. He had his knife in his right hand, trying to make for the throat of the orc – but his hand was firmly gripped from the wrist by the orc. His left hand had the same grip over the orc’s other hand – armed with a dagger, trying to make it’s way to his throat as well. That match of wills and brutal power seemed to go on forever. He sensed the terrible smell of the panting breath just to his nose. The orc was sweating those stinking drops that were raining down all over his face. It was the foulest smell he had ever encountered.

Eventually he had managed to kick the orc off-balance – forcing it to make a balancing move- and freeing his right hand. He had stabbed the orc to its chest, simultaneously pulling the blade upwards backhanded. The orc had let a dull howl, and he felt the thick and warm orc-blood spraying all over his face, some of it entering his wide open mouth.

He spitted the thick and warm liquid out from his mouth, all his muscles tense, as he dashed to a sitting position, ready to fight for his life. At the moment, he felt the agonizing pain in his left side. Then came the soothing voice of Dorran – a bit shaken voice it was, as he had suddenly acted so violently – but it was familiar enough to make Sythric calm down. "You'll have to drink this. Leod says so if you want to get well,". Pictures of the evening rushed through his mind now: the rain of arrows, the easterling chieftain hitting him, Vaenosa being run after by an easterling, Dorran and Meghan clinging to each other in front of the easterling lord... He was coming back to the world here and now.

He drank Leod’s potion – as foul as it tasted – but then again, few really efficient medicines tasted good. Dorran had took hold of his shoulder, assisting him with the flagon with his other hand. He took Dorran by the shoulder with his right hand, and quietly managed to ask, what had happen. Dorran told him his version of the battle, and Sythric listened to it passively, having no energy to actively to engage in the discussion – or being able to understand more than half of it. But then one thing sprang to his mind. Raedwald was dead! He started crying violently – increasing the pain on his side. Dorran tried to calm him, but it was of no avail. Sythric bursted to tears and was shaking all over. Finally he managed to balance himself to quietly whisper to Dorran: “Raedwald... We must bury him... With all the honours we can give him.” Dorran took a firm hold of Sythric, taking him in his arms, and letting the man cry to his shoulder.

Finally Sythric calmed down a bit, and asked, whether Leod had came up with some even fouler potions for him to drink. As Dorran denied it, he smiled weakly. “All that doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. Believe me with this. I don’t know what happened up on the hilltop before I arrived – or sometimes after that – but when I had a grasp of the situation, I could see, that you had been brave and courageous! You should be proud of yourself, Dorran. You are a good man: seeing an easterling soldier – or lord – the first time, is frightful, but you had heart enough to fight!”

Sythric was slowly leaning backwards to his resting position. “You’re a good lad, Dorran – a good man you are...”, he said, and then falled back to the bliss of the unconscious.

[Arry]

The low, breathy sound of a flute (http://fingertrip.net/clipsnip/amhran_a_leabhair-mick.mp3) wove in and out among the words. Soft words, they were that brought up familiar images. Lady and he and Patch, his hound . . . under a night sky; the full moon hanging fat and ripe against the darkness and the stars. It was a fair sound that hung about the words . . . a silvery little ribbon of song . . .

Brand moved a bit, and wished he hadn’t. The pain in his shoulder flared up, less hot and sharp though, he thought, than it had been. His right hand crept up to his left chest, near the shoulder, touching gingerly the bulky bandaging there. The wound it seemed had not bled through.

One and then the other he opened his eyes and saw it was night, just as in his dreams. The fire burned steadily, and many of his companions were already bedding down for sleep. His companions . . . the voice had said something about them . . . that they were safe. No, Rædwald had died, he remembered that.

He struggled up, wanting to take tally of what was going on. Someone placed a firm hand against his chest and pushed him back to his pillow. There to his left sat someone wrapped in a blanket against the growing chill of night. In the effort of pushing him back down, the blanket fell away from the face. Meghan!

‘I thought never to see you again,’ he said, grabbing hold of her hand before she could move it away. He grinned, a gladsome light in his eyes at the sight of her. ‘That was you who was playing, wasn’t it’ He laughed a little. ‘And you speaking . . . funny, I thought I was dreaming about being out with the sheep, with Lady and my hound. But now as I recall they were your stories, weren’t they . . . you and those beastly goats of yours. You have had the advantage of me this time, m’lady. But be warned, I have years and years of stories to better yours and they are all of sheep . . . lovely animals . . .

He coughed and groaned as the sudden movement pained his chest. A cup was offered, his head lifted a bit, so that he might drink. Wine . . . with something in it . . . it slaked his thirst and he knew it soon would send him back to dreaming.

Brand gave her hand a squeeze as he felt the concoction take effect. ‘I promise. I won’t try to get up. Get some sleep yourself, Meghan. You can tell me all the stories you want to tomorrow. Lay down, lay down and rest a while.’

[Arry]

Farael's post

It was a long night for all of them. The wounded needed to be looked after and those who had not been gravely wounded had to help Leod. Osmod sported a bruised arm and a few minor cuts. The pain on his chest had gotten worse after the fight so after the heaviest workload had been done, Leod told Osmod to get some rest.

Yet it would be a restless night. The moans of the wounded in their sleep and the dull ache of his limbs was enough to keep his troubled mind alert. He had given up on them, on those left in the hill, and most of them had been gravely wounded. The questions kept sounding in his throbbing head yet the answers were not there. He felt as if he would never sleep again, so he decided to go stretch his legs.

He walked to the nearby trees as silently as he could. He told himself he didn’t want to rouse the lucky ones who could sleep, but deep inside he knew that he just wanted to be alone. By his bedroll laid one of his drawings, the figures interlaced and crossed so that very few could decipher its meaning. What scared Osmod the most is that he did not recall writing it, but what it depicted was so terrible he did not dare to let those thoughts into his mind. They were there anyway, lurking in the dark unconscious corners.

He thought about deserting them all once again. Taking his sword, bow and arrows and fighting his way to safety or, most likely, death. As he returned to the camp, the grim moods had not subsided and he sneaked towards his mount, who greeted him cheerfully. ”If you only knew my friend, what I am about to do, would you shed a tear for me? Will anyone cry my loss or will I pass, from light to shadow never to be remembered again?”

A cold wind blew from the north, moaning a lamentation for the war. It was then that Osmod heard a voice calling his name. Yet it sounded far, far away and at the same time close, as if inside Osmod’s own mind. He knew the voice and he understood the message even if no more words had been spoken. Walking back to his bedroll, he erased the grim picture and drew a new one with his finger on the dirt. It was simple, composed by just three runes and a name. The meaning comforted Osmod all the same. To Edoras, for Rædwald. Finally, a sudden quietness took over his soul and he slept. He would not wake until the following morning.

[Folwren]

The night's blackness pressed in on Athwen like an oppressive storm as she lay huddled in blankets close to the fire. She could not shut her eyes, for each time she did, the image of the dagger sinking into the Easterling's side came back as vivid as when it happened. Or, which was even worse, she would see the flaming houses as she had from the top of the ridge where she and her horse had first seen the devistation of their home.

But finally she was able to slip into an uneasy sleep where she was not conscious of having closed her eyes. The sounds of the night mingled in together until they were all one with silence and the flickering orange and red light of fire darkened unto blackness and she slept.

The night was not half through when her mind awoke and once more brought back the horrible images. She tossed and turned where she lay, the dreams torturing her mind, until suddenly she started up, half awake, half delerious with sleep and nightmare, uttering a piercing cry breaking the stillness.

'Ean!' she called, her voice broken, high, and shrill. 'Eanlaen, come back!' Her voice rose to nearly a scream and she was crying. Athwen struggled wildly to free herself of tangled blankets and skirt and she tried to get to her feet, blinded by unreality and tears, a heavy fog seemed to rise around everything. She wanted to search, to look again. . .she had seen so clearly her sister, her mother. . .and they were gone. . . 'Eanlaen!' she called again, desperately, wildly. She sobbed helplessly, standing where she had lain and wrapping her arms tightly about herself.

A hand touched her shoulder gently. She quivered but didn't turn to look to see who it was. But then a voice spoke, whispering softly in the stillness that followed her outbreak. 'Athwen. . .'

'No,' she whispered, her breath trembling with the word. 'It's no good. I didn't want. . .I didn't want to stay. You know I didn't. Not when. . .not when everyone. . .' She drew another shuddering breath and her tear blinded eyes darted back and forth as though watching for something. But nothing came and nothing happened and minute after minute she stood there, absolutely still, except for the jerking breaths her crying brought in and out.

[Undómë]

She gave him a list of horrible consequences that would befall him if she found he’d gone back on his promise. But he was already slipping into sleep and the grip on her hand was loosening. She tucked his hand beneath the blanket and pulled the edge of his covers up under his chin. Her fingers slid gently over his scarred cheek.

Meghan was tired. Her head had quit its fierce ache, but now her joints and muscles picked up the protest of this awful day. She spread out her bedroll close to Brand and eased herself gratefully into it.

She did not know how long she had slept, but the fire had burned very low when the shrill cry rent the night. Meghan sat up, her heart pounding. ‘Please, please let it not be another attack!’ she gasped, her sleep fogged eyes taking in the hill top in quick glances. There were no figures moving about save for that of the young woman, Athwen. And she stood as if rooted to the spot where her blankets now lay in a tangle.

'Ean!' Athwen called, her voice broken, high, and shrill. 'Eanlaen, come back!’ The girl hugged herself in the cold night air, calling out once again in a wild voice. ‘Eanlaen!’

She approached the young woman with some caution. Athwen looked as one possessed, and Meghan had no desire to add to whatever demons had come to her in the night. She thought of herself when she was just a little girl and her father had died. There were terrible dreams that had come to her after his passing. And she remembered what her brother had done for her.

‘Athwen,’ she said softly, laying her hand gently on the girl’s shoulder. There was no response at first; then, Athwen began to talk, but not to Meghan. Something or someone invisible held her attention. Still Meghan knew it would do no good for her just to stand her, cold in the night, battling demons. And she suspected that the real demon was the girl, herself. She had made some choice, for good or ill, it made no difference to her at this point, and now that choice preyed on her mind.

Meghan stooped down and picked up the tangled blankets, wrapping one around the other woman. ‘Ean’s not here, Athwen. It’s only me, Meghan.’ She spoke gently, putting her arm round Athwen’s shoulders and walked her haltingly to where she’d left her own bedroll. ‘Only me . . . and look, here’s Brand. He’s sleeping and so are the others. It’s night and we’ve had a bad, awful day. It’s no wonder your dreams are filled with frights and dark things.’

‘Come, you’re so cold. And I can see your weariness in your eyes.’ She pulled the girl down to her blankets. ‘Snuggle in against me; I’ll put my arms around you tight . . . just like my brother used to do to drive away the terrors in the night for me. I’ll hold you safe. And when the light comes you can tell me of this Ean that you called after. I’d like that . . . to hear a little of your life . . .’

‘Lie down, won’t you, Athwen? Come take some rest . . .’

[Eowyn Skywalker]

The attack had brought about chaos; there were wounded, even dead. It was striking in its odd accuracy—she had been cynical before, and now things had come true. Eostre had escaped with injuries that looked far worse than they really were, a twisted ankle that may've neared breakage but had fortunately escaped it, and blood staining her face and garments.

Nothing more than pain. Nothing that she couldn't bear.

Nevertheless, for her to sit down and try to rest after the wounded had been brought back to the top of the hill (if they weren't already), the worst of them tended to carefully... it was almost impossible. An improbablity she knew would bring about a dull sense of fatigue the next morning if she didn't try to recover.

Perhaps she didn't care.

Someone had died.

She tried so hard to sleep in the night, along with the rest of the camp, but it was elusive. Things were simply uncomfortable now; it'd be all the more easy to be silent.

[Folwren]

Did she really feel the arms about her? Drawing her in and casting warmth over her entire body? Athwen heard the gentle voice breaking into her troubled, dreaming mind, but she didn't really understand the words. Still, they calmed her enough to lead her away from that horrible black abyss before her. The arms directed her to lie down, and always that soft, calming voice spoke to her.

'Lie down, won't you, Athwen? Come, take some rest. . .'

The world was not as bleak and empty as she had supposed. She had not been left completely alone. Someone had been sent in her time of greatest need. . .

She was safe, and she knew it. She shivered as the last bit of cold left her and then she made one last sob and was silent, curled up by Meghan's side with the young woman's arms about her. The embrace was like a shield, impassible and guarding, and she was not alone. That's all she needed. The dreams did not return and Athwen slept, worn out by the day's troubles, like a child in its crib.

[Arry]

Brand stifled a groan. Not because his shoulder pained him, but because he was snug and warm beneath the blankets and he could put off no longer the call of nature. He wriggled his torso a bit beneath the covers . . . aahh, good! . . . the pain that had been so sharp and hard last night had diminished with sleep. He drew back the edge of the blanket where he’d pulled it to his forehead and saw that the sun was just about to rise.

With as quiet an effort as he could, he leveraged himself up to a sitting position. A few of the companions were already up. One was crouched on the other side of the fire, feeding the flames with fresh kindling and broken branches. And someone, perhaps the same person, had filled a pot with water and set it over the fire.

There were a number still within their bedrolls. Not too far from him he saw Sythric. The man was pale and Brand hoped his wounds were of the sort he could recover from.

He turned his attention, smiling as he considered her sleeping form, to Meghan. And there, curled snug against her was Athwen, still lost in sleep herself. He had a vague remembrance of some disturbance in the night . . . someone crying out. And Meghan had got up to see to it. He pulled the blanket down slightly from her face and brushed a few wisps of hair back from her face. There was a thin line of scabbed over wound that came up from her neck to spiral onto her cheek. He touched it lightly with his fingertips.

With a little effort he rolled away from the sleeping women and got to his feet. For a moment he felt quite light-headed and he wondered if he might topple over altogether. But a few deep breaths seemed to bring his balance back and he went off toward a clump of trees and bushes a little ways from camp.

--- ooooo --- ooooo ---

He stopped on his way back to camp and dragged in a little more wood for the morning fire. The effort of doing just that surprised him. He was relieved when he’d reached the fire and was able to leave off the burden.

After washing the dirt and pitch from his hands, Brand crouched down near the flames and tried to warm them as best he could. He could see his breath in the chill. Leod was stirring some herbs into the pot of hot water, making tea. Brand allowed himself to be looked over by the healer, who pronounce him fit enough to ride but issued the stern warning that there was to be no abrupt of his left arm lest he tore open his wound. The old man gave him a cup of steaming tea and sat down beside him at Brand’s request.

‘Tell me of the others, grandfa . . . Leod,’ Brand asked after a few sips of the welcome warm brew.

Most of the wounds Leod explained to him were fairly superficial; their bearers would be sore and bruised for a number of days but they would be fine to ride. The worst, Brand was told, were himself, Vaenosa, and Sythric. Brand assured Leod he would be able to ride that day, even if only a half day or so. Leod raised his brows, and said nothing further about that.

Vaenosa, he did say, had been struck deeply in the left thigh with an arrow. He’d taken it out of course, but the muscle would be painful and inflamed for quite a while. And with too much activity it might open up and re-bleed. Also, she’d been wounded in the back by a spear. She was breathing alright, so it hadn’t punctured a lung, still it was a large wound that again might re-open if she did too much activity.

Sythric was the most injured, battered and wounded almost beyond his endurance, Leod told him. He was getting medicines to help him, and he seemed awake now, but it was likely that how he felt would determine how far, or even if, they would travel that day.

Brand nodded his head thoughtfully at all that Leod told him. He assured the healer, too, that he would take his counsel and cut short the ride if Leod felt the others were not up to it.

Talk then fell to grimmer subjects. Rædwald’s body could not be left to the mercy of the birds and beasts. ‘Then let us honor him as we did the fallen of your village, Leod,’ Brand offered. ‘There are plenty of branches,’ he went on. ‘Let’s see to those who are able gathering enough for a pyre. We’ll send him off as best we can.’

--- ooooo --- ooooo ---

After a light breakfast, all of those able to walk gathered the fuel for the funeral blaze. Rædwald was washed, his hair braided, and he was dressed in a clean tunic and breeches. His mail shirt was put on over it, his helm on his head. His body was laid atop the heaping of branches and twigs, then, and his spear laid by his side. Brand cut a length of mane from Rædwald’s horse and laid it in the old warrior’s hand.

A number of the companions stood round the pyre, torches burning. In silence and almost as one, they thrust their brands into the tangle of twigs and wood. The flames leapt up; the fire racing from twig to branch about the pyre.

‘Thank you, my friend,’ Brand murmured low, as he pushed his torch into the piling of wood. ‘I’ll keep watch over her, as I promised. All speed to you now. Rise up in the smoke, Rædwald. Let the flames carry your spirit to a peaceful rest.’

[Undómë]

She had not allowed herself to cry for him. There had been so much to get done and others to see to that she had tucked him away in a corner of her mind . . . for later . . .

And even now as she stood near the burning bier the tears did not come. This past day was a time so jaggedly out of context that his death did not seem real to her. But she knew when it would hit her . . .

Back in the low hilly country where they set their goats out to pasture . . . that’s when the sadness would o’erwhelm her. Against the sky and hills of home a figure would be missing; no more to be seen with his wide grin and his low easy voice moving his flock about, keeping them safe . . . she would not hear the tinkle of the little bells that sang out sweetly from the end of his staff as he walked along . . .

In the small black hole inside her where he had disappeared, she dammed up her tears, and when she was safe again at home he would cry for him.

Meghan’s hand reached beneath her cloak to fetch out her little wooden flute. No song came to her that she might play for him. The music, too, it seemed was dammed up with her tears. Instead, she threw the flute up to where he lay. Caught in the wavering heat from the fire, it shimmered for a moment as it fell upon his still form.

She gathered her cloak about her, shivering as she did so; though the heat of the flames echoed in the redness of her cheeks.

[Nogrod]

Comforted by Dorran, Sythric fell in deep sleep. Towards the morning, his dreams got lighter, and eventually he was aware of people getting into that so familiar morning-hassle of a riding-camp. Then he heard Raedwald being mentioned.

He is dead! ... He is dead! Sythric managed to open his eyes, and saw a pyre being readied, Raedwald’s body was being hoisted on the top of it. Not the lance!, he yelled inside his mind, noting Raedwald’s lance beside the man at the pyre, as Brand was just about to lit the whole thing.

Sythric struggled himself up. The pain was there, yes it was, but Leod’s potions seemed to work. Half of his body was downright numb. It was a weird sensation to walk without feeling the left side of his body at all. And it was hard indeed, just keeping the balance that way. He has stuffed my side with some magic, I say..., he thought, as he pulled along with the others, surrounding the pyre.

He took his place in the ring around the fire beside Meghan and watched the flames consume the body of Raedwald. “Goodbye, dear friend”, he whispered in a low voice. He felt, that Meghan had heard him. Then he gazed the people around the pyre. It was a solemn moment, and everyone seemed to have gone deep inside themselves. Vaenosa was tightly bandaged and looked pale, Brand seemed to stay firm with pure willpower. There is a sturdy man! He could have made a rider indeed!, Sythric thought to himself, simultaneously eying the rest of the company.

Then his eyes settled back to the pyre. Raedwald’s body was already being eaten by the flames, turning black and charred. I will miss you, my friend. And curse it, I couldn’t be there to help you yesterday! But I had to take on those ones coming downhill – as they were the worst threat to us all, and I was there – and you were not... And I took Brand with me – and look at him now! We took the bruises, and you took to the eternity! You really had safeguarded those others, I just know it. It’s the way you did your part. Oh, how I miss you! Raedwald! He threw his gaze around the ring around the pyre once more with wetted eyes. These are just amazing people, the power of Rohan is in these young people, I have known it all the time! You were not alone, Raedwald! We are not alone, anyone of us! You helped to save them once, I have to be ready to do that again! He catched Vaenosa’s eyes and tried to smile comfortingly – probably failing altogether. She’s a spirited young lady. How good, I was there in time! But could have been earlier..., he thought, and continued by himself: I would surely prefer ten riders as a company, but as the things are, she is a real fighter – and these others too. I believe it now!

The movement he sensed from the corner of his eye brought him back to the present. Meghan had picked up her flute, and was staring at it intensely. Then she threw it to the flames. Sythric felt the tears bursting from his eyes, but fought back this time. He saw Meghan pulling her cloak around her, shivering, but not crying.

Sythric took the two steps needed to come by Meghan’s side and wrapped his right arm around her, pressing her tenderly against him. Meghan glanced at his eyes for a moment, full of sorrow, and then turned her gaze to the pyre again. Then they just stood there, in silence.

Eventually the people started to disperse from the pyre, but Sythric and Meghan remained still. They just stood there, Sythric having his arm around Meghan, and Meghan just gently leaning to him. They didn’t need any words, as they felt the sharing of the same anguish, together.

“We’ll make you a new one”, Sythric whispered to Meghan’s ear, “He would have appreciated it.” He squeezed her shoulder lightly: “You know he would have. You’ll just have to play once more to his memory, one day.” With that he let go his hold and turned to face her. “Be brave my girl. We both have suffered a great loss, but for his sake, we will have to continue.” He tried a smile again, and felt again having missed the intended effect. He slowly turned away to go back to his bedroll.

The pain was back, as he kneeled to collect his things from the ground. He grasped them anyway, biting his lip not to yell from the pain. He walked to Thydrë and started to pack her up. Suddenly he turned around, facing most of the others, and declared in all the voice he had. “I’m going to ride with you today, but if I’m dropping behind you during the ride, just keep going, don’t hesitate to continue. I can take care of myself, if needs be. And if someone else is falling behind, we might make it together. The mission is now the first thing we have, the thing that counts. We wounded can be left behind in a need.” With that he turned back to continue with his packing, finding out, that certain movements just burst his side with a pain too strong to deal with – and so he had to make pauses as he packed Thydrë, trying to hoist and tie things on her without his left hand. I could do with some of that medicine of Leod’s. If for nothing else, then just to ease the pain, he thought to himself. Suddenly he turned again towards the others. “Oh, and collect every useful item those dead easterlings bore with them. I’m sorry, but I can’t be of help with that now.”

[Eowyn Skywalker]

Fire claimed the body of their fallen comrade; a companion murdered by the fell blows of an enemy far greater than a small company could ever hope to surpass. A war was coming, but for now there was a greater fear undertone. One had been claimed, body to ashes. As far and fast as they had come, they had not yet escaped the flames.

Ashes.

Fire had claimed the village. And now fire had claimed the body of Raedwald. And Eostre had no heart to cry even after she had stared into the heat of those flames to glance away and blink eyes into the dimmer lights with white overriding. She couldn't. How could she?

And now that the flames dimmed, and most had left the pyre's side, things were a strange sort of silent. They would leave soon. In the meantime, there were bodies to search; perhaps there were things left to scavage from the corpses. Weapons, perhaps gold or rope; even clothing might almost have been of use to the rumpled party in some ways.

Edoras had to arrive soon, before more people were murdered.

[Folwren]

Athwen had wept. The tears had come silently, quick, and unstoppable. She didn’t know why. She hadn’t known him for real. She had been acquainted with him for a couple days, but that was all. . .nothing past a common acquaintance.

And now, as they waited until they could continue, the tears were dried, but a deep, heavy sadness settled over her like a wet cape. She couldn’t shake it and it weighed her down until she felt like she wanted to cry again, just to relieve herself of the pressure. But she didn’t. She drew a shuddering breath instead, rose to her feet and went to her horse.

‘I don’t know how long it will be until we leave, lad,’ she said, running her hand up his neck and then placing it on his head. He looked at her and allowed her to put both her arms around his face, cradling him near her chest. ‘I want to ride you now,’ she whispered. ‘I want to run. Gallop. Flee all this.’ She glanced over her shoulder and watched for a moment as Leod dealt out care to one of the wounded. ‘Maybe we can.’ She let her arms drop and then went for his saddle and blankets. She had him saddled in a matter of minutes. ‘They won’t be ready for some time now,’ she told herself as she tightened the girth and turned the stirrup back down. ‘I’ll hardly be missed. Everything is already packed up. All that needs to be done is preparing the horses. I’ll be back by the time they’re finished. . .’ She held the bridle in her hand and slipped the bit into Parith’s mouth. ‘We’ll go for a short run, lad, down at the bottom of the hill.’

Without looking behind her for fear of someone catching her eyes and asking questions, Athwen began to lead Parith out from beneath the trees. She would mount him in the open and then ride back down the hill. There was a straight place beneath, long enough to enjoy the run, but not so long that Parith would loose his breath or become tired in the sprint. She ached to feel the wind of speed in her face. That, at least, would be just like it used to be.

[Farael]

Osmod had help to set up the funeral pyre and to place Rædwald on top of it. It was not a job he relished, but it was the least he could do for such a good man. He could not, however, be the one to lit fire to the wood. He thought about volunteering himself but a sudden bout anguish stopped him short. What he had done so far and his prayers would have to suffice. As the pyre was lit, Osmod thought a silent prayer for his fallen friend, asking the gods to let him into the halls of those who had died with honour. Perhaps Rædwald had not been a great general nor he had won many battles, but he had fallen trying to protect a friend and that was just as important. Generals may win wars, but men like Rædwald were true heroes.

After Rædwald funeral was done, it was time to go back down the hill to search the bodies. Something useful may have been gathered from there. Osmod felt sorry for the fallen, now that the heat of the battle had worn off. They were men just as him, not those beastly orcs. He wondered, while picking up a shield that seemed to be in good state, whether they would be forgiven by the gods. Maybe they didn’t know any better.

Weary and still aching, he made his way back to the camp. He had only gathered a shield and a waterskin, as his had been punctured by a lance. He looked at his horse’s wounds quickly but decided to keep him saddled. They would probably be leaving shortly anyway.

Walking over to Brand he asked him in a low tone of voice.

“I know I have not been acting much as a leader, not with Sythric bossing me around anyway, but I still feel responsible for my group of riders. And well… even if we just met I feel responsible for you all as well.”

He shifted his weight around, feeling slightly uncomfortable disclosing his thoughts to a stranger.

“ I know we must make haste, but any success we may find at the Golden Hall will be marred if we loose one of our group to exhaustion or if we ride ourselves to the ground. We can’t leave anyone behind with the Easterlings still prowling around, but let those of us who are healthy take the lead. The rest can follow as fast as they can manage.”

Searching through his saddlebag, Osmod produced his family’s horn. He had forgotten about it during the skirmish.

“Take this if you want, to alert us of any danger that may befall you. Perhaps Leod and Meghan can stay with you to help should anyone’s wounds worsen. Eostre, Dorran, Fion and I will ride ahead and we’ll have the night’s camp ready for when you arrive. I know it is our duty to make to Edoras as fast as we can, but by chance or destiny we have been forced to deal with adversity. Death prowls close, Brand, she will take each of us if we give her a chance.”

[piosenniel]

Tevildo's post

"Sythric!" After the ceremony in front of the bier, Leod walked over to the injured man and tapped him gently on the shoulder, adding in a soft voice, "I don't like that look on your face. I wish there was some other way we could manage. By rights, you should be spending today in your bedroll and doing nothing more strenuous than lifting a spoon to your mouth to feed yourself. Still, we must be off. And staying here in the woods isn't a good idea when there are roving bands of Orcs and Easterlings about. Take this before you mount up." The healer handed his patient a small packet of herbs. "Just add it to a hot beverage. It will cut down on the pain in your side. But truthfully you're still going to feel something. If I give you too large a dose, the pain will be gone but you'll be falling asleep in the saddle and risk plunging down to the forest floor."

"One other thing," Leod added. "If your side starts bleeding heavily, you must tell me. I've tightened and readjusted the bandages. I only hope it's enough."

In the next hour, Leod quietly made the rounds of camp to give each of his patients a final check. He found Vaenosa's wounds especially troubling. Like Sythric, she should probably be spending the day in bed. Even Brand could stand with some more rest. But it would be utterly useless to ask the young man to delay their departure any longer. Though quiet and modest, Brand could also be amazingly stubborn. The blunt fact was that the trip had taken longer than expected. One way or another, they needed to get going and make a forced march to Edoras, even if it was hard on those who had been injured.

Leod cast one last look at the pyre which now lay silent, its red-gold flames reduced to no more than smouldering embers. It was a symbol to him of defeat: a good man gone who should have lived. Curse these crazy times! When would men learn to live in peace? It was a question to which he had no answer. And seeing that he could not control the behavior of Orcs or men from the east, the next best thing was surely to get on the road and offer a word of warning, both to benefit the good folk of Edoras and those who would be fleeing from the outer villages seeking the safety of strong walls. Impatiently, he stalked up and down the camp, eager to be on his way.

[Arry]

Brand had listened carefully to Leod’s concerns. And had nearly made up his mind that the group should push on despite the injuries its members had sustained. He could not see the value in leaving the badly wounded, barely mended, behind just to get a messenger or two to the Golden Hall. There were simply not enough of the able left to make a good defense if some were sent off.

Now Osmod had offered a compromise – several of the more able riders would scout ahead for any sign of trouble and in an effort to get a good, defensible campsite set up for the injured.

‘I’ll take the horn you’ve offered, Osmod,’ he said, reaching out his hand. ‘It’s a good idea, I think. Go ahead and let the others who you want to ride with you know of the plan. I would like you to leave soon. Leod and I will bring the others along at a slower pace after you’ve gone.’ He paused for a moment, considering the group as a whole. ‘Why don’t you see if Athwen wants to go, also. She might like that.’

Brand nodded to Osmod and took his leave. Leod, he thought, with a wry smile, would most likely support the plan. The old fellow could keep an eye on him, as he knew he wanted to do. Brand took a deep breath and flexed his shoulders a little to ease the stiffness. The wound in his left shoulder gave him a definite and painful reminder he was still not at his best.

[Folwren]

Athwen let Parith pick his way carefully down the muddy slope of the hill. She avoided that place where the battle was fought the evening before, passing it some distance to the right. She came to a stop where the ground became level and while Parith showed his eagerness to run by turning himself in a wide circle, she studied the land to see where would be the best way to run. Then she brought Parith to a stand still. He lifted his head , scenting the air with widened nostrils. And then he pawed the ground and his head bobbed down and then back up again. Athwen smiled.

‘Go,’ she whispered. ‘Run. Run until the wind whistles in our ears.’

The horse needed no other bidding. With a fierce neigh he plunged forward, leaping immediately into a wild gallop. Athwen bent forward towards his neck until the flying black mane swept her face. The wind made her eyes water, but she kept them open and fixed between his ears.

She wanted to run on and on, allowing Parith to gallop until his feet led them back to their home, the way every horse would. But she didn’t let him run for quite a quarter of a mile. She stopped him abruptly and he slid to a halt. They stood there, then, as still as a statue. Their eyes turned towards where home once was, Parith with his head up, his neck arched, and nostril’s quivering, Athwen sitting upright, the wind gently stirring the damp curls about her face.

With a imperceptible sigh, Athwen lowered and turned her head. Her hands moved slowly as she pulled the reins over Parith’s neck. She felt the reluctance in her steed as he moved his shoulders but lingered with his face towards the East. Finally, he too turned his head away.

They only walked back towards the hill on which the company awaited. Not once did Athwen turn to look back. Her face was set forward and she had made up her mind never to look back. A single tear escaped. One tear to represent the untouchable, unregainable past.

~ ~ ~

Athwen reached the crest of the hill where the others were still waiting in little over ten minutes. At the outskirts of the camp, she slipped silently off of her horse and drooped his reins over a hanging branch. She left him standing and went towards the others, wondering if they had decided if it was time to continue yet, and if not, how long until they were ready.

[Farael]

Osmod gathered the able-bodied riders around the fire and spoke to them. He explained the necessity of balancing their need for haste as well as trying to make sure they did not loose any of the wounded to exhaustion. Athwen, Dorran and Leod, whom at last seemed content about his work with the wounded, were there from one group, as well as Eostre, Fion and Osmod himself from the other. As Osmod said his words, Leod wondered out loud whom would be there to look after the wounded. With a nod, Osmod agreed that he would need to stay and suggested Meghan did so too. He was about to add Athwen’s name to the list of those who would stay yet remembering Brand’s words he did not.

At last it was decided that Osmod would lead Dorran, Eostre, Fion and Athwen as scouts to search through the road ahead and prepare a good defensible camp for the night, while the wounded, Leod and Meghan followed at a slower pace. The scouts readied their horses and rode off almost at once. As they were leaving the camp behind Osmod asked his companions to group up and spread out. Two would ride further to the left and two would ride to the right. Osmod would keep the middle, always making sure the other scouts were within shouting distance. He knew it would be most efficient to spread out even more yet he did not want to risk the enemy to pick them off one by one.

The groups separated and Osmod smiled at Fion as he headed towards one of the flanks. The young man had stayed back during the fight, engaging only those Easterlings who were threatening the other riders and he had done so well. He was a brave young man. And then there was Athwen. Osmod was not sure she would be able to cope with any more adversity, but it was a chance they would have to take. He figured, as Brand had probably done before, that it would be best for her if she was kept busy, her mind looking ahead rather than brooding on past misfortune.

[Undómë]

Setting off after the first group...

While Leod saw to the wounds of those who would be traveling in the slower group, Meghan and Incana made sure the horses were packed and ready to go. And when they were, Incana held their mounts steady as Meghan lent a hand to Sythric and to Vaenosa.

Lady, Meghan could see, was attempting to hold as still as she could while Brand figured out how to mount up by himself, with his one good arm. Meghan winced as she saw him clamber up, his left arm having to assist him anyway to maintain his balance. His face was pale when he sat up at last, his lips set hard in a line. But he soon regained a measure of calmness and she was relieved that she saw no blood beginning to stain his tunic. Still, she thought, she would ask Leod to see to his dressing.

She fell to the back of the line as they made their unhurried way from the hilltop camp. Vaenosa and Incana rode along together just in front of her. The three men were strung out, not too far distant from each other or from the women, at the head of the little column.

Meghan wrapped her cloak about her against the early morning’s chill. ‘Well, Ash,’ she murmured to the grayish mare. ‘We’re on our way again. And the Fates willing, we will reach the Golden Hall soon.’ She patted the horse on the side of her neck, cautioning her in a low voice to be cautious as she picked her way down the hillside . . .

[Folwren]

Athwen was thankful that she didn’t have to ride back, slowly, with the wounded. Had she been appointed the position of staying with them, she would have obeyed without question or murmur, but to ride ahead, running, trotting, cantering at will, or going slowly and gently when necessary, seemed in itself to comfort her. She didn’t know how, nor why, but it did.

She was riding to Osmod’s right, and Dorran was her companion. They rode parallel with each other with a couple yards’ lengths in between. At first, they were silent as they rode forward, sobered by the morning funeral, and (at least on Athwen’s part) dampened by the grey sky. But, as the morning passed on, the clouds began to break apart and blue could be glimpsed here and there. Long streams of sunlight poured down and the world was brightened in their eyes.

Athwen looked up and her hope rose upon seeing the clean, bright light. She glanced sideways towards Dorran and then closed the space between them to a few feet.

‘You don’t think we’ll be meeting any more Easterling’s do you? I’m not sure how many were left by the time they finally left us alone. Do you know?’

‘There weren’t very many, I don’t believe,’ Dorran answered. Athwen paused a moment. She didn’t really want to pursue that topic. There were other things to talk about, and one thing in particular was pressing in Athwen’s mind.

‘Dorran,’ she said, slowly and half timidly. ‘Tell me about your sister. You said she and you were the only ones to escape after. . .after that. I would like to know what she’s like.’

[Tevildo]

Leod had decided to ride his horse at the back of the line. He was more interested in keeping an eye on the riders to make sure that none of them were encountering any trouble than in leading the group or even watching out for dangers along the trail. He would leave that job to others. Even with the slow pace there was a chance that one of their number would find the ride on horseback too difficult to bear.

Leod reminded himself to say something to Brand about his dressing. He had managed to check everyone that morning: to change most of the bandages and to dole out the salves and potions that the wounded would need for the morning trek. But Brand had been so intent on making sure that the two groups got organized and started that Leod had not had a chance to do anything more for him than making sure that the bleeding hadn't started again. He would insist that Brand let him change the dressing at the first place they stopped along the trail.

Leod was grateful to Osmod for his idea about splitting the group as well as to Brand who'd at least had the good sense to go along with the plan that was suggested. It was a far better idea than racing the wounded relentlessly along the path or simply leaving them behind in the woods. Leod wondered if Brand had found it difficult to admit he was one of those who might need a bit of help. In any case, the young man had taken his place among the wounded with a modicum of good grace and not let false pride get in the way of making a good decision. Tough times were not what anyone would choose, but sometimes difficult circumstance pulled out the best in a person and taught them things about themselves they might otherwise never had leaned.

But what about his own situation? What was he to do when their trek was over? His village was gone, his neighbors lying under the soft earth, yet his own life continued on. It was the first time that Leod had considered what might happen at the end of the journey. Times seemed to be going from bad to worse. It was possible that a healer's skills might be of some use to the Riders and those who defended Edoras. Or should be set out with one of the villages when they decided to resettle and rebuild their homes? But who knows when that might be, or even if they would want someone as grumpy as himself coming along to lend a hand. He would need to think on it and perhaps see what others hand in mind before making his decision. There would be time enough for that at the end of this journey. Just let him get all of the wounded to Edoras alive and in one piece, and he would worry about the other later.

[Nogrod]

The forward group had left, and slowly the slower ones got on the move also. The air was crisp, but not so moist as it had been yesterday. Cool day, predicting a winter coming in. Leod had given Sythric another dose of his potion, and he felt the warmth of it still clearly in his body. Sythric looked around. Ragged band of injured patients! What an impression we will give out at the Kings hall!, he thought, but then saw Brand riding in the front of the party. He‘s having tough times too... Maybe I should? He spurred Thydrë to take on Brand and Lady. Brand noted Sythric coming to his side and nodded to him.

“You could make a good rider, master Brand! You did very well yesterday”, Sythric said to him, getting his attention. “You were very brave indeed.” Brand seemed to nod in appreciation of Sythric’s appraisal, but he wasn’t sure, what Brand thought of it in the end. For a while they rode in silence.

“Brand? I know you are carrying some grave thoughts with you. I don’t know how numerous they are, but I just thought, that I could try to help you out with one of them...” He looked at Brand, who turned his face towards him, waiting for him to continue. At the same time, Sythric was thinking fervently, how to put his words in the right way.

“Well... Killing a man is not easy. I mean, it might be “easy” in a fight, when you just act on your instincts, just going about like a beast defending yourself. And in this sense, some enemies are easier to kill than the others.” He made a small pause, gazing forwards, just to see the last scout, Athwen? to leave his field of vision.

“But there is another kind of bravery, that is required after the battle” he said, looking at Brand again. “I have killed seven men before yesterday – I do not keep a count of the orcs. So it seems to be nine now... my tally, I mean...” He went quiet again for a while, but then continued: “But believe it or not, I can remember all of them, quite clearly indeed. I remember, how they died. Of most of them, I also remember, how they looked, how they were, as they realized that they were dying... A dying man, the one suddenly realizing to die... You can see that in his eyes. And those eyes have haunted me ever since. Those last sights of someone dying by your hand will follow you too. They will penetrate your dreams, they will just pop up unexpectedly in between your everyday hassle. They will not let you to choose the hour of their arrival: they just come and go. They will be a part of you, whether you want it or not.”

Sythric looked at Brand carefully. His expression did not reveal any agitation or disturbance, but still Sythric believed, there was a storm inside. He decided to press his point to the end, before asking Brand about his feelings. “You probably met them last night? I have always seen those eyes the night after a fight. I did so last night too, in the middle of the fever I got through. I’m sorry to say this, but they will not leave you. You may forget a casual acquaintance, but you will never forget a person you have killed.” He paused for a moment, just looking around him. The party was moving along quite fast, being the “slow party”, but still its speed was far from what it could have been. Sythric cursed his wound – and felt it again! It was so painful. For a moment Sythric just saw blackness, and bright stars going around the darkness. In the end he managed to control himself, and addressed Brand once more.

“That’s something you just have to accept, my friend. By taking someone’s life, you kind of take him with you, to yourself. The more you try to fight it, the more those you’ve killed will haunt you. And in a way, that’s just right. It makes you ask the real questions: how do I live my life? Why am I alive and not him? He might have helped a poor man in his need, so what shall I do? He could have loved his near relations, but how do I treat mine? And so on...”.

Sythric took a swift gaze to Brand, and then spelled out his last thought on the matter. “Just as an advice from someone who has had to deal with these matters already. On the desperate hour, try to think of the situation the opposite way: how would things have gone if you were dead, and your adversary would continue living. What would be the balance of good and evil then? Do your best in your life, to make it so hard as possible to that fiend to raise any believable competition on that balance!”

Then the pain came again. Sythric was not sure, for a moment, if Brand had said something or not. And what was even more worrysome, the pain had spread to his hips too. Suddenly he felt quite numb. He made a fast corrective and balancing move to stay on the saddle, waiting for Brand to come forwards.

[Arry]

Brand shifted in his saddle, the better to see Sythric as he spoke. He wondered at first why the old warrior was speaking to him of this. The serious tone of Sythric’s words, and the underlying gentleness in which he sought to cloak them reminded him of his own grandfather; his father’s father.

His grandfather - imparting the lessons life had taught him to his son’s son. Brand smiled for a brief moment recalling a number of times the old man had taken an event in Brand’s life and shown it through his eyes and his experience.

But Sythric’s words this day were not the words his grandfather would have spoken. Of that, Brand was quite sure.

There would have been no counsel on the taking of a man’s life . . . because the Easterling was not a man.

He was not family, not from Wulfham, not of Rohan, and not an ally of the Men of the Riddermark. Those, in themselves, put him under great suspicion; but, the fact that he was a threat to Brand’s family, village, and King made him less than a man in Brand’s eyes. So he had learned from his father and his grandfather, and so he believed.

Brand shifted again, his shoulder was beginning to hurt from the jouncing of the horse as they went along. And uncomfortable, too, because he did not wish to contradict the older man.

‘I appreciate your good words, Master Sythric,’ he began as the man finished speaking. ‘And yes, I have grave thoughts I carry with me. But I must tell you they are worries about how we are to accomplish this task our villages have set for us without losing any more of our companions; and preferably without increasing our injuries as well.’ He looked Sythric full on, his eyes narrowing as he thought how to proceed.

‘The death of the Easterling does not give me concern, Master Sythric. He was no man that I should upset myself with his death. He was worse than a beast, really, as I think on him. Beasts at least attack for natural reasons . . . they hunger, they wish to protect their young, they wish to keep their little domain safe from intruders. I do not mourn him in the least. He was a foeman and would bring down my family, my village, and my King.’

Brand nodded his head a little as he spoke these last words. ‘I know most likely he thought the same as I . . . that is, that had he succeeded in killing me there would be no remorse on his part . . .’

He looked away, his eyes unfocused in the distance. ‘Thank the one who writes our fates that I got the better of him. That the balance tipped in my . . . in our favor, that day . . .’

Sythric’s movements on his saddle as he tried to correct his balance, the seeming look of pain that crossed the old man’s face, made Brand pause in what he was saying. He drew up near to Sythric and reached out to steady him, halting both their horses as he did so.

‘Leod! Meghan!’ he called aloud, becoming alarmed at Sythric’s condition. ‘Come lend a hand and quickly. I fear he might fall!’

[Undómë]

Meghan urged her horse up to where Brand and Sythric had stopped. She could hear the concern in Brand’s voice as he called for her and Leod. And as she looked closely, she could see Sythric wavering in his saddle as if he might topple off at any moment.

She brought her mare alongside Sythric’s horse, on the side opposite to where Brand sat on Lady. The two of them hemmed in Thydrë as Meghan and Brand reached out to the older man to steady him.

Sythric was much larger than either of them. And Meghan was afraid that if he lost consciousness, she and Brand would not be able to hold up the dead-weight of him.

‘Leod! Come help us! We need to get him down to the ground safely . . .’

[Tevildo]

Dorran

"My sister?" A wide grin slipped over Dorran's face. "Her name is Creide, and she's twelve years old, but you'd think she was the same age as I am, the way she acts and carries on. She won't take no for an answer. I used to try and be a father to her, after our Aunt Raven died. But as Creide grew older, that wasn't going to work. I don't try to order her around now, but we still talk a lot. Anyways, I can't tell you how much I miss her."

"Don't mistake my words. Creide is a good girl. She works hard. She has to. She's a scullery maid in Lord Aldwulf's household, and has learned to do all manner of cleaning and cooking and sewing and can even read a little."

"My sister was furious, when I first told her I was going on this trip. She kept saying she was afraid for me, especially with all the Orcs about. That was the truth, but part of her wanted to come along too. She was fuming because she was only twelve, and the master refused to let her journey out from our village. When I get home......" Dorran sighed and then corrected himself. "If I get home safe, whether home is in Edoras or back in the old village, the first thing I'll do is take Creide out to celebrate and present her with a little gift. I even brought some money," Dorran pulled out a small wad of coins and showed them to Athwen. "I thought Creide might like a fine bolt of cloth from Edoras or maybe a piece of jewery."

Shyly, he looked over at Athwen. "You know I really know nothing about what girls want. Maybe when we get to Edoras, you can come with me and go shopping in the market and help me pick out something for Creide. That is, if it's not too much trouble." Dorran took a deep breath and then plunged ahead. "I don't know where you'll be going after all this ends. I don't expect any of us really know. But Lord Aldwulf has a heart of gold. If you've any skill at all, sewing or reading or just helping in the house, I'm sure he'd find a job for you.....someplace where you could stay a while and get your bearings before you decide how to go on with your life. Of course, first we have to get to Edoras."

With that, Dorran kicked his horse with his heels and picked up the pace as they continued down the trail.

____________________________

Leod

From the back of the line, Leod had seen Sythric falter and, even before Meghan called out for help, the healer was cantering forward, drawing up his horse so that he was even with them. Reaching over, Leod put a soft hand on the horse's harness and guided the animal to a halt, all the while helping to steady his rider.

"Let's get him down, Meghan, Brand!" Leod exclaimed. "He can't sit up on his own." Leod took most of the weight of the man over his shoulder, while Brand and Meghan held the horse still. Gently, Leod positioned Sythric in a sitting position on the ground, leaning his body against a large log. Although Sythric's eyes were open, his eyes were glazed over and his face registered considerable pain. He said nothing as the others moved him.

"We've got to do something," Leod growled. "Curses that we must ride today! This man can no more sit a horse than I can fly through the skies to Edoras." He gazed over at the side of the trail. For once, luck was with them. Two saplings had fallen to the forest floor in one of the many recent storms. Their long slender trunks would be perfect as poles to construct a sledge.

"Sit here, both of you!" Leod commanded Meghan and Brand as if they were his servants. There's reeds and small twigs that can be strapped together to make up the base of the sledge along with a large blanket that I have that we can tie on and wrap Sythric in. It won't be the most comfortable thing in the world, but anything is better than having him ride."

Leod ran off and came back with several armloads of materials that they would need. He showed Meghan and Brand and a few of the others how to twist and bind the twigs, although from the look they gave him, it was possible that some of them already knew how to do that. In a short time, the companions had managed to put together a makeshift sledge, and Sythric was resting comfortably on top of a blanket sling between the two poles.

As everyone remounted their horses to start up again, Leod confided to Brand, "The ride will be none too easy for him, and the sledge will slow us down. We should both try to keep an eye on the trail and make sure the ground isn't full of boulders or large tree roots. If necessary, I'll dismount and keep a hand on the sledge to steady it. Let's just hope that the weather holds and the path stays reasonably straight." It was some time later and several miles down the trail before Leod remembered that, with all the excitement, he had totally forgotten to check Brand's dressing.

[Folwren]

Athwen looked after Dorran, shaking her head a little at his shy way of going on. She smiled a small, faint smile and nudged her horse into a faster pace and once more pulled along Dorran. For a while, she rode in silence, thinking on what he had said to her.

Creide sounded nice. Grown up for her age, no doubt, but that was only in her favor, so long as she wasn’t too grown up. Athwen wondered slightly if she had lost her childhood dreams and feelings. She could not blame her for it if she had. Dorran was a nice brother, too. It was very kind of him to want to buy something for his sister. She smiled again at the thought. She could just imagine him looking at what there was to be bought with wide eyes of wonder. She had heard stories of Edoras from her older brother and sister, a couple years ago, when one of them had gotten to go with their father to the great city. But that was a long time ago, it seemed. Things might have changed now. They probably had, what with wars going on.

Athwen quickly turned her mind away from the thoughts that came with the word ‘war’. Dorran had asked her if she might go with him to pick something out. She had to admit to herself that she would probably be just as useless in a large market place as he. She knew how to buy vegetables and cloth from the small market that Skyfold had had, or to buy them off of traveling pedlars who passed every now and again. But in her mind’s eyes, Athwen was imagining Edoras to be thick with merchants, all selling numerous items, all as beautiful as the next, and she thought she’d never be able to make any choices quickly.

They had to make it to Edoras first, though. Ah, yes. To reach their journey’s end. Athwen sighed heavily and then thanked the noise of the horse’s hooves for not allowing Dorran to hear it. With so many wounded, would they be able to reach it in any short time? And the longer they were out in the open, the more chances they had of being attacked again. Would they ever be able to succeed? Yes, they must succeed. One of them must. To bring word to the king, to prevent more villages to meet the same end as hers, and to save the people. The only way to reach the city quickly was to progress quickly. . .

A thought entered her head which made Athwen smile more broadly than she had in days. She looked at Dorran and then brought Parith closer to his horse’s side.

‘I’ll bet you anything I can beat you in a race,’ she said, breaking the silence between them abruptly. She stood up in the stirrups to stand above the saddle so that she could talk clearly and steadily as she looked at Dorran. She posed quite a mischievous picture just then, an impish smile on her face, her hair loose and fluttering behind her on the wind of Parith’s speed, and her eyes glittering with the thought of another, faster run than earlier. ‘Of course, your horse is carrying more than mine. Can’t we stop and even it out a bit? It won’t take long, and the gallop will make up for it. Please?’

[Nogrod]

“The death of the Easterling does not give me concern, Master Sythric. He was no man that I should upset myself with his death. He was worse than a beast...” Brand’s words echoed in Sythric’s mind. He was not totally aware of everything Brand had said, but catched a piece from here and there. And disagreed with him. “I know most likely he thought the same as I . . . that is, that had he succeeded in killing me there would be no remorse on his part . . .” Why do you want to make yourself to resemble that twisted image you have made of your enemies?We are people and they are people. But if you want to find a difference, how about we being the ones who know remorse, who can feel and understand? And at least some of them can too... I know it. But then he was hit with an unbearably hard pain. Before he passed away, he felt Brand’s strong arms trying to grasp him. Their going had halted. Meghan was there, and Leod too.

There was the face of the young easterling, not much older than Dorran. He had just thrusted his spear through Bletric who had attacked him. And there, in the middle of the frantic battle, Sythric caught his eyes, filled with terror and anguish, just bewildered about what had happened, realizing what he had done. Sythric had killed the youngster just the following moment, almost actually riding over him. The lad’s terror of killing someone the first time had immediately changed to the shock of realizing his own death. So fragile is the life of man...

And there were lots of images, lots of voices in his head. They were about death. There were his companions dying, there were people he had killed: bandits and easterlings as well. There was his grand-uncle and grandfather. But then there was his little sister, Winlan, who died at the age of five. He was then only 9 and his big brother Swithulf was 11. Her screams of pain filled Sythric’s head and he was suddenly back to the night she died.

She had had rising temperatures for some days. She didn’t eat, and all the more frequently she had cried for her pains. The healer had been there and done what she could. On the last evening, she had started to have attacks that bursted her to infernal screaming. And they got worse towards the night. That was the most haunting voice Sythric had ever heard. His dear sister, just a child as he was himself, crying and yelling in anguish and pain. Why she had to be in that kind of pain? What was it? There was such a terror in her voice – and her gaze between the attacks – that even now, just remembering it, Sythric started to shudder physically in his makeshift sledge. Her eyes had been praying for help, and he had just felt so insignificant there, so insufficient, not knowing how to help the little sister who begged them all to end that pain.

The healer had finally arrived at the dead of the night. Sythric remembered, that they had been ordered out from the room Winlan was lying in. Only their mother had been allowed to stay. His father walked around the floor quietly and silently, looking downwards. Sythric and Swithulf sat at the bench by the wall, holding each others hands and sobbing quietly, not daring to look anywhere but their own feet. Winlan was howling in torturous pain and anguish. Suddenly it became silent for a second. Then they heard their mother starting to howl with a different, but as shrilling a voice. From the corner of the hall, their grandmother started to cry too. Their father stopped his slow walking. As he in the end turned his look towards the brothers, the tears were slowly gathering in the corner of his eye and his chin had just started to tremble. He was clearly intending to addres the two big brothers, but they didn’t stay to hear it. Sythric and Swithulf ran out of the house into the darkness of the latesummer night.

They had run wildly down the hill in the stillness of the night, outside the house of the horror, and reached the small stream running beside the fields. From some unspoken agreement, they had both jumped into the water and just dived. The softness of the water surrounded them tenderly, and as they ceased moving, the soothing quietness of the water was all around them. Every once in a while they had to surface to breathe more air to their lungs, but then they went down again into that mellow nothingness of the underwater reality. Sythric nine years old, Swithulf two years older. Two little boys in grief, finding comfort from the cooling waters. Eventually they heard their father calling for them and came out from the water. But they were not going back to that house any more. After sitting by the stream for a while, they heard their father coming down the hill. He had some light provisions for the all of them and something to make a fire with. They didn’t utter a word that night, anyone of the three. But they built a fire, ate a little, and then slept under the starry sky: father and his two sons, all broken down with grief and anguish. It was only after Winlan had been buried, that the two boys came to sleep inside the house again.

A bit larger bump brought Sythric back to reality. Now also his back was hurting, not the least because of that last one. That had to be a rock or something. Good earth this pain!, but this last was in reference to his side. He tried carefully to feel about his side. Clearly he had some ribs broken, but he had also started to bleed again. He was about to call for Leod, but then thought otherwise. I’m slowing them down enough already. We’ll see it tonight as we make camp. I’ll make it to that – I know I will. Carefully Sythric tried to tighten the bandages around him, but had no mentionable success in it, as he could only use his right arm, and was speeding on in a makeshift sledge over some harsh ground.

[Eowyn Skywalker]

The storm had seemed to pass, at least for some. A mental turmoil still settled over Eostre as she had readied her horse to leave. Those of the party who were mostly unharmed were now the scouts, searching a safe place for the next night. Leaving the wounded...

No, though they were the most hurt, the ones behind, they were still ablebodied, she reminded herself.

They had to make it to Edoras. They had to finish their mission before more people died. The plains seemed so much darker, now that they had claimed the life of one she knew. Trees with malice-filled grins. Straw colored grass with blades hidden in their midst... and ice.

The scouts carried on throughout this. They had to reach Edoras before things got too chaotic. Before more people got killed. Would there even be a Bregoware left to return to after all of this, or would it be another burnt village? Eostre glanced over briefly at her fellow riders. What were they thinking now?

[Tevildo]

Tevildo's post - Dorran

Athwen looked so lovely standing upright in her stirrups with her long hair floating behind her in the wind. Dorran flashed her an impish grin and added, "A race, is it? What a good idea! " The path was flat and open at this point, and he could see a good ways down. "Last one to reach the rock that's beside the stream straight ahead of us has to make dinner for the group. No need to even our weight out. I'll take you on here and now." Dorran had neglected mentioning to Athwen that his job at the manor had been caring for the horses and getting them in shape. He had raced Lord Aldwulf's mounts across the countryside, leaping over fences and hedges, almost every morning.

Dorran kicked Nelly in the flanks and, urging his mount forward, sent her flying down the path. The young man bent low over the horse's neck using every trick that he had learned while serving as a stable boy. From what he could tell, Athwen was coming on very fast, but was still a pace or two behind. When they were within a short distance of the stream, and Athwen was so close that Dorran could see her slender figure out of the corner of his eye and hear the pounding of her horse's hooves, Nelly set her hoof down in a rutted place on the path so that her balance was sightly thrown off. Dorran shifted his weight back in the saddle and let Nelly slow down to make sure that she did not get hurt. At that moment, Athwen, who had been steadily gaining ground, leapt ahead and came to the finishing point.

It was impossible to say whether Dorran or Athwen would have reached the rock first if Nelly had not pulled back. Dorran had been in front but only by a nose, and Athwen was still picking up the pace. Directing Nelly over to the rock, Dorran smiled at Athwen, his eyes bright and welcoming. He spoke with real grace, "I default to you, my lady. You are a fine rider, and, in truth, I believe your mount would have passed mine whatever else happened at the end. I owe you a meal and will make good on my promise the best that I can. Let's walk the horses for a while to give them a breather and let the others catch up."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Folwren's post

The wind from the speed brought a blush of red to Athwen’s pale cheeks, and she was blowing and grinning as she took Parith for an extra turn before facing Dorran again.

‘I default to you, my lady,’ he said. ‘You are a fine rider, and, in truth, I believe your mount would have passed mine whatever else happened at the end. I owe you a meal and will make good on my promise the best that I can. Let's walk the horses for a while to give them a breather and let the others catch up.’

‘Nay, to be sure,’ Athwen replied brightly. ‘You ran your horse well. I honestly think if she hadn’t faltered at the end and had we had equal weights, I wouldn’t have won. I’ll help you, as usual. It’s not good having empty hands anyway.’

Dorran insisted, however. He had lost, and there was no ‘ifs’ in racing. Athwen wholly disagreed and she insisted, too. He subsided with a look that may have meant ‘we’ll see about it later’ and she grinned in response.

When the others came back withing hailing distance, Dorran called to them, and the five of them gathered together. During a short rest wherein they ate some of the previously prepared food that they still carried, they discussed the morning’s ride. Nothing alarming or out of place had been spotted and things seemed safe enough to continue as before. In ten minutes they were back in the saddle and on their way.

[Farael]

The forward group rode all day at a steady pace, stopping only once for rest and a quick lunch. Osmod was silent most of the way, thinking ahead of the road they still had to cover and constantly looking around for signs of danger. It was rather surprising then, when the other scouts came back and asked him if he was thinking about stopping for the night. Surely there was still plenty of time before sunset.

That was not the case. Lost in his thoughts and with the sun at times being covered by trees, Osmod had not realized as the day had slipped by. They looked for a good place to stop and found a small hill just a few minutes ride ahead. It was not too high, so the wounded would be able to climb it easily, yet a thick clump of trees grew close to the top, which would provide wood for fire and protection from the wind. It was also easily defensible, which Osmod considered should be taken into account whether they liked the idea or not.

There were many things to do and not enough time if the camp was to be set before the wounded rode in. Wood needed to be gathered and larger logs would probably need some cutting, the horses needed to be tended, a fire started and food prepared. Osmod asked Fion to walk with him to the woods while Athwen and Eostre looked after the horses. He had heard Dorran had some skill with food so he asked the young man if he needed anything to prepare a meal. The young man seemed to hesitate for a moment and then quietly asked Osmod if no-one would ride back to meet with the wounded. They would not make it to the camp before nightfall and they may get lost, he argued. Dorran was right, Osmod realized, and so he let the young man ride back to meet with the others.

Walking into the woods, Osmod started picking up fallen branches. He had kept himself busy during the day but now the thoughts of their fallen friend crept back into his mind. He wondered if the men of Rohan would fall too, littering the battle grounds as the branches littered the forests’ floor. For the first time, he realized that he may become one of those branches, whether fighting in battle or after all was lost. He felt then that maybe he would not be riding back to Bregoware after reaching the Golden Halls. Maybe he would stay and fight for those that could not. Glancing towards the camp he saw Athwen looking after her horse. She had lost it all without a chance to fight back, as had many others he did not know. It was not only for Ræwald he would fight for.

[Tevildo]

For the remainder of the afternoon, Leod fussed and fretted as he watched Sythric bump up and down on the sledge. Once when Brand dropped back to ask an innocent question, Leod had lashed out that he had never been on this pathway before, and it certainly wasn't his fault they were out here in the middle of nowhere with a convoy of sick people. If it had been up to him, the injured would have stayed in camp at least another day or two.

The path they were following was not making things any easier. The trail twisted and wound and turned back on itself. Rocks were scattered everywhere. It was quite late in the afternoon when Leod began worrying that they would not make it into camp until nightfall. The last thing he wanted was to be travelling so late. Those who had been wounded at least needed a full night of rest, to say nothing of the dangers of trying to find their way in the darkness!

Leod glanced down at Sythric, and saw the man trying to fumble with his bandages; a slight red stain gave the telltale hint that the wound was bleeding again. Leod shook his head with a sigh. Perhaps the cut was deeper than he had first realized and would now require some stitching. He had a needle and the precious silk thread along with turpentine wax and clarified hog's grease inside his healer's bag. Leod promised himself that they would stop in about an hour so he could stitch up Sythric's wound.

That stop, however, came sooner than expected. The first riders had pulled up and were staring down at a large log that had been thrown crosswise over the path. Immediately on the other side there was a large expanse of ankle deep water, filled with slippery mud. Leod might not describe it as a small bog, but it was definitely larger than a puddle. It would not be difficult for those on horseback to veer off the trail and thread their horses through the trees to go around, but there was no chance for a sledge to get through. Ironically, they could see the trail straighten out ahead, looking broad and flat and open. If they could just get beyond this particular point, they would likely have an easy ride to finish up the day.

Leod hurried his horse up to the front of the line, staring down at the stubborn obstacle, clucking in exasperation, "This is just wonderful! The perfect ending to a perfect day. I absolutely forbid Sythric to sit a horse. Don't even think about it!" At this point, Leod glared menacingly over at Brand. "This poor man is already bleeding. So, unless we put wings on this sledge, he is going nowhere. Ideas, anyone?"

At that instant, there was a clatter of hooves, as a rider came pounding up the trail from the opposite direction. As the distant figure became clearer, they could see it was good news. Splashing his horse through the puddle, Dorran waved a welcoming hand and bellowed out a "haloo" to his comrades. His face registered mild surprise as he saw Sythric lying prone on the sledge, but he was quick to add, "We've found a good campsite for the night. It's not more than two miles from here. If we can just get across this little bog, we'll be fine." Then he echoed Leod's question, "Ideas anyone?"

[Arry]

Brand’s face was slick with sweat from the exertion of the ride. Though the day had grown colder as it passed, it was all he could do not to throw off his cloak to feel some relief from the oppressive heat he felt. He wiped at his face with his gloved right hand, throwing back his cloak a little on that side so that the cooler air might touch him. He was careful to keep his other arm well hidden beneath the cloak. His left shoulder felt tight, hot as an ember, and he could feel the slow trickle of something down his torso as a thickish liquid oozed downward.

‘Perhaps we can unhook the sledge from the horse and three or four of us might carefully bear Sythric on the sledge around the log and the muddy water . . .’ He shifted in his saddle, in a small effort to ease the pain.

‘Meghan and Leod, perhaps you could do this . . . yes? With the help of Naria and Dorran? But that’s only one small offering. Perhaps another of you can see an easier way . . .’

[Folwren]

Athwen finished unsaddling and rubbing down her horse well before Dorran had returned with the wounded group. She set about to using the wood that the others brought in to making the camp fire and then, after washing her hands as best she could, she began to prepare the meal. Her short argument with Dorran from earlier came back to her as she pulled out a pan and she smiled a little. She wondered if he’d even remembered when he went back out to meet the others.

As she prepared the meal her mind wandered back to the events of the day. It had been almost fun. To her, riding out before the ones who had to go more slowly, it felt much like a holiday. The day itself had been nice, perhaps a little on the chilly side, but with a few, scattered runs in their riding, they had managed to keep warm. She and Dorran, after the race, talked quite a bit about past times, concerning horses, anyway. She learned that he had worked with his master’s horses daily. It was little wonder that he had ridden so well, then, and had not minded taking the extra weights of his pack and other luggage. He told her stories about the horse’s, and had made some of the antics of a particular foal sound so humorous and made it bring such lively thoughts to her mind (for she knew how young horses played), that Athwen had actually laughed.

After making sure that the food left to warm until the others got back, and also that water was heating up, Athwen sat down a few paces off, wrapped her arms about her legs, and stared into the fire. Everything was quiet about her. Eostre stood nearby in the shadows. She was silent, as usual. Fion and Osmod were talking quietly on the opposite side of camp; she didn’t know what about.

Sitting thus in silence for a while with nothing to occupy either her mind or her hands, she once more began to think about what was to come, and some part of her thought about what had been. Dorran had mentioned earlier the master of his village. He was kind, he had said, and would help her if he could. That was true, he probably would. What was more, Athwen had no doubt that any one of her companions here would do their best to see that she wasn’t left helpless and alone. She didn’t want to be a burden to people, though.

With a sigh, she lifted her hand and rested her forehead on it, combing back the hair with her fingers. Life was so uncertain now.

But why should that let her down? Time would tell what came, and if she met it bravely and without faltering, then she would find a way through. Dorran had said that, or something like, she felt sure he had.

A stick hissed and popped and a fragment fell from the fire. It attracted her gaze and she stared at it while the orange changed collars and then slowly faded into black as the minutes passed. A thought came to her that if she were to blow upon the stick, it would glow and glimmer again, and maybe even briefly burst into flame. If she left it alone, it would fade and die and become cold and hard, a useless clump of charcoal.

'Hope is like that,' whispered a voice inside her head. 'If you leave it lying without taking it up, it will go away for ever, and then there won’t be anything to live for. But so long as there’s hope, there’s a way to live.'

‘Hope of what?’ she murmured. There was no answer for the space of a moment. But then Osmod came up, carrying a larger piece of wood. She looked up at him as he placed it carefully on the fire. It’s bark was dry and old and the flames eagerly accepted it, the fire leaping up higher suddenly. A faint smile came to her lips and she lifted her head and let her hand fall. 'You’ll find a reason. Someday. Life’s uncertain, remember? You won’t know until you get there.'

[Nogrod]

‘Perhaps we can unhook the sledge from the horse and three or four of us might carefully bear Sythric on the sledge around the log and the muddy water . . .’ Sythric had been somewhat aware of the situation, but now Brand's words really woke him up. He was terrified of the idea. It was already enough to be tied to the sledge. Sporting over a piece of water with it was just too much.

"Please friends! How about Meghan and Leod you just help me to my feet and support me over it? If its not too deep..." He turned his eyes towards the others, trying to take a firm grip from the sledge's side to aid him with rising up. "I would surely like to be in an upright position for a while.", he said, addressing his words mostly towards Leod, "I think, it would do me good too. And anyhow, if I can't be trusted to walk today, how do you think I'm riding tomorrow? I should try it."

[Tevildo]

With this last pronouncement from Sythric, everyone turned to Leod. The healer glared back at Sythric, "Alright. Enough! I have heard that tone before. I know when it is useless to argue with a stubborn patient. I would rather do what Brand suggested, but it will do us know good unless you cooperate. A short walk will not hurt you, but be careful. It's slippery."

Leod reached over and gently slid his hands underneath Sythric's arms, offering him some support so that he could stand up. Then the healer snapped out his orders. "Dorran, drag the sledge over to the other side. There should be no trouble now that it's empty. Meghan, you've a gentle hand and seem like a sturdy lass. Get over here on the other shoulder and lend Sythric your strength. We'll take this slow and easy. The last thing I want to see is my patient falling on his face. And the rest of you, find your way through the trees to the other side. I don't know how deep the water is, and we may need your help to pull us out of this muck. Here now. One of you take my healer's satchel so it doesn't end up under water."

Once the older man had finished speaking, Sythric headed for the trees to make his way around the log . They had no trouble getting beyond the fallen tree trunk. Leod thought it might be easiest to continue through the trees and then cut back to the main trail, but that proved to be a bad idea. The mud was so soft that the walkers slid in up to their ankles and could barely pull their feet out of the muck. It was clearly safer to go back to the main pathway and wade through the water. As Sythric cautiously ploughed through the water, the rocks underneath made for uneasy footing. Once or twice he slipped, but Meghan and Leod reached out to steady him. At its deepest point, the water reached as high as their knees. Despite the rocks and the water, they managed to get Sythric safely to the other side and Meghan was also pulled out on the bank.

Leod gave strict orders that Sythric was to go back immediately on the sledge, and that he would not listen to any further nonsense or protests. As the group mounted up, the healer slipped over beside Brand and whispered, "Master Brand, I do not like the look of you at all. Frankly, you look worse than Sythric. Since Dorran says that camp is just a few miles away, we'll continue on. But the minute we get there, you're to settle down and rest, and I must have a look at that wound."

The group continued forward. The flat and open trail made for relatively easy going, and it was not long before they reached the point where Dorran told them to leave the trail. Within a few minutes, they were approaching the campsite. The odor of a lovely hot meal floated enticingly towards them.

"Oh, bother! I forgot." With that, Dorran raced over to Athwen and apologized. "My fault, my fault. I was supposed to do the meal. So now I owe you two I guess. I don't know what you made but it smells lovely, and I know the others are hungry."

[Folwren]

The noise of the returning group brought Athwen out of her reverie. She roused herself and stood, ready to offer herself to anyone who needed any help. The only light was that from the fire, and it leaped and danced, sending odd shadows away into the darkness. The horses came near, mere outlines in the greyness, and then they came into the firelight. The riders looked pale, the wounded ones weak and in pain. She took a step forward and then stopped. Osmod and Fion were approaching them. They would be more help than she. She would only get under foot at the moment. Better to put the finishing touches to the meal.

She was going to some saddle bags to get bowls with Dorran’s voice over took her. ‘Oh, bother! I forgot!’ he cried. She heard his hurrying footsteps behind her and as she turned to face him, bowls in hand, he was alright there by her side. ‘My fault, my fault. I was supposed to do the meal. So now I owe you two, I guess. I don’t know what you made, but it smells lovely, and I know the others are hungry.’

He put out his hands to take the bowls from her. Athwen, being preoccupied with answering him, let him take them gently away from her.

‘Nothing special. What can one do without a proper cooking place? I’ve merely used some of the water and cooked up some of the smoked boars meat we had from a few days ago and tossed in a couple vegetables that you found. . .I think it was you. . .’ She didn’t know for certain, though, because she hadn’t been there when they’d found them. ‘And some of the herbs from Leod’s garden,’ she finished. ‘I can do a bit of cooking in a pinch, I think.’

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Arry’s post


While the others saw to Sythric and Vaenosa, Brand urged Lady to a place on the opposite side of the fire. He was glad of the general hubbub of the camp – the settling of the wounded; the preparation of the evening meal. It drew attention away from him.

He sat for a moment in the saddle, catching his breath as he mustered the energy to dismount. His left arm was all but useless now; it was so swollen and very painful.

Lady stood stock still, sensing her owner needed what small assistance she could give. Brand loosed the cinch and let the saddle drop to the ground. He undid the buckle that held her bridle and she backed away as he held onto it, loosing it from her head.

‘Good girl!’ he said, patting her on the neck. He opened one of the small bags tied to the back of the saddle and gave her a handful of oats. ‘There’ll be plenty more once we reach the Golden Hall.’ She eyed him as if skeptically and made no comment save the crunch crunch of her teeth on the grain. Lady looked hopefully for another hand out, but when none was forthcoming, she wandered off a little to nibble on the dried tufts of grass about the edges of the camp.

Brand dragged his pack and bedroll near the fire. Unlike earlier when he felt hot, now he felt quite chilled. Pulling his cloak about him, he sat down carefully on one of his folded blankets and drew the other up over his shoulders, pulling it tight about him. His teeth were chattering despite the heat from the cook fire.

Someone handed him a mug of warm tea . . . and he mumbled out a word of thanks . . .

[Undómë]

‘You’re more than welcome!’ Meghan straightened back up and took a sip of her own tea. ‘I wish we had some honey from my family’s farm,’ she said, her nose wrinkling a little at the bitter undertaste of the herbs.

She shivered beneath her thick cape. The wind had shifted from the west and now the cold eastern currents swept over the plains bringing the assurance of a storm.

‘Move over a bit!’ Meghan reached out with the edge of her boot and nudged Brand a little. ‘My legs are still cold and wet from the trek through the bog with Sythric.’

Tucking her cloak beneath her, she huddled down next to Brand. ‘Cat got your tongue, eh?’ Meghan took another drink of tea, thinking perhaps he was just tired. She leaned forward, picking up a small chunk of wood to throw in the fire. As she leaned back, her right shoulder hit against his left.

‘Sorry! Didn’t mean to hurt you.’ Meghan thought she heard him stifle a gasp. A glance his way showed he was shivering hard. Setting her mug on the ground she put a hand on lightly on his forearm. ‘Are you alright, Brand?’ she asked, a look of concern on her face.

His head was in profile to her. She reached out and tipped his face toward her; her fingers lightly guiding his chin. Alarmed at what she saw, she called out loudly.

‘Leod! Come quickly! He’s sick!’

[Tevildo]

Tevildo's post

Leod had been replacing bandages, stitching up cuts, and simmering herbal remedies in several small pots hanging over the firepit, when he heard Meghan calling out in a worried voice. One look at Brand told him all he needed to know. The man's face was flushed; his hair hung limp, dripping with sweat. Fever! Undoubtedly high fever. That could only mean that the wound had gone bad. There was no time to lose. For the tenth time that day, the healer silently cursed that he had let others persuade him to push his patients forward without another day of rest.

Leod had Brand remove the clothing that lay directly over the wound so they could have a better look. What he saw deeply concerned him. Red streaks radiated out from the wound. There were several deep pockets of pus.

"Alright, Brand." The healer spoke in his gentlest tone, far different than how he'd sounded on the trail earlier that day. " Your wound has flared up. We're going to have to get it cleaned and then I'll lay down a honey potion. I don't know why, but the honey seems to draw out the bad spirits and start the wound healing again. I'm afraid this may hurt a little. Just hold on and we'll be done in a minute."

First, Leod continued to talk to Brand, explaining what he was doing to him. "This will be hot, quite hot. It's water and clove oil mixed, an excellent rememdy for cleansing. Just hang on for a minute."

"Next, you'll feel some pressure. I'll be cleaning out some of the infection....nasty green and yellow stuff that will do you absolutely no good." Leod was careful to drain out all the hidden pools, soaked the wound in the clove oil mixture for some time, and finally dried it.

"One last thing," added the healer, addressing both Brand and Meghan. "This will help. The honey came from my backyard. The flowers there were amazing. It took years to figure out which ones were best to grow, but the honey the bees made from those flowers was unusually potent in the healing of wounds." With that explanation, Leod took out a bandage and placed a generous amount of honey on it before wrapping up the wound.

"Well, Master Brand, you're not going anyplace tonight. And, as for tomorrow, I am not at all sure. If necessary, I shall stay here in the woods with you and Sythric, and give you two some extra time to rest while the group goes forward. Sometimes this honey works quickly. At other times, it may take a while. But if your fever is this bad in the morning, I will personally sit on top of your chest and enlist Dorran to do the same to prevent you from going anywhere!"


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Nogrod's post

For a short while Sythric had felt somewhat energized as he had been allowed to leave that gods-forsaken sledge and stand up. Even the trouble of getting over the bog had been refreshing variation to just leaning in the sledge and getting all his parts sore and aching. Sythric would have loved to try riding after the crossing, but Leod’s gaze had been firm enough for him even to dare suggest it. And in the end, he knew that Leod was right. He wasn’t a man to ride.

Leod had stiched his wound as a first thing as they had reached the camp. Even though he was still under the spell of Leod’s painkillers, the stiching operation was extremely painful. Sythric had to bite his teeth not to yell in pain. Leod had allowed him a last sip of his wine before he started. The rest was to go on cleansing the wounds, his own to begin with. After the operation he was bandaged once again, although the bandages were the same he had before, stained with dried blood and mud. After bandaging he was hoisted to lean against a larger tree beside the fireplace so that he could follow what was going on. Fion brought him a bowl of broth and smiled encouragingly. Sythric thanked him for the broth. The smell of it made him realize his hunger. Well, this can’t be too bad, if I’m still hungry..., he thought to himself, smiling inwardly to the irony of his own thoughts against what he actually felt. Fion stood aside him as he took the first spoonful of the steaming broth. Sythric looked at him to the eyes, smiled a little and said. “Leod told you to see if I can manage this? Well, tell him that I can. You should do better by helping him with the others. I’ve been taken care of enough already for this day.”, with that he winked an eye tio Fion and nodded. Fion smiled hesitatingly, unsure of what to do, but Sythric’s nod gave him relief – and by a nod he went after Leod who was tending Vaenosa.

The easterling had been a skilled swordsman, and his blade had been truly excellent. It had cut through his leather armour like paper, breaking at least his ribs. Leod had said nothing about his organs and Sythric hadn’t wanted to ask about them. The wound started from near his armpit and went down his side almost to his waist. It was a vertical, sharp and clean cut. Like it’s been made with a carving knife! A dull orcsword would never do anything like this, no no... He suddenly remembered the last time, indeed the only time he had been really seriously injured before. It had been his second last year in the riders.

Two orcs had been coming onto him. He had parried the one to his left with his shield, intending to swing his sword against the one coming from his right. That had been a bit too ambitious move. The hit on his shield had been powerful enough to unbalance him just enough to miss his swing with the right hand. The blow to the right side of his chest had hitten him with almost full force. Had his sword not have hit the orc’s sword just ever so slightly, killing off some of its momentum, he would have been dead by that one. If that orc would have had the sword of this easterling... I wouldn’t be here to remember it.

The orcswords are mainly heavy and dull. For someone wearing any quality armour they basically produce concussion-like hits – if they come through. Sythric had broken some ribs back then too and had some internal bleeding, but his armour was not penetrated and the bleeding had ceased early enough for him to survive. After the battle he had been taken to the nearest town in a carriage with other woundeds. Then he had laid a full week in bed, not being allowed to even stand up. It had taken another week before he was given a permission to try riding.

Now it seems a bit different. This surely is worse than that one, and we dont have even a cart to carry myself and Brand. And how about Vaenosa? How is she faring? Then he heard Meghan calling for Leod in distressed voice. As he looked to the other side of the fireplace, he saw pale and sweating Brand sitting, Meghan holding him with an agonized look. Leod rushed to them and started tearing Brand’s shirt off, looking very worried indeed. Oh Brand! I hope you are not going to die! You are a good man!, for a while Sythric just stared towards the fire blank-minded. We’re not going to ride anywhere tomorrow, you and I, he kind of addressed Brand in his thoughts. But maybe some of us can, and send a cart to us then? He took another sip of the broth, deeply in his thoughts that seemed to move ever so slowly. But could we make it here until you come back, for it would take several days at best – or would you come here just to pick up our corpses...?

[Undómë]

‘No need to call Dorran, Master Leod.’ Meghan sat down cross-legged on the ground beside Brand. She leaned forward and adjusted a cool cloth the healer had placed on Brand’s head since the chill he had been experiencing now gave way to a raging fever.

If you’ll bring us some broth and tea . . . oh, with your honey in it, just a little please. I’ll see what I can get into him. Me, too if you please,’ she finished off giving him a smile.

Turning her attention back to Brand, she leaned forward resting her right elbow on her knee. Her hand cupped her chin as she rocked just a little back and forth, thinking. ‘You know, I think I only got up to my eleventh year on the farm in Bregoware . . . the last time we talked . . . remember?’ She thought she heard a groan from him, though she could not tell whether it was from pain or the anticipation of listening to the seemingly never empty treasury of stories from her childhood.

Someone had come up and set a big bowl of broth thick with some minced meat from what the others were eating. And their mugs had been filled with sweet tea. Meghan propped Brand’s head and shoulders up on a couple of rolled blankets and spooned a little of each into his mouth, ordering him to swallow. ‘Don’t make me do like I’ve done for my goats sometimes when they’re off their feed, sick with something, and getting weaker.’ She gave him another spoonful of broth. ‘I’m sure you’ve used it on your sheep,eh? Tube down the throat to the tummy . . .’

‘Good, good. I see you’re swallowing well now.’ She took a few spoonfuls of broth herself and a big gulp of the sweetened tea. After a fair period of him sipping at the tea and broth, she let him rest. ‘I’d offer you a bite of this dried meat,’ she said taking a slender piece of smoked goat from the inner pocket of her vest. ‘But it’s rock hard and I think you’d be asleep before you got it to where you could swallow it.’

Meghan wiped his face with the cloth from his forehead. He seemed to be dropping into a restful sleep. His breathing had evened out, and he did not seem quite as hot. She spooned the remainder of the broth into her own mouth, speaking low to him, in a sing-songy, remembering sort of manner between the spoonfuls.

‘When I was eleven, I helped my brother deliver our first set of twin kids. It was a mild winter; I remember that. And the first soft breath of Spring was just blowing across the new grass, just sprung up. You know, how it is, Brand. The smell of the first trees in blossom was sweet in the air . . .’

[Arry]

Brand frowned as the smell of blossoms drifted into his consciousness.

But it is nearly winter. . . I’m sure of that . . . there should be no apple blossoms, only the scent of coming cold on the wind . . .

His brow smoothed out as he recognized the source of the voice. Meghan’s voice. That’s what had prompted his recollection . . . Brand smiled and relaxed beneath his blankets.

At the edges of his hearing the sounds of the camp crept in. Leod’s voice and the shuffle of his steps as he moved carefully from wounded to wounded. In the distance came the soft voices of Dorran and Athwen. Fion’s soft laugh rang out . . . a moment of ease. A woman’s low voice asked questions of Leod . . . Vaenosa, perhaps. Someone’s boots crunched against the ground. A purposeful step. Osmod, he thought.

From a distance came the nickering of the horses. For a moment he thought he might get up and see to Lady. But the effort of getting up was too much; he settled back in. Incana would most likely be taking care of the horses. They were in good hands. Eostre, too, perhaps.

Meghan’s voice insinuated itself against the background sounds, drawing back his attention. The scent of apple blossoms blew in again on the breeze of her words.

It had been a struggle, the birth of the two kids . . . she was eleven . . . he could see her thin, sturdy little body bent carefully over the one her brother had handed her . . .

[Tevildo]

Leod plopped down on the ground and stretched out his legs on a spot not far from where Brand was sleeping. He was having trouble sleeping. The healer had been working ever since they'd arrived in camp, and every joint in his body felt as if it had been fed through a giant meat grinder. Leod softly chided himself. What kind of a healer can I be, if I can't heal myself? But even the sharp pain in his knees was preferable to the more serious problem that continued to plague his mind.

A simple healer, he reflected, could only do so much. He would not have confided to the others, but Leod was beginning to fear that he did not have the skills or potions to help Sythric and Brand pull through and regain their health. He could see that both their wounds were beginning to fester. He'd applied the honey paste to each, when he'd changed their bandages, but had not told anyone else how serious the situation was.

If the men were lucky, the wounds would clear quickly, and healing would begin. If not,..... Leod did not even want to think about the "if not", not here in the middle of the woods where no other help was forthcoming. They had come too far and survived too much to consider the alternative. With both Brand and Sythric unable to offer leadership, it was important that he keep his head clear and try to put a good face on things.

Leod glanced over at Meghan. She was still near Brand, occasionally checking on him and offering words of encouragement. Leod could not help but chuckle. "Mistress, you have a tongue on you," the older man quipped. "But you also have a way with people. You would make a good healer." This was the highest compliment that Leod could offer to any living thing. Then he nodded over towards Sythric. "I need to rest a spell. If you could stay awake, I would be much obliged. Could you keep an eye on Sythric as well as Brand? If you see any change in how they look, please wake me at once. Don't stop and ask if you should. Just do it. Don't worry. I will be up in an hour or two. I learned that knack long ago. But someone will have to sit with them meanwhile. I am afraid night often brings the worst..... "

The healer swallowed the rest of his words, afraid he had said too much, pulled up his blankets and drifted off to sleep.

[Farael]

As night fell, it was time for rest. Yet almost none of the riders could find any. Osmod had volunteered for the first watch, even though it was a watch only in name for there were many of them who were still awake. Leod had gone to get some sleep and Meghan was looking over Sythric and Brand who seemed to be injured the most. It would be something to consider the following morning, yet Osmod had other things to worry about. He had heard some of the tells Sythric and Ræwald had shared by the bonfire when they thought all of the rest were asleep and he wondered how it would be like to be a rider of The Mark. Visions of glory and fame ran through Osmod’s mind as he walked to the fire to get a cup of hot tea. He imagined himself sitting tall on his mount, his armour shining on the sun as he and his fellow riders charged against hordes of orcs –and were victorious. Absently he reached for the kettle, dreaming now about the time he would gain recognition in the field of battle and as a proof of his prowess he’d leave the head of an orc impaled on his spear as a warning to any other of those foul beasts that may follow.

Yet this orc’s head was hot. Burning hot. So hot Osmod could not help to let out a cry, as he found himself dragged back to reality and the fact that he had been holding on to the kettle, and not by the handle. Cursing at his lapse of attention he emptied half of his water-skin on his scorched fingers. For a moment he tried to act as if he was alright, yet the pain on his hand was just too much to bear. Feeling embarrassed and ashamed, he walked over to Leod who seemed to be at least partially awake and asked for a little help with his burns. He did not even hear what the healer replied, embarrassed as he was.

[Undómë]

Meghan looked up at Osmod’s cursing. She frowned, watching him pour water over his hand. ‘What on earth has he done to himself?’ she wondered as he passed by where she sat with Brand; she had missed his unfortunate encounter with the hot kettle.

Brand was asleep, his face relaxed, breathing even. She put the palm of her hand against his forehead, noting it had grown cooler. Meghan chewed at the corner of her bottom lips considering whether he would stay asleep. She glanced over at Sythric, he seemed comfortable, too, for the moment. Chancing that her charges would not do something foolish, Meghan stood up and hurried to where Osmod stood talking low to Leod.

‘Oh, Osmod! That must hurt horribly!’ she said taking his burned hand in her own. Meghan glanced up from her inspection of the blistered fingers and reddened palm to his face. In the wavering light of the fire she could see his cheeks were a little crimsoned; though it seemed not from the pain. She could see the hand did indeed hurt him but he seemed to be holding back the pain well.

‘Let me get your salves and such and your rolls of bandage, Leod,’ she went on, turning her attention to the healer. ‘And a little cool water . . . yes? . . . to clean the burn.’

‘Don’t worry, Osmod,’ she said. ‘We . . . well, that is, Leod, I mean, will soon get you fixed up.’

Meghan was glad the night hid her own reddened cheeks as she went to fetch Leod’s supplies. Don’t let Leod’s words swell your head, girl! she chided herself as she hurried along.

[Tevildo]

The young man lowered his lanky frame to the ground, offering his injured hand to the healer. Seeing the sheepish look that was spreading quickly over Osmod's face, Leod said nothing more that might increase the lad's embarassment, but merely nodded gruffly to Meghan to run and fetch his supplies.

Leod carefully inspected Osmod's fingers and palm, and then told the young man to sit for some time with his hand in a pot of cold water, explaining that it would take away some of the sting. After that, Leod called Osmod back again and put on some salve and a bandage, adding a word of explanation. "By the morning you should be feeling much better. It's not a bad burn. You should be left with a blister or two but hopefully nothing more than that. Best thing you can do now is sleep. I'll take a look at the dressing in the morning. Still, you might want to be careful not to reinjure it. Hold your reins in your other hand when you ride tomorrow and, a day or two from now, you'll probably forget this ever happened."

As Osmod headed off in the direction of his bedroll, Leod spoke to Meghan. "This doesn't look to be a night when I'm meant to get much sleep. Of course, you're welcome to help out if you want but you might want to think about getting some sleep yourself in an hour or so. I am going off on my own, not far from camp, to find some herbs that I badly need but I expect to be back very shortly to relieve you. Still, until I return, I would appreciate if you would tend to the injured. I don't like leaving camp at a time like this, but unfortunately I have no choice. And you do seem to have a way with tending to the sick." With that Leod stood up to gather his things, being careful to take along a stave and knife in case he ran into something unexpected, however unlikely that might me. He also carried a small lighted torch so that he could see the pathway more clearly.

Back home in his village, Leod often made a practice of going out after dark to gather herbs that he needed. There were certain types of plants that were actually easier to find by night than day, especially various lichens growing on rotted wood that were reputed to be excellent in dressing wounds. During the day, these humble grey plants would melt into their surroundings but at night some would give off an eerie luminescence. Perhaps it wasn't the wisest thing to be going out on his own, but Leod desperately needed more medications to help care for Brand and Sythric. The woods seemed quiet. He did not want to rob sleep from anyone else by insisting that they go with him. Everyone was too tired, and several were injured. He was the healer, and it was his responsibility to have the herbs and potions that would give both Sythric and Brand the best chance of staying alive. With that thought uppermost in his mind, Leod grabbed a sack, threw on his cloak, and with the briefest nod to Meghan strode out of camp. No one followed him and in a short time he had cut across the country, going far off the path, in search of the precious lichens.

[Arry]

Brand wakened briefly to see Leod bandaging someone’s hand. Osmod! Had there been another skirmish? No . . . some other mishap had happened. His gaze traveled round the little camp. All seemed peaceful enough. A number of the group were settled in around the fire, talking quietly; some were getting their own bedrolls put out for the night.

Meghan it appeared had finished checking on Vaenosa and was just now adjusting the blankets on Sythric. He saw her glance toward Osmod and then away. Brand raised himself on one elbow watching as she retrieved her blankets and looked about for somewhere to lay them out. She looked tired.

A twinge of guilt poked him. She had had little sleep the previous night from her watch on him. And she would be just as watchful tonight if he gave her reason to. He settled down again beneath his blankets and closed his eyes, smoothing out his face and breathing slowly as if resting peacefully.

He saw her settling in, less than an arm’s reach from where he lay. Brand smiled as she turned on her side and pulled the covers about her. He intended she sleep well this night, at least on his account. He would give her no trouble.

His fever still coursed through him, he could feel the heat of it filling the small spaces between his body and his own blanket. And the small movement he had made just to look about made his shoulder feel as if red hot pokers were being plunged though the flesh and bone. He clenched his jaw stifling a gasp as he tried to settle into a position of comfort. And such a position seemed very hard to find.

’Twill be a long night, boyo . . . he rasped to himself, pressing his right hand against the bandage on his left shoulder. Put your thoughts elsewhere than this infernal pain . . . remember one of the old tales great-granda used to tell you . . . the one about the Elves . . . and how they looked, so tall and shining upon their silver dappled horses . . . grey eyes glinting from their fair faces in the moonlight . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Hold tight to your bow, and keep your sword near at hand, for we may have need of these before this grim night has ended." The tall figure who rode in front hastily pulled his hood over his head, while the others in his party did the same. Anyone watching them from the nearby woods would have seen only the shadowy eyes of the lead rider; the stern look on his face, his features and form, were completely hidden from outside view. This was how he and the others preferred it.

"Come along now. Stop this idle chatter. No time for song or riddle or play." The rider at the head of the small column turned back to the others, urging them forward.

"Can we not rest, make camp for a short spell?" the youngest of the group implored, his body and head weakly sagging. Though all were strong and healthy, the ride had not been easy. They had ridden northward now for a full three days.

"No, impossible! After what happened earlier, you can not possibly suggest this. There is little safety for us in these lands. Indeed, rest is a luxury we can ill afford. We must and will defend our kin. This time I will not hesitate if any cross our path. We must reach the High Pass and cross over the mountain. It is our only hope in these troubled times."

"We should not have come!" came a stern voice from the solitary figure who rode in the back.

"Perhaps not," his companion responded. "But we could not leave without seeing the Edhellond . Too much of my heart is there." He did not add what the others were thinking: that the sight of the rocky promontory and the long-deserted harbors had brought happiness to none of them. Too many ghosts were whistling in the wind, too many folk who had forgotten. What had been even more shocking is that there had been laughs and jeers of disbelief from some of those in town. And then, once they had made their way back along the river, the attackers had come. He had not been prepared. This time, Nilhil vowed, he would be the one to attack first and ask questions later. He owed it to the others, for they had put their trust in him.

"Remember now," he growled. If you see or hear anything, let me know. Believe and trust no one. Even a solitary traveller may only be the lead man in an entire armed company."

With that, the party of six riders, all tall in body and carrying arms of great value and beauty, stepped onto the path again , swiftly making their way northward.

[Folwren]

Athwen approached Osmod slowly from behind. He sat beside his rolled bedding, bending over the neatly bandaged hand. She felt sorry for him, but at the same time, couldn’t help feeling some impulse to laugh. How on earth had he managed to do it?

‘How does it feel?’ she asked in an undertone. He looked up quickly and moved a little bit to face her. She stepped back so that he didn’t have to crane his neck up so far to talk.

‘Fine. Just a bit hot. Why don’t you sit down?’ He motioned with his unburnt hand, but she shook her head.

‘I won’t sit. Thanks, though.’ She paused a moment. ‘I don’t quite believe you on that fine part. Leod’s sent you to bed, hasn’t he?’ There was a short pause, then Osmod nodded slowly. ‘I was thinking. . .actually, could I take first watch?’ The young man looked hesitant. ‘Please?’ Athwen pressed eagerly. ‘I’ve not done anything to help in ages, really. No, cooking dinner hardly counts. Let me stay up and watch. It’s a fine night and everyone else is tired. You’ve just burned your hand and gotten explicit orders to go to bed. I’ll be sure to wake you or Dorran or Fion if anything happens. Please let me stay up.’

[Farael]

Osmod’s hand ached and throbbed. In spite of what the healer had said, he felt as if he had sunk his hand on a nest of wasps and then shaken it for good measure.

Athwen had asked to be given the first watch, to which Osmod had reluctantly agreed. He knew the girl needed to be busy to keep her mind away from the sad memories and yet Osmod did not feel comfortable putting that much responsibility on Athwen’s shoulders. She had proven herself and there was no doubt she would do her job as good as anyone else. Yet it was impossible to tell when the next trouble would arise and Osmod could only hope it would not be during Athwen’s watch. He walked to the trees near the camp to relieve himself and on the way back he kneeled just outside the circle of light projected by the fire and drew another of his signs. He prayed that it would keep them safe for the night and out of trouble. Then, he went back to his bedroll, after exchanging a few words with Athwen. He asked her to wake him up first should anything happen and not to hesitate. He doubted he would be sleeping much that night anyway.

But he was wrong. It seemed that he had just laid down when a sudden darkness took over his mind and he drifted into uncomfortable dreams. He would remember none of them, but the sad feeling would not go away, even after the sunrise.

[Undómë]

She only allowed herself a short space of time to rest. And she dared not close her eyes lest the entire night pass away. Leod had asked her to watch over his charges while he was away . . . and that she would do.

Meghan drew back her blankets and sat up. She hadn’t bothered to take off her boots and now she swung her legs out from under the covers and leveraged herself up to a standing position. Her back bone ached and she cricked her neck and flexed her spine, grimacing as the bones creaked reluctantly back to a more suitable position.

Reaching up to where her hair was fastened at the nape of her neck with a leather tie, she unbound it, and let it hang loose. It was dirty and tangled and she could barely comb her fingers through it. With an effort she managed to corral it all back from her face and to separate it into three thick strands. Her fingers flew quickly along their lengths, knitting them together into a braid.

‘’Twill have to do,’ she sighed, shrugging her shoulders. She would give anything for a long hot soak in the tub and buckets and buckets of hot water to wash her hair. Oh for some of her mother’s rose-oil soap and a thick bristled brush to scrub the layers of grime from limb and head.

Meghan shook off these indulgent thoughts, chiding herself for dawdling away her time with such selfish concerns. ‘Grab the bucket, girl!’ she told herself. ‘And get some fresh, cool water for your charges.

She nodded at Athwen, at the perimeter of the camp, as she passed by. Meghan held up her empty bucket, giving the indication that she would fill it and return directly . . .

[Tevildo]

Leod had intended to go no more than a quarter mile away from the encampment. He had the benefit of a full moon as well as the lighted torch he carried. He expected to find his supplies quickly and return to camp within the hour. Yet, after meticulously searching the surrounding forest floor, he had reluctantly concluded that the herbs and lichens he required were nowhere in sight.

The healer wanted and needed to return to his companions. What if Sythric or Brand took a turn for the worse? Leod would never forgive himself if anything should happen to them while he was away. At the same time, he remained acutely aware that he was nearly out of certain potions and herbs, remedies that were essential for treating wounds that had festered. Since he had used up the remainder of his honey paste, Leod felt he had no choice but to continue searching.

Earlier that day, just before they had turned from the trail to reach camp, Leod had noticed a winding spring that veered off the pathway and spilled down towards the south. Its damp banks would surely be a place where moss and lichen would thrive, and he would find his needed supplies. Even better, with the spring to guide him, he could not possibly get lost. The healer promised himself that, whatever happened, he would not go more than a few miles away and would hurry back within the space of two hours. Meghan was a responsible lass and would surely forgive him for her loss of sleep and would continue to keep watch over their injured companions.

Once he'd reached the stream, Leod was able to move quickly along its banks. A little more than two miles south, he discovered several large and rotting trees fallen to the ground that had moss and lichen growing on the exterior of their trunks as well as on the rocky ground beneath. The healer bent over to scoop up several handfuls and stuffed these securely inside his satchel. By now, his torch had completely extinguished, and he tossed it aside after dowsing the last sparks in the stream. Happy to have found the needed medications, and confident that he could find his way back by simply following the waterway, Leod stood up and began walking again, anxious to get back to camp to check on Sythric and Brand. He took no more than a few steps when a loop of rope came gently curling through the air and encircled his head and shoulders, tugging him towards the ground. Leod struggled to find a firm footing on the muddy bank but with no success. He toppled to the ground, hitting his head against the tree trunk and immediately fell unconscious. The sack he carried was immediately wrenched from his grasp, slipped into the water, and, carried along by the gentle current, was soon swept out of sight.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"What think you? Who is he? Is he friend or foe?" The leader of the group queried, as he paced nervously from one side of the camp to the other. Haekánoion had finally agreed to stop for a few hours. They had eaten a quick meal and spent most of their time questioning the prisoner to find out why he was slinking around on his own in the middle of the night. The unnamed man had finally collapsed and was now sleeping in a huddled ball not far from where they were talking.


"I can not tell," Airerogion responded, with a confused look written across his face. "We grilled him for two hours until he was too tired to stand upright any longer. You heard what he said. He claims to be alone, making his way to Edoras where he has kinfolk and friends. He says he is a healer and that he was out looking for herbs to replenish his supplies. But I see no bag or herbs such as a healer might carry. Perhaps he is telling the truth, but he could just as easily be a spy, someone sent out to inspect the lay of the countryside and report on poor travellers who would make a good target for a band of brigands."

"I fear you are right. It makes no sense for anyone to be slinking through the woods in the middle of the night."

The eldest in the party, a woman with soft grey eyes and long black hair streaked with silver that was tied back from her face, smiled gently, "You mean the way we were slinking about ourselves in the dark? Hard times make choices difficult and some folk act in ways they normally do not."

There was an uncomfortable silence around the circle as each Elf took in the meaning of Nevtaliel's words. This description came perilously close to their own situation. It was not their custom to lasso strangers with a rope, to press them with a hundred different questions, or to raise up their swords in a threatening gesture. Elves may prefer to tread their own path but they normally do no harm to strangers.

Nihil shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. "But what could we do? We must reach Rivendell and tell Elrond what we have seen before we depart these shores. Yet every step of the path, we are confronted by robbers or, even worse, by troops of Orcs and men from the East."

"Of one thing we can be sure," Nihil added, "this is no man from the East and no Orc." Several of the others nervously tittered, remembering with some embarassment that, in the dark, they had initially mistaken the stranger for an Easterling lord. His simple words and homespun garb had quickly proved them wrong.

Haekánoion glanced over at the silver haired woman who sat quietly by herself. "You have more to say, Nevtaliel. I can see it in your eyes."

"That I do," she affirmed. "What band of brigands sends out a member to spy who bears only a stave and a knive? Surely even brigands have the sense to arm their spy with a sword or an axe or a bow. And what spy is so inept that he stumbles into our path in the middle of a clearing, making no attempt to hide in the bushes? No, this man was deeply engrossed in something, either what he was doing or thinking. That doesn't sound like a spy."

"One other thing," she added. "I think you are right....that he is lying about something. But he is telling the truth about one important thing. This man is a healer. I questioned him about a number of herbs and simple remedies, and he knew his craft inside out. Indeed, I would say that he is not only a healer, but one of the better ones I have spoken to among the younger sons."

"Are you sure?" pressed Haekánoion. "That he is a healer."

"How could I not be sure? I have spent two ages learning my craft. I can certainly tell when I am speaking with another healer."

"That settles it then. I can not murder a healer armed with only a stave, even if he belongs to a band of brigands. We will take him with us, bound on horseback for a day or two, and then let him loose when we are far north and west from here..... That way he can do no damage."

[Arry]

In the first of day's light . . .

Brand’s mind slipped farther and farther away from the pain, to a place of rest. A cool place . . . a place in fact where he could move about freely. He slipped out from beneath his blankets and stood up. It was quiet, the fire had burned down to a few embers. Someone moved about the outskirts of the camp. Incana he thought, by her cloak and height.

Ah, good, they keep a watch . . .

Meghan was asleep, curled on her right side. In the moonlight he could see her eyelids flutter as dreams played behind them. And there was Sythric, the old war-horse a little ways beyond her. Behind where Brand stood, lay Osmod, and his face seemed set with sadness. There were others, too, sleeping in the near dawn.

His attention, though, was called away from all of them. From across the camp, someone was up and waving at him to follow. In the first fingers of light that crept westward the tall slender figure turned and moved toward the east. A fleeting, almost phantom shape slipping away beneath the bare-limbed trees.

The person turned briefly as if to see if he followed, and noting that he did hurried on. In the momentary glimpse, Brand saw it was Vaenosa. And for a moment he paused, his breath quickly drawn in at the sight of her.

How can this be? he wondered as his steps quickened to close the distance between them.

There she was . . . he could see her long, hay colored hair catch the light. Strands of it escaped the hood of her cape and floated behind her in the early morning’s breeze.

And yet, who was this who lay so still near his feet. Her delicate face was slack in repose and limp gold curls lay about the edges of it. Blue eyes stared up into the pale waking blue of the day . . . dull and sightless now, they offered him no reflection as he looked into them.

Wait! Wait! he called aloud to the disappearing woman. Wait! Where are you going?

Brand felt pulled after Vaenosa. He hurried toward her.

In the growing distance behind him he heard someone call his name . . . an indistinct sound that tickled at the edges of his consciousness and was easily shrugged away . . .

‘Brand!’ the voice called louder and now it seemed a hand was laid on him tugging at him, slowing his steps.

Wait! he called again to the lengthening shadows beneath the trees. He could no longer see her. I want to come with you! Wait!

Brand struggled to free himself from the hands and voices that held him back . . .

[Undómë]

She was sleeping only lightly, much as she would do when in the summer pastures with her flock. And it was not a noise that woke her but rather the absence of such . . . the heavy quiet.

For most of the night she had heard Brand’s breathing and the ragged gasps as he tried to turn one way or another beneath his blankets. The sounds, too, of his blankets as he pushed them up or down, or as he scrunched the small cloth bag stuffed with a few shirts beneath his head, a lumpy pillow at best.

But now there were no little movements . . . and unless she strained her ears she could barely hear his breathing.

Meghan jumped to her feet, closing the short distance between herself and Brand in a few quick steps. She knelt down beside him, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest. And often between breaths was a long silent space.

His hair and pillow were drenched. Most likely from another fever that had come upon him. But as she touched his face, pale beneath his tan, the fever had fled and a grim chilliness remained. She brushed back some damp curls from his cheeks.

‘Brand!’ she called aloud to him, shaking his arm. When there was no response she took his limp hand and chafed it between her two, trying to drive some warmth back into him. ‘Brand! Wake up!’

There was no response to her plea. She grew more alarmed.

‘Leod, Come quickly!’ she called out loudly.

[Folwren]

The sound of a voice woke Athwen before dawn had completed itself. She squinted up at the swiftly brightening and sky and wondered if she really did have to get up quite yet. She had watched for the first hour last night and when she thought she could not possibly keep her eyes open any longer she had gone and woken Osmod. After a shamefaced admittance that she had only watched for an hour but felt too tired to stay awake any longer, she’d gone to bed. Now as she woke to the morning she felt as though for once, since her village was burned, that she could sleep longer. But that wasn’t to be. The ground was lumpy and the birds were calling, and they should be on their way as soon as possible anyhow.

With a prodigious great yawn, she sat up and stretched. Then she looked about, ready to greet anybody available with a merry good morning. But there was no one available. Incana was on watch - she could see her out in the woods - Meghann was bent over Brand, looking worried and distraught, and the others still slept. It must have been Meaghan’s voice that had woken Athwen, and she felt herself go cold suddenly and without explanation. The good humour she had awoken in retreated and hid and a strange fear slowly filled her, like a small, trickling stream slowly fills a pool of rock. She pushed the blankets off of herself and stood up.

She started across the camp to go to Meghan and see if something was wrong, and if there was, if she could help. Her steps led her beside the sleeping forms of the other two wounded companions - Vaenosa and Sythric. She looked at them as she passed. Sythric seemed to still sleep as well as anyone might except but Vaenosa. . .

One glance at the young woman’s face showed Athwen that something was wrong. She quickly turned and knelt beside her and reached out her hand to touch her face.

‘She’s cold!’ The words leaped out in a startled, high voice, and her hand jerked back. A tremor ran through her body and then she touched her again. She reached for Vaenosa’s hand and felt for a pulse. There was nothing. ‘Is she dead?’ she whispered. She could certainly feel her own heart pumping hard against her ribs, but the body beside hers was still. Still and so cold. Tears came to her eyes. ‘Dead?’

A movement to her right caused her to raise her head. Meghan had gotten up to her feet and she looked scared. Athwen stared up at her.

‘She’s dead?’ Meghan asked, indicating Vaenosa with a swift, downward glance of her eyes. Athwen nodded mutely, unable to speak immediately. ‘Brand is not well, either. I think. . .’she stopped and changed her course. ‘Where is Leod?’

Athwen turned her head the other way and her eyes swept the place where he should have slept. ‘I don’t know,’ her voice said, trembling. ‘I don’t know where he is, or if he ever returned from last night. He left at the very beginning of the night - he didn’t tell me where, but I thought he’d be back. He probably had to find some more plants to help him. . .but he’s not - he’s not back.’ Her voice failed her altogether then and even if she had wanted to say anything further, she couldn’t have. Vaenosa was dead, Brand was seemed to be leaving, and Leod was gone. Would they loose all of the ones who had been wounded?

[Tevildo]

Leod lay unmoving on the ground not more than eight feet away from where the Elves were still talking. He was careful to remain motionless and tuck his head under the blanket they had given him. Underneath that cover, he could hear every word they were saying.

Last night, he had not known how to explain why he was wandering alone in the woods in the middle of the night. Looking back, he could not help but feel that it was very foolish of him to go out so far on his own, even if his need for the herbs was great. Now all he wanted to do was to protect his friends from these strange and regale creatures who were so well armed and seemingly filled with anger and suspicion. Leod had admitted to one of the Elves, a woman who had questioned him closely, that he was a healer and had gone out at night to search for the lichens that are so good in drawing out ill humors from a wound. He totally denied that he was with anyone else even after she pressed him further. She had given him a strange look and walked away.

Now that he had heard what his fate was to be, Leod did not know whether to be happy or sad. At least they had decided not to skewer him in two. But his spirits sank down to this toes as he heard that he was to be carted off to the north and let go in the middle of nowhere, many miles from his friends and the injured men and women who so desperately needed him. He simply could not accept that.

As he listened to Nevtaliel speak, a desperate plot hatched in his mind. This woman, at least, was not his enemy. Leod did not know much about Elves, had never seen one in his life, but he did know that their healers were said to possess amazing skills, far beyond the reach of mortal men.

Gathering every bit of courage that he had, Leod leapt to his feet and turned to face the Elves. "The woman is right. I am a healer, but I am also a terrible liar. My friends are camped no more than two miles from here. They are no brigands, just common folk from several villages miles north of here. One of those villages, the one that I call my home, was burned down by a pack of roving Orcs, every person in it slain but myself and one other young girl."

"We are trying to get through to Edoras to warn the King that the Orcs have begun a rampage through the countryside, and he and his Riders must stand against them, if any of us are to survive. My own folk are gravely injured. When you found me, I was trying to search for the medicine that might save them. My supplies are gravely low. We had spent the last few days fighting Orcs and Easterlings, and many were afflicted with grievous wounds. To be honest, I was a fool to leave camp. I do not even know if these wounded men and women can survive, but without me they have absolutely no chance. Already, they are burning up with fever and half out of their minds."

"Please, sirs and madame, I am not the like of you but my folk mean much to me. I have heard that Elves have wonderful ways with a healing hand. I can take you to our camp that lies no more than a few miles upstream. Perhaps you can help those who are sick and injured. Meanwhile, as we approach the camp, you may keep your knife trained on my throat. If I have lied about any of these things, slash my throat and let me fall and die. Please, great Elves, if you have any mercy, will you come and help my friends?"

Nevtaliel stooped to pick up her bag of herbs and remedies, and glanced over towards Haekanoion. He said nothing but quickly nodded his head in assent. Within a moment, all had retrieved their horses, and were cantering briskly along the bank of the stream, with Leod sitting behind one of the riders. Despite his offer, there was no knife trained upon his throat.

[Folwren]

Athwen placed Vaenosa’s hand by her side and got up quickly. She looked around the camp once again, taking into mind the people there. She saw Incana walking towards them through the trees, looking half worried, half curious about what was going on. Dorran, too, was waking up. He propped himself up on his elbow, rubbed the sleep from his eyes with one hand and then looked up at Meghan and Athwen.

“What’s going on?” he asked. Athwen took a step towards him. Her hands twisted together and she struggled to keep from crying.

“Vaenosa’s dead,” she began. Dorran sat upright. “And Brand, Meghan says, is doing very badly, too.” Dorran shot a sharp, anxious glance in the direction of Brand. Meghan had gone back to him and was kneeling beside him again. “I don’t know how Sythric is,” Athwen continued. “But. . .but Leod. . .” she stopped. Dorran looked around and upon seeing no healer, he got swiftly to his feet.

“Where is Leod?” he asked.

“I-I saw him leaving last night, scarcely after everyone had gone to bed. I was on watch and he went without saying anything.”

“He didn’t come back?” Dorran’s voice sounded sharp as he put the question.

“No. I didn’t even think about it. I kept watch for an hour, and I didn’t even consider that he should be back.” Dorran said nothing. Athwen wondered if she had done something wrong, but at the same time she thought that it wasn’t that sort of silence that Dorran kept. “I thought he was just going out to find more herbs and plants. He’s been using a lot for the wounds and he’ll need more.”

“Something must have gone wrong,” Dorran said after another moment’s pause. “He should’ve been back by now. We’ve got to find him. Without his help, neither Sythric or Brand have any hope of living.” He fastened his cloak and buckled on his sword belt as he spoke.

“Can I go with you?” Athwen asked. “Meghan can stay here and watch them. Please let me go. I know a little bit about where Leod might hope to find some of the plants he needed and I might be able to help.”

Dorran looked skeptical as he glanced down at her. “You don’t have any weapons,” he said.

“Do you think that if Leod ran into any trouble, our entire group put together would be able to get him out of it by force?” Athwen demanded. “We can’t take everyone, and even if we could, it wouldn’t do any good. Our best chance of finding anything out without getting caught or killed ourselves is to go in small numbers and without being burdened with useless weapons.”

Dorran agreed after a moment, and then, after explaining what they were going to do to Osmod, Fion, Incana, and Meghan, the two of them set off in the direction that Athwen had seen Leod leave the previous evening. Neither of them knew anything about tracking, so they could only continue walking in the direction that they guessed he had gone, traveling as quietly and as carefully as they could while straining their eyes and ears for any sight or sound of the healer.

Their search had been fruitless for nearly three quarters of an hour. Athwen was about to despair when Dorran set his hand suddenly on hers in a cautious, silent warning. She looked up at him, and his finger was pressed against his mouth, bidding silence. His eyes were slowly scanning the trees and foliage and she turned to look in the same direction. In a moment, she heard what he had - the sound of horses forging their way through fallen leaves and low or fallen branches. The two looked at each other, and then with a silent nod of the head, Dorran started towards the sound. Athwen followed close behind.

In a little while of walking as quietly as possible and keeping behind as many trees as were available, the two of them soon caught sight of the group of mounted elves. Dorran and Athwen came to a halt. Athwen scarcely dared to breath as she watched them come nearer. Then she felt Dorran tug on her sleeve and she looked down to see him crouching behind a wide tree. She joined him quickly.

The elves came nearer and nearer and soon their faces were visible. Athwen bent towards Dorran and dared a low whisper. “Were they the ones who stopped him, do you think?”

He nodded slowly. “I see him riding behind one now.” She turned to look and sure enough, there was the elderly healer, riding behind the saddle of one of the elves.

“Well, let’s go, then,” she said. Athwen had always been impulsive and this appeared to be no exception. Neglecting even to look at Dorran to see if he shared her point of view, she jumped up directly to her feet and started forward at a hurried trot. “Leod! Hullo!” she called out, waving her hand to catch their attention. “Stop, please! We need help!”

[Undómë]

Meghan barely realized that Dorran and Athwen had left camp. She turned back to Brand and slumped down beside him. Weariness overwhelmed her. Weariness and a great sadness. His hand was very cold as she picked it up and held it against her cheek.

‘You cannot die,’ she began. ‘I’m not done talking to you. There are many more stories you haven’t heard. And I’ve heard very few of yours. You cannot take my stories with you and leave me none of your own.’

She rocked back and forth a little, humming an old tune. Her fingers reached, unthinking, for her pipe, forgetting for a moment that she had thrown it on Rædwald’s pyre. ‘And if you’re bound from this world, you cannot take my songs. I've lost my pipe. I cannot lose my songs altogether. How will I sing my flock to sleep? You cannot take their comfort from them.’

Meghan lay his hand on her knee and knuckled her eyes, not that there were tears to be dealt with; just the feeling beyond all tiredness that hope had fled. The flats of her hands pressed in against her cheeks, trying to rub some warmth into them.

I wish I were on yonder hill
'Tis there I'd sit and I'd cry my fill,
And ev'ry tear would turn a mill,
And a blessing walk with you, my love

She sang softly, leaning in close to him. Her eyes scanned his pale face for any sign that he might hear her.

Shule (http://www.a-cappella.com/catalog/file/17706/anuna-04-siuil.mp3), shule, shule aroon
Shule go succir agus, shule go kewn;
Shule go dheen durrus oggus aylig lume,
And a blessing walk with you, my love.

His hair shines gold and his eyes are blue
His arms are strong and his words are true
In my heart I’ll always be with you
And a blessing walk with you, my love.

Shule, shule, shule aroon
Shule go succir agus, shule go kewn;
Shule go dheen durrus oggus aylig lume,
And a blessing walk with you, my love.

Come, come, come O love,
Quickly come to me, softly move,
Come to the door and away we'll flee,
And safe forever may my darling be.

Shule, shule, shule aroon
Shule go succir agus, shule go kewn;
Shule go dheen durrus oggus aylig lume,
And a blessing walk with you . . . my love . . .

Meghan’s voiced trailed off . . . he lay so still . . .

‘You cannot go, Brand . . . how will I follow?’

[Nogrod]

Farael's post

Osmod asked Fion to get some water boiling and then run to the river to refill the water-skins. The young lad asked Incana for help and the two hurried off, knowing that Leod would need water to clean the wounds and to prepare his potions. Walking then to Meghan, Osmod kneeled by her side and waited patiently as she spoke softly to Brand’s ear. Her words he could not tell, but the meaning was clear. When she finally seemed to have stopped talking, Osmod gently took Meghan’s hand in his, hoping to comfort her slightly. She turned around, looking upset –or was it his imagination? - Yet even if she was, she had recently lost a life-long friend and now Brand seemed to be loosing his fight as well. She had her reasons. Osmod felt guilty for interrupting yet he knew that if Leod was to come back and save Brand and Sythric, he’d need to have everything ready. Perhaps it would even be good for Meghan to be a busy as well.

“I am sorry Meghan that I need to ask this of you right now, yet you are the one who knows best what our healer will need when he gets here. I have already sent Fion and Incana to bring us as much water as they can; now we only need to prepare Leod’s potions and unguents and pray he gets back here soon enough to use them. You know what he will need better than myself, I will stay here by Brand’s side and look over him if you wish.”

Trying his most reassuring smile, he placed his hand on Brand’s forehead to see if the man had a fever, which he clearly had. Then he busied himself on arranging the covers so that the man would not be cold. Osmod did not look up to see if Meghan was still by Brand’s side.

---------------------

Nogrod's post

Sythric was once again back at his little stream at Skara. His life seemed to revolve around it in many ways. He had lived in many different buildings at Skara, he had lived in Croacht for 15 years, he had travelled across the Wold, but still that little stream beside the fields of Skara held him deeply tied to it. It had been there before he was born and it would be there after he would die.

He had served the riders for a full year and been granted his first leave. Three weeks it was to be. He had spent a couple of days with his friends at Croacht just to celebrate their first year and then gotten back to Skara. He was sixteen and it was the first night at home. The big party was to be held the next day, so Sythric had been allowed to have some time by himself, at the stream as he wished. All the family knew its meaning to him.

Sythric sat on a rock by the small watermill as she came towards him. Aescwyn was the girl from the neighbouring farmstead. They had known each other from childhood, but it had been only less than two years ago that Sythric had really gotten a crash on her. He had dreamt of her nights and days, imagining what it would be like to hold her in his arms or to kiss her. But she had been promised to a certain lad called Beorthsige, an annoying son of a local trader. Good marriage that was, to be sure, but it made Sythric bitter as a lemon. And she had never answered his feelings.

But now she was there, her light dress shining in the moonlight. She stepped on to the plane beside the wheel of the watermill, and walked towards him. Then she stopped on the planks just a few yards away from him, two feet above the waterline. “Well Rico, what a surprise!” she called him, smiling kiddingly. “Or can I call you that any more now that you are a real rider of Rohan? And you are growing a beard! Well, you must be a man now...”, she added and smiled a conspirational smile. Sythric was totally at loss about what to do or say.

Up to this day Sythric hadn’t conclusively figured it out, whether what followed was actually an accident or a deliberate plan of Aescwyn. Anyhow, she staggered on the planks and fell. Before she had touched the surface of the water, Sythric was on his feet and rushing towards her. He jumped after her to the water and grabbed her into his arms, helping her up. The water was just waist-deep. He surely had known that, but as he had been acting on instinct, he hadn’t come to think about it.

There they stood in each others arms totally soaked. Sythric felt so ashamed that he tried to avoid Aescwyn’s eyes, but he didn’t let go of her either. She held tight to him as well. Then she started laughing and in a moment Sythric was laughing too. While laughing, they both took a bit firmer hold of each other. Sythric remembered how her body felt pressing tightly against his even now.

This should not be, but still this is just how it should be, he thought to himself when the laugher finally died off. They were staring at each others eyes now quite intensively, trying to read the other mind. “This should be...” Aescwyn whispered quietly, leaning carefully against Sythric’s shoulder. “I was thinking about the same thing Aescwyn”, Sythric whispered to her ear with a sad smile, fondling her hair tenderly. Aescwyn raised her head up and met his gaze. Slowly their faces drew nearer each other.

That kiss Sythric had remembered all his life. He remembered her scent, her body pressing onto his, the feeling of her lips against his, the wet fingers running at his back, the chill that run over him from tip to the toe making his feet waver...


“Vaenosa’s dead”, he heard the words through his dreams. Vaenosa’s dead? His mind was struggling to get itself conscious. “Where is Leod?” Dorran? Why are you asking for Leod, where is he, what has happened? His mind was trying to cope with the cryptical real life sentences and the all-embracing world of dreams and memories. “Something must have gone wrong”, he heard Dorran say, and then it was images again. Vaenosa was running uphill with the easterling trailing her, ready to kill her in an instant. Sythric remembered spurring Thydrë to do her best, he remembered lowering Raedwald’s lance to a charging position. Vaenosa’s dead!

“Shule, shule, shule aroon...”

The song entered Sythric’s mind, at last waking him up to full consciousness. He opened his eyes and saw Meghan singing at Brand’s side. Brand looked pale indeed. A dying man... The thought of Brand dying, the beauty of Meghan’s song and the painful expression on her face brought tears to Sythric’s eyes and cold shivers were going through his body.

He noted that Incana was tending the horses and Fion was boiling water at the fireside. Osmod was sitting by the fire too, looking grim, his hand was bandaged with a linen. Now what has happened? But he couldn't see either Dorran or Athwen? Where are they? Where is Leod? Meghan had stopped singing and the only voice loud enough to enter his consciousness were the crackles of the fire. He carefully adjusted himself, raising to sitting position and leaning towards the rock behind him. Meghan noticed him moving and looked at him with concern.

“Meghan!”, he called her. “Be brave my friend. You will accomplish the task we were sent for and save our people. We should not let him die in vain!” His gaze wandered around to meet Vaenosa’s body lying some feet left from him. “Or her...”, he half-whispered.

[Tevildo]

"Whoa! Stop, good master Elf!" cried out Leod. "Tis one of my companions I spoke about, the young lass who came from the same village where I lived."

As the lead Elf drew up his horse and the others came to a halt, the older healer slipped hastily from the saddle and ran forward to embrace the young woman, so excited was he to know that camp was within a few paces. Seeing Dorran run out from the bushes, he gave him another welcoming embrace and gestured to the Elves that they should follow down the pathway, since the camp lay only a short distance away.

To Dorran and Athwen, Leod quickly explained, "I went out to gather herbs, but my foolish blundering in the middle of the night caused these good folk to question who I was. But after the confusion was straightened out, they agreed to bring me back to camp. But tell me now, how is everyone? Do Brand and Sythric still cling to life? And how fares Vaenosa and the others who are ill? I cannot tell you how worried I was to be away."

Athwen and Dorran glanced nervously at each other, and at first said nothing. It was Dorran who finally explained, "Sythric hangs on as before. But with the others...... "

"Go on lad, spit it out!"

"Vaenosa has lost her battle. The wounds took her no more than an hour ago."

"But how can this be?" countered Leod. "For I knew not that she was so ill." A horrible feeling afflicted the healer in the pit of his stomach as he wondered whether the girl might have lived if he had stayed in camp.

Out loud, he said only this: "And Brand, how does he fare? I pray that he still lives."

"Aye, he lives but barely. Leod, is there nothing you can do to help? Perhaps some new remedies to help him fight?"

Hearing that the others still lived and were in desperate need of aid, Leod pushed back his guilt over Vaenosa's death and concentrated on the immediate problem. "Dorran, there is hope, if only a tiny glimmer. For I have brought with me one whose skills as a healer surpass my own paltry efforts by a considerable amount."

Turning about to the Elves he called, "Come now. Hurry! One of my friends lies ill in desperate straits....."

[Child of the 7th Age]

The Elves rode forward to the small encampment and quickly dismounted from their horses. Haekánoion walked over by the firepit, bowed to those about, and slowly began to speak, "I bid you welcome and beg your pardon. We have wrongly held your healer in our camp as we did not know if he might be someone sent out by a group of bandits to do us harm."

"Our only excuse for this shabby treatment is that we have faced much hardship and violence on these roads the past few week. We were visiting the shores to the south, where our folk once lived, and then went on to Minas Tirith carrying a dispatch from Master Elrond." The Elf did not mention the strange stares and hostile remarks they had encountered from Men in these places who had forgotten the goodness of the Elves.

Everywhere we went, we found enemies with sharp weapons, especially on the road to the east of Minas Tirith. We have fought bandits and men from the South and worst of all, a group of Orcs. Never have we seen so many foul vermin out on the road. It is as if the whole world is on the move, and something evil and of great import is about to happen."

With a sigh, the Elf continued, "Now we must hurry back to Rivendell and tell master Elrond what we have seen. For many of our folk feel that the time has come to depart these shores forever as a great change is at hand. And they await word from us as to what is happening in the outside world."

"My name is Haekánoion and this is my wife Nevtaliel, a healer. Here is our son Lindir, and two young companions, Nihil and Maeghith. We have come with Leod to ask your forgiveness for our mistake, and to inquire if we may be of any help. Leod mentioned that there are those in camp gravely ill and now we have heard that you have lost one of these just last night. There is too much sadness in these times. We can not work magic, but my wife is a healer of great skill. Could she see those who are injured to try and help? And perhaps my sons and his friends could help you in constructing a cairn for the one who died?

[Nogrod]

Sythric seemed to be the first to notice the sound. As a rider he was used to picking that one from all the others. Even as the sound was faint, there was no chance of mistake. Horses, and they are coming straight towards us, and not only one or two... “Horses coming! Quick now everyone! Get to your horses, run away! Leave me and Brand here!” He turned a bit to face the direction where the rumble of the hooves was coming from. Now they were loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Fion! Throw my bow and arrows to me. I may have strength for one or two shots. That might slow them down a bit”. Sythric tried to get up, turning around and taking a grasp from the rock he had been leaning towards. He tried to pull himself on top of it. “C’mon Fion, no time to waste!”, he shouted and forcibly pulled himself up the side of the rock.

But then he heard a familiar voice from under the now thundering hooves. It was Dorran calling them! Good earth!, he gasped and let his grasp loose, just leaning to the rock with his face against it. “It’s Dorran, and Athwen! ... And, could they be? They must be elves!”, he heard Fion shouting enthusiastically. Sythric was too tired from his sudden effort to either properly rise up or to set down. But he heard an elf talking, introducing himself as Haekánoion and telling about them and their fortunes. There is an elven healer here! Brand might be saved! Then he suddenly felt the pain again. His eyes went black for a while and he lost his hearing too. He saw his dearest stream once again, but just for a second. He came back to awareness of the general hassle around. Osmod was talking something to the elves. There were sounds of footsteps and a hum of voices all around...

[Farael]

Clip…clop….clip….clop…

The sound of horses, riding towards the camp. There weren’t enough men to resist; the wounded would be easy pray for the easterlings. They could only sit back and wait, and hope that the riders moved along worried about their own business. But they did not. Thankfully, at the head of the column were Athwen and Dorran, who seemed to be leading a peculiar group of strangers. Osmod could not believe his eyes, but there was no mistaking the shine in their eyes, those raiders were elves. They unmounted and introduced themselves, apologising for the treatment they had given Leod overnight. Then they offered help, and Osmod knew that in spite of the stories he had been told of elven witches casting nets of shadows that swallowed full companies of men who happened to wander close to their territories, they were the group’s only hope.

At once the healer among them set to work on the wounded while the rest of them helped build a cairn for Vaenosa and preparing her for her last rest. Osmod wanted to help but he was awed and at the same time scared of these strange people. They were so much like him and yet so distinctly different, he felt like a beggar dragged on to the court of a mighty king. Their movements were soft and smooth while Osmod felt slow and sloppy, and their voices barely rose from a whisper and yet he could hear them clearly. For a moment, Osmod felt as if he was back on his grandmother’s house, listening to her stories by the fire. But then the moment was over and there was still work to do, elves or not they’d need his help if they were ever to move on from that awful place and to the golden halls.

[Undómë]

‘Begging your pardon, ma’am.’ Meghan stepped quietly up near to Nevtaliel’s side. She spoke in a low voice, not wanting to interrupt the talk between Haekánoion and Osmod. She reached out a hand as if to pluck at the Elven lady’s sleeve, then thought better of it. She did not wish to offend by placing her rough skinned, dirt-stained hand on the Elf-fabric.

‘My . . . friend . . . is very ill. Will you come see him first?’ Meghan motioned to where Brand lay. ‘He has a wound in his left shoulder, a deep wound from an Easterling’s blade. Leod has done as best he might with it. But still it festers and he’s run high fevers.’ She swallowed her fright that he might die, trying to give the Elvish healer a picture of how he had been and how he was now. ‘But he’s gone all cold now. And barely breathing. And where he used to open his eyes at times, now they are closed mostly.’ Her voice broke a little as she went on. ‘Sometimes they do flutter open . . . but it’s as if he stares far off to someplace I can’t see . . . someplace where I no longer am.’

‘Please . . . come see to him.’ Her hand reached out and briefly touched the Elvish woman’s arm.

‘Shall I fetch you something . . . warm water, clean rags? Whatever you might need, I can get them for you . . .’

[Child of the 7th Age]

Nevtaliel looked gently at Undómë and smiled, "I will be glad to do what I can. I am no worker of magic, but perhaps I can do something to help." The Elf could not help but notice the dark rings under the woman's eyes and the strained look on her face. She obviously cared deeply for the young man whose wounds she had tended, who now lay silent and huddled on the ground.

Kneeling down beside the injured man, the Elf glanced over at the woman, "There is something you may do for me, but first you must tell me your name and the name of the young man who lies before me."

Upon hearing the response, she handed the girl a small packet of herbs, "Meghan, be very careful with this. I have but six leaves and all are precious, since this herb does not grow in these parts. It comes from Gondor and places even further distant. Since your healer now sits with the others who are injured and tends their wounds, you will need to help me with Brand and the other man who is most seriously injured."

She then went on to explain, "You must place one leaf in a small pot over the fire, grind it into tiny pieces, and stir the pieces into the water. Heat the mixture until the brew is steaming. Then, bring the pot back to me and do the same with a second leaf. I think I will need at least two for Brand, and two for your other friend so you must make four pots in all. And while you are working with the herbs, send someone else back with a bowl of warm water and clean rags. The others in camp will not need such strong remedies. We will wait till later to tend to their wounds."

"Go now, while I remove Brand's bandage and have a closer look at the wound. Hurry back as quickly as you can. I fear there is little time."

[Tevildo]

Dorran

Dorran was about to join the younger Elves and a few of his own companions who were constructing a cairn for Vaenosa's body. But just as he was prepared to leave camp with the others to search for large stones, he ran into Meghan who whispered a request in his ear. Dorran ran to fetch a bowl of hot water and and secure a number of clean rags and bandages from Leod's satchel. Then he hurried back to where the Elvish healer knelt beside Brand's body, offering her the water and the cloths.

"Ma'm, begging your pardon, but I hope you will try and do what you can. He is a good and decent man. He's really been the heart of our group, and there's no way we would have made it this far without Brand." He looked curiously over at Nevtaliel and gathering all his courage asked, "Do you think that you will be able to save him?"

[Undómë]

Meghan was careful to follow the Elven woman’s instructions about the leaves. As she stirred each one carefully into their own little pots of water, she sniffed at the fingers with which she’d crushed them. There was a sharp, clean smell that lingered on her fingertips . . . a deep smell, redolent of the sort one gets when a storm is about to break over the fields and the air is heavy, pregnant with the scent of promised rain. The aroma lifted her spirit a little, giving her some small measure of hope.

She left two of the pots of leaf-brew near the fire to keep warm, instructing Incana not to let anyone touch them until the Elven healer called for them. The other two she hurried back with to Nevtaliel, careful not to spill a single precious drop.

As she neared where the Elven woman knelt down by Brand, she heard Dorran’s question. ‘Do you think that you will be able to save him?’ Meghan’s breath caught in her chest as she stopped short, fearing what the healer might say in response.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Nevtaliel smiled at Dorran, now kneeling beside her, and gazed pointedly over his shoulder at Meghan, who had approached bearing pots in her hands. With a sigh the Elf conceded, "I hope it may be so, but I can not promise. We must first bathe Brand's wound in this mixture and then place the second pot close by that he may smell its goodness. Sometimes, the sweetness of the herb works immediately, and a patient will wake up, almost as though cured of the illness or wound. Other times, signs of healing come very slowly after many hours. And sometimes, I am afraid, the injury or sickness has spread too far and, no matter what we do, there is no healing, not even with the kingsfoil, at least not within the bounds of Arda."

"But do not show me such long, worried faces. These will not help your friend. This herb and my own skill are important, but they can not do the job alone. Your faith and belief in Brand are just as important. There is much in the hearts of Elves and Men we do not understand. Perhaps even as your friend lies stricken, seemingly asleep, waging a battle against the dark shadows, he can sense your support and love, and it encourages him to fight on. My people call this estel. All other hope fades away; you stand on the edge of a great chasm with no other place to turn. It seems nothing in Arda can help, yet you refuse to give in. This is the kind of hope you must nurture in your heart."

With those words, Nevtaliel turned away for a minute. Looking out into the night, she whispered a soft plea to Estë, the healer of the Valar who dresses in grey, to bring peace to the wounded and afflicted, and all those who walked within this camp. Then the Elf bathed and dressed Brand's wounds and placed the pot of sweet-smelling herbs close by that he might draw in their goodness. Finishing with her job, she stood up and instructed Meghan to keep watch over Brand, while she went over to help Leod with Sythric.

[Arry]

For what seemed an endless space of time Brand followed after Vaenosa. Her footsteps faded beneath the long rows of leafless trees; her figure disappeared in the interwoven shadows of the branches. Someone had called to him, touched his arm as if to make him turn. He had pulled away. And when he looked back there was no one to be seen.

It was the breezes in this dark land that made him pause. They bore on their airs an enticing scent. A clean, sweet scent that made him turn, reminding him of all that was good and bright in his life; all that was graceful.

A face from the old stories his great-grandfather told loomed over him. She was tall and beautiful in form. The day’s light backlit her fair features, throwing them into soft shadows, and he could feel her hands working at his wound. Gently, firmly.

He could hear her soft-spoken words as she gave instruction to others, too, who were at his side. He thought to turn, to look at them, but the Elven woman’s presence caught and held his full attention.

Then she stood up, and just as quickly as she had come, slipped away from him. The scent she’d brought lingered about him, undiminished. Someone else slipped down beside him; other hands adjusted his covers. A familiar touch stroked the side of his face as another’s words slid into his thoughts.

‘Brand!’ he heard his name called.

His throat was quite parched and it was with some difficulty he rasped out a few words. ‘I’m here. I’m here. Just let me sleep for a while . . .’

[Tevildo]

Leod leapt up and hurried towards the Elven healer, lowering his voice to speak privately with her. "Thank goodness you are here, Nevtaliel. I am at my wits end with Sythric. At least with Brand, I understood what ailed him, even though my herbs were powerless to heal his wounds."

"For the most part, it appears that Sythric's wound is healing. Only there is still one area of redness. Let me show you. But, in truth, it is not the wound that worries me the most. Sythric has been slipping in and out of conciousness for the past two days. I have heard him mutter to himself as if wrestling with a great demon in dreams. Yet I do not understand why this should be so, since his fever is not high."

He led Nevtaliel over to where Sythric was still on his knees, leaning against a great stone and embracing it with his hands. Sythric's cheek was pressed against its jagged surface. He was breathing heavily but slowly. There was a fresh blood stain on his jerkin, although only a spot or two. What was more upsetting was that Sythric's eyes were wide open, yet he seemed oblivious to all that was going on about him.

"I don't understand," mumbled Leod. "He is conscious and awake, yet it is as if something tugs at his mind and pulls him down into dark shadows. He stares out at the camp but sees none of us. Still, in another minute or two, he will pull himself out of this state and begin to talk and act much more normally, though very tired and in considerable pain."

"I have never seen a man act like this. Can you tell me what is wrong?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

Nevtaliel listened carefully to Leod's description of Sythric's behavior. It reminded her of another Elf she had cared for some years ago when she and her husband had journeyed to the East. The Elf they had encountered on the road was acting in a manner almost identical to that described by the human healer: slipping in and out of a strange dreamlike state. And, like Sythric, this Elf had fallen prey to the weapon of an Easterling, a sharp curved blade that had gashed him in the leg.

"I am not certain about your friend." the Elven healer replied. "But I do have one idea. Let me examine the man more closely." By this time Sythric had let go of the rock and settled back on the ground, his face riddled with exhaustion and pain. He did not pull back when Nevtaliel extended her hand and gently stroked his brow.

"Leod, Dorran had already mentioned to me that your group had fought for the entire day, and that you had to stitch up the wounds in evening, with very little light other than that provided by the smoldering coals in the firepit. You could barely see what you were doing."

Leod nodded mutely in agreement, a look of discomfort flitting across his face as he remembered thinking that he could not do his best work if he could not see the wounds properly.

"You did the best you could in trying circumstances," Nevtaliel added reassuringly. "No one could ask for more. And you had no idea of the devious weapons that the Easterlings employ. Now go over to the campfire and collect the two pots that Meghan has prepared and bring them back to me. While you are gone, I am going to pull out your stitches and have a look at the wound again. If my guess is right, there may still be a tiny sliver from the blade left inside. I'll try and explain then what I think has happened."

Carefully, Nevtaliel removed the stitches and peered closely at the wound. She took a pointed silver probe from her bag and cautiously searched about. It took her several minutes of close inspection. The small fragment was not easy to find, and it was no wonder that Leod had neglected to see it in the grey shadows of the campfire. She removed the piece and set it on the ground being careful not to touch it.

When Leod came back, he looked down in embarassment to see a small fragment of the blade that had broken off. Impulsively, he reached out to touch it but was immediately stopped by the Elf. "No, you mustn't. Have Dorran or one of the others dig a small pit to dispose of it at the edge of the camp. We must cover it over for it can still do great harm to whoever comes upon it."

She then went on to explain, "You see, it is the custom of some Easterlings to poison the tip of their swords and spears and even to have them constructed in such a way that a minute fragment breaks off once the weapon enters the skin. That tiny piece of metal is smeared with a deadly ungent that brings not healing but a slow and painful death. Now that this fragment is gone, I shall clean the wound with the kingsfoil mixture and put another steaming pot of the herb near Sythric so that he may take in its healing scent. Other than that, Leod, we can only wait and hope. Only time will tell if Sythric is strong enough to battle the ill effects of the poison. Even now the foul stuff is coursing through his body. There is nothing that I can do to stop that. But at least the source of the evil has been removed. He is the one who must struggle with the shadow and pull himself back to life."

"I would not be surprised to see his condition worsen tonight. By morning, the poison should have done its worst, and we will know whether or not he will return to life."

[Undómë]

The atmosphere about the little camp was subdued. Try as it might, the late autumn’s sunlight could not drive away the pall of apprehension that clung to the company. An unvoiced question added further concern to the already apprehensive group. What would happen if the two wounded men could not ride soon. Would the group break apart, with some going on to Edoras and some staying behind? Or would the whole company stay together until all could travel on?

Brand seemed to be doing better. But he had seemed so before and then worsened to a perilous level. Meghan sat by his side for the greater part of the day, and only at the urging of the Elven healer took some rest.

A close eye, too, was being kept of Sythric. His wound was well-dressed and had seemingly slowed in its tendency to bleed. But Nevtaliel had said that despite her arts, the poison from the Easterling’s weapon must run its course. And that their only hope was that he was strong enough to fight its effects.

Meghan had offered her small pouch of dried meat to Fion and Incana who were making a kettle of soup for the midday and evening meal. Others of the companions had offered up some of their own provisions and a savory broth had been made with bits of meats and some edible tubers which others of the group had been able to find. The soup grew more enticing as the day went on and more bits of meat and vegetables were added to it.

In the early evening, Meghan woke from the much needed nap she had taken. Not meaning to of course . . . she had only thought to close her eyes for a few moments. She woke with a start, the air having grown a little colder as the sun progressed in its downward arc. Sitting up, she stretched her back, trying to work the kinks from it.

Fion sat beside Brand, and nodded at her as she looked his way. He flicked his eyes toward the sleeping figure and then pointed to the empty bowl lying near him. Meghan shivered, a small sliver of excitement racing up her spine at the thought that Brand must be getting better, as he had eaten some of the soup.

She looked over to where Sythric lay. ‘How does he fare? Has he been awake at all?’ she asked one of the companions who sat near the older man.

[Folwren]

The day had been long and wearying, on both body and mind. Athwen felt exhausted as she sat beside Sythric who now slept. She could not exactly account for the weary feeling, for she had really done surprisingly little. There had been nothing for her to do, except for keep the fire going, prepare food, and sometimes lug water. That job was often given to Osmod, Fion, or Dorran, who could all carry quite a bit of water far more easily than Athwen.

Meghan had dozed off some time before supper. No one woke her. The wounds were all bandaged and looked after, nothing else had to be done, and she needed the sleep. A quiet settled over the camp. People said very little. Athwen and Dorran prepared the evening meal with silence between them. Brand woke long enough to eat some of the watery soup and then went back to sleep. Sythric did not come back to consciousness.

Athwen sat with her knees drawn up and one hand looped around them. Her other hand held a warm cup in her hand with steam rising out of it. She sat close to Sythric, watching for any change in his sleeping while at the same time, observed the sky changing colors and growing darker.

Meghan stirred nearby and then slowly sat up. She looked about her, blinking the sleep away, first glancing towards Brand and then to Sythric. Her eyes settled on Athwen. ‘How does he fare? Has he been awake at all?’ she asked.

Athwen shrugged slightly. ‘No, he hasn’t woken. I don’t know how he does. He seems to sleep peaceably enough. . .but I can not read a fellow’s health by his sleeping face.’ She looked at Sythric. Surely she would know, she thought. If his face held any trace of pain or uncomfortable sleep, she would know. ‘You slept quite a while,’ she went on, turning back to Meghan. ‘Would you like some tea? And there is soup left for you. I made sure that not all of it was eaten.’

[Undómë]

‘I would like some tea,’ Meghan said, giving a thankful smile to Athwen. ‘Soup later, I think.’ She yawned and stretched, trying to work the kinks from her back.

She watched as Athwen fetched her a cup of steaming tea and took it gratefully from the woman’s hand. The heat of it warmed her cold fingers. Her gaze was drawn to the other side of the fire where the Elves were gathered.

‘They move with such grace, don’t they?’ She put down her tea and rubbed her hands together, feeling how rough they were. The healer’s hands, Nevtaliel, had been soft and smooth when they’d touched her own in passing. ‘I suppose they’ll be leaving when the sun rises. That is,’ she looked at Sythric and then to Brand, ‘if they do not worsen.’

Meghan turned her thoughts to what would happen once they got to Edoras. It was only a three-day ride to the King’s Hall. And then what would happen, she wondered. She’d given very little thought to how she would find her family, her village.

She felt a twinge of guilt recalling that at least she had a village and a family somewhere, while Athwen had no one to find, no home to return to. ‘Athwen, what do you think you will do once we’ve reached the King and delivered our message?’ Meghan leaned forward a considering look on her face. ‘You’d be more than welcome, you know, to come live with my brother’s family and me . . . in Bregoware.’

[Tevildo]

Leod sat down beside the fire and wearily stretched out his legs, ladelling out a generous bowl of soup. It was the first time he had eaten anything in over a day. At least things were ending slightly better than when they had first begun. There were already signs that Brand would recover, and even Sythric had managed to sleep peacefully without any of the troubling dreams that had disturbed him before.

Even with the Elves in camp, Leod had been busy most of the day, running between Brand and Sythric to check on their condition as well as rebandaging the wounds of those less seriously injured. Since Athwen and Meghan had shouldered so much of the burden, he had still managed to snatch a few hours of sleep, enough to keep him going. He needed to thank the women for their steadfast help and to say a word of appreciation to Nevtaliel and the other Elves. Without the Elven healer, both Brand and Sythric would most certainly have died.

Leod glanced up to see Dorran approaching. The young man squatted down next to him, offering a mug of tea. "They'll make it?," Dorran immediately queried.

"With luck, yes. At least they have a much better chance now."

"Leod, do you know what herb Nevtaliel used? The one that smelled so pleasant.... I saw her bathe the wounds with it and also place a steaming bowl beside both Sythric and Brand."

"Ah, that. Yes, you could smell it through the whole camp. It carried such a sweet odor, like a bank of newborn flowers in spring or a strand of pine trees after the rain. Sorry son, but I don't know the name of it. And I believe Elves like to guard some secrets carefully so I will not press them. But I have heard tales of a potent herb brought from across the sea in ages long ago. And I suspect that may have something to do with it. It is said that the healers of Gondor once knew the secret as well. I am only glad that the Elves came when they did. My own skills were too meager to help." Leod's voice sounded almost wistful.

Dorran reached out and affectionately pummelled the older healer on the shoulder. "Your skills are fine. Any of the Rohan villages would be lucky to get you. Do you plan to settle in Edoras? Or is there any chance we could lure you back to Wulfham, once things settle down?"

"I am not sure yet. Perhaps I'll have a talk with some of the Riders I used to serve and see where the need is greatest. But it is kind of you to say that, and I will definitely keep it in mind."

"Look here now," added Leod, pointing over towards the six Elves who had just remounted their horses. "It looks as if our guests plan to leave tonight." Leod pointed towards Nevtaliel and beckoned her to come over. "But stay till the morning. Surely you don't want to travel in the darkness?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

"But that is often our way, kind sir," responded Nevtaliel, "to go abroad by moonlight that we may travel undisturbed. Our party must leave. Our job here is ended. The cairn has been built, and I have done what I could to aid your friends. The rest lies within their own will and in the skilled nursing they will receive from you and the women who assist you. My husband and I hurry back to Rivendell where Lord Elrond awaits us. For we have much to say and show that can only be done face to face."

"But do not look so sad, Leod. You are a good healer. There is no reason to hang your head in shame. If your hand had not been here before mine, there would have been no patients who needed care. And, just like you, there are countless times when I must admit defeat and watch someone slip from life, unable to do more than console and grieve. Such is the lot of a healer."

"But you and your friends have also given us a gift. We travelled long on the road and, everywhere we went, met with much suspicion and odd looks from those who are our younger kin. But the men and women in this camp made me remember that we are all children of the One. I thank you for that reminder, especially since we first treated you harshly."

Then, she offered Leod a large packet, explaining to him what was inside, "I have stocked this with all the herbs you will need for the remainder of the trip and beyond, for my own satchel is filled to overflowing. And, beyond that, I have given you two precious leaves of the type I used on Sythric and Brand. They are dried and will last some time. Guard them well! Someday, when you find yourself in a grievous situation, you may wish to try them. Part of the cure lies in the hands and heart of the healer so I can not promise you what will happen, but perhaps they may be of some help. Memorize the shape and pattern of the leaf. Some say herbs like these still grow in certain places on middle-earth where the sons of Numenor touched their feet to the ground."

There were final goodbyes all around, and Leod bowed in thanks at the rich gift he had received from the Elven woman. Then the six Elves filed out of camp, heading north, and had soon disappeared from view.

[Folwren]

Meghan made the same offer that Dorran had. Athwen was inclined to smile, but she didn’t. They were all so kind and wanting to give help. But she didn’t know how to answer. She couldn’t answer. She didn’t think there was any way to without knowing what lay ahead. Then, before she could think of someway to say this, the elves began making their farewells. The two girls rose and said goodbye with bows and they all watched the elves silently leave the camp.

When they had disappeared into the gathering gloom, Meghan and Athwen sat down again. Athwen drew her legs up and once more wrapped her arms about her knees. She looked at Meghan, laying her cheek against her knees.

“I do not know what I am going to do when I reach Edoras,” she said. “Life is so different for me now. I really don’t know what choices I have left. You offer me a home with your people, but you don’t know if they’ll be there. We don’t know if anyone that you all knew will be there. Besides, there’s war now, and I don’t think that any of us will really be able to decide anything until it’s over and you can return to your normal lives. I can really only decide what to really do then. . . when all this is over.”

She stopped and turned her head, resting her chin now on her knees and staring at the fire. “It’s hard to look ahead when everything is so uncertain, Meghan,” she said quietly. “You, at least, have something to live for and hope for. Your family may still be alive, and all your friends. You rode to save them. You have a future before you, and don’t have to start completely anew. I don’t know what I’m going to do. That is why I can not accept immediately your invitation.” She turned her head again and looked at Meghan. “I hope you understand. I don’t know how to explain why I cannot accept. I don’t want to say anything until I know at least something of what might happen, and right now, there is a thick veil over everything past the next moment.”

She stopped abruptly and turned her face away suddenly. There was a long pause before she spoke again. “Dorran’s said nearly the same thing, too, you know,” she said, her voice rather thick. “You all want to help and I love you for it. I feel, though, that I’ve been a burden since I was found. I wonder if they hadn’t found me and taken time to gather my dead family and friends and gone on instead if they wouldn’t have been attacked. Perhaps Vaenosa wouldn’t have died, and maybe Brand and Sythric would be in no danger of following her. And. . .and even Raedwald. . .” Her voice broke completely and she came to a stop, unable to go any further. She knew for a fact now that Meghan wouldn’t know what to think, and she wondered why she had even gone on so long.

[Arry]

Undómë's post

‘It’s admirable,’ Meghan began, ‘that you think you must feel some sense of responsibility in the happenings that have brought us to this pass. Admirable . . . but wrong, I think.’ She shifted her position about so she could look full on at Athwen. ‘It wasn’t you who burnt your village and made us stop to see how we might help. It was Orcs and most likely Easterlings, too, who did that.’ She took a sip from her tea, savoring the warmth of it.

‘You and Leod were made a part of our company. And not grudgingly . . . we welcomed you in.’ Meghan furrowed her brow, thinking on what next to say. ‘It feels as if you dishonor the camaraderie that was offered freely . . . the fellowship that those of the Mark might offer, should offer, one another. It diminishes the deaths of Rædwald and Vaenosa in a way, and lessens the sacrifice that Sythric and Brand and really all of us have made to get to the King.’ She looked at Athwen, again.

‘We would expect the same of you, you know. That you would fight for us if needed and perhaps even die if the need were that extreme.’

Meghan shook her head, her expression puzzled. ‘I cannot understand why you would want to set yourself apart from us.’ She sat her empty mug down next to her. ‘Anyway, it was but an offer, and one that you can take up any time. It will stand open for you if you find you should need it later.’

She looked toward Brand, where he lay sleeping. ‘The future is uncertain, too, for me. I hope my village still stands, and that my family still lives. But I’ve seen now, with my own eyes, what those servants of the Dark Lord in the East can do . . . and all my hopes can come to nothing if they have set their minds on Bregoware and her people. Brand, too . . . he will deliver Wulfham’s request to the King . . . but what if there is no Wulfham to benefit from the King’s grace?’ Meghan rose up to adjust the blankets on both Sythric and on Brand.

‘I wish you well in whatever road you choose, Athwen. Perhaps now we should set aside these heavy thoughts and think about sleep. I doubt we will leave tomorrow. Even Elven healing cannot work so quickly.’ She stepped toward where the kettle of tea sat keeping warm near the fire. ‘One last cup of tea before bed?’

[Arry]

It was nearly a fortnight before the two wounded men were able to travel. And if truth be told, it would have served them better had they had yet another week of rest. Their wounds had been deep ones and weakened them much. But still they felt the weight of their task upon them and as soon as they could sit their horses the companions moved westward.

As the Orcs and Easterlings had once been set against them, now the weather conspired to make hard their journey. Rain turned to icy sleet and then to light snow as they drew nearer the great mountain range. It was Osmod who led them as they made this final leg of the journey.

The Entwash was crossed in less than a day; the group seeking shelter in the little woods that marked where the Snowbourne River emptied its icy waters into the larger Stream. It was not a difficult day’s journey, yet the wounded men were tired by the long ride’s exertions. And there was talk the next morning of staying yet another day to rest. But Osmod rallied his little band of riders and urged them on recalling to them that the goal was now in sight - it was but a two day ride to Edoras.

As chilly as the weather was that heralded their way into Edoras, colder still was the reception the little band received from the sentries which stood at the entrance to the King’s Hall. With lances crossed before the high wooden doors, they barred the way in, saying the King was busy with matters of more importance and would have no time for a raggle-taggle group from the outlands.

When Brand and Osmod pressed for admittance, the King’s own advisor, a shrunken figure of a man, with a pale, knowing face, and heavy lidded eyes, spoke to them. His voice was at once softly insinuating and hard as an iron gate. And like a gate, he barred their way again.

‘....Why indeed should we welcome you?’ Grima Wormtongue asked. ‘Ragged crows! Beggars at the gate! You bring naught but ill news with your tales of Orcs and their attacks. Ill news is an ill guest they say. The King is busy with other, more important matters.’ He withdrew his pale hands into the sleeves of his gown, refusing to take even the pleas the village leaders had written to the King. Grima slid his eyes over Athwen. They glittered for a moment in their dark. oily depths, then just as quickly he dismissed her and Leod, too. It was as if they had no status now . . . their village and all in it were gone . . .

Hope fled the little band and they turned away from the Hall, seeking some place to think through what had happened and what they might do. Osmod led them to a small public house where there was at least shelter and the promise of drink and food.

----------

It was there that that the man found them. He had heard of their villages’ plight and of their own hard journey to seek help from the King. He was tall and fair and in his face shown kindness and concern. Others in the little stopping-house drew back as he made his way to where the companions sat, and there were whisperings that followed in his wake. He was a warrior of some note the companions thought and he took the letters the village heads had written and read them carefully. With a grim look, both for what he had read and how the messengers had been received, he then offered what help he might, what Riders he could, to see to their kinsmen’s safety.

‘If it is possible, they will come to Hengistham in the West Emnet. It is the hill fortress which old Sighebert commands.’ Théodred looked up from his discussion with the companions, his eyes narrowing as if taking counsel for a moment with his own thoughts. ‘Sighebert is still loyal to Rohan,’ he murmured. ‘Yes, that is where your families and villagers will be found, if we can shepherd them to safety.’

----------

It was a few more days before the remaining companions were ready to travel on. Sythric was the only one who knew the location of Hengistham and so led the way from Edoras. One of Théodred’s men bade them a brief farewell, bringing word from him that they would most likely reach Sighebert’s lands before their villagers did. And that they were to give the lord of Hengistham the note Theodred had written requesting that Sighebert take them in; give them shelter until those of Wulfham and Bregoware were brought to safety.....

[Nogrod]

Even though they had been told that messengers were already sent to search for their villages and to guide them safely to Hengistham, Sythric just couldn’t stand back and wait. The Elven medicine had won in the end and got better of the poison in him. He was ready to ride, and after been ”towed” for too many days – as he referred to his sledge-ride, he was more than anxious to mount Thydrë again. But there was one reason to his impatience above all the others. His children, Hunlaf and Cwen whom he had left behind. He had to see them. He had to see them alive and well, as soon as possible.

So he took his leave on the morning and went off with Eostre and Fion who were also very eager to see their families. They met the ragged Bregowarins on the second day of their ride, as they were pulling slowly towards Hengistham. There were mutual cries of joy as both the riders and the villagers recognized each other from afar. Sythric saw the Skara people from the distance and left Eostre and Fion to find their own people. He spurred Thydrë to full gallop towards the Bregowarian marchline. As he passed by the Bregowarins in front of the line he started to shout his children’s names: ”Hunlaf! Cwen! We’re safe!”. The jubilant cheers of the Bregowarians died down as he went on crying his childrens names. The joy changed into a hollow silence. Sythric sensed the sudden change in the athmosphere. It felt like a cold hand had taken a hard grip of his heart. ”Hunlaf! Cwen!”, he shouted once more reaching the Skarans, his voice already shaking. When he reached near enough to see the painful expressions on his brother’s and wife’s faces, not seeing his children anywhere, the painful truth was hammered in.

He didn’t exactly unmount Thydrë but kind of fell off her. He tumbled down to the ground, still half hoping to catch his children among the kinsfolk gathering around him. But they were not there. There were just the grim and sobby faces of his kinsfolk staring at him. The tears started to fill his eyes and his chin was starting to tremble. ”Why? Where are they? Hunlaf! Cwen!”, he cried aloud, his voice already breking to a burst of anguish tearing him apart from the inside. Sythric fell flat on his face to the ground. Swithulf and his younger son Waerferth ran to him, helping the crying and shaking man to his feet. His wife Ceolflaed and the young Winflaed came to him too. They embraced him in between them, all feeling the same terror and pain, sharing it together by holding each other tightly. Slowly all the rest of the Skarans came forwards and joined the embracing. Many of their neighbours had come too. It was a massive expression of anguish in the middle of the plains. But it was also an act of defiance to show all the world, how cruel the world decided to be, that men would stick together and share their pains and misfortunes.

The Bregowarians had had a tough journey. On top of all the other hardships they had been ambushed at the ferrysite by a small band of orcs. The orcs had waited for a host of able-bodied men to cross the river to get the raft to the east side before they attacked. They used a ”hit and run” tactics, going for the children, the women and the elderly. Easiest targest with the maximal terror effect. The Skara people were among those who beared the brunt of it. Hunlaf had grasped his little sister to his arms trying to get her away from the sudden attack, just as his father had told him to do. But an orc ran them through with a huge spear, both of them with one thrust. Swithulf’s older son, Waermund had ran to face the orc enraged and roaring just to be caught by an arrow to his chest. He was still fighting for his life at their wagon. Swithulf’s wife was dead too, almost beheaded by an orc who then met its end from Swithulf’s hand. So it had been just a nightmare for the Skarans: of the eleven dead Bregowarians, three had been of their kin.

The Bregowarians hadn’t dared to make any burials on the eastside of the river for fear of more attacks and so they lit the pyre only after reaching safely to the west bank of the Great River. As Sythric gained an understanding of all this in the middle of the mass-embrace, he insisted on seeing his childrens funeral pyre immediately. ”No one can prevent me from seeing my children!”, he bellowed, trying to wrestle himself free from the grip of his kinsmen. But there were people enough to force him down. Sythric was clearly going mad, yelling his childrens names, his voice already trailing off as he fought to free himself. In the end they had to tie him down and carry him to the wagon where young Waermund was lying in his pain. That was the brilliant idea of Sythric’s wife, Ceolflaed. As soon as Sythric noticed the wounded Waermund, he calmed down and started to ask about his condition. The rest of the journey to Hengistham he cared for Waermund, tending him like he would have been his own son, or daughter. Partly because of Sythric’s efforts Waermund made it to Hengistham and to the hands of a skilled healer. But to others Sythric made no contact whatsoever, not to his brother or his wife, not to anyone, even if they all tried. The stories of the riding party were told to Bregowarians by Eostre and Fion. And the nights at the fireplace went swiftly with those accounts of bravery and daring, very nicely coloured by the two.

In Hengistham Sythric continued keeping to himself. He went to see Waermund every now and then, slowly coming to talks with his younger brother Waerferth too. As Waermund got better, all three used to take long walks or rides in the surrounding countryside. They didn’t talk much on their rides, but they felt belonging together and that was the most important thing. Swithulf kept on assuring everyone that Sythric would be back any day. He should just had to be left in peace and take his time.

And he really took his time. It was almost a year after their coming to Hengistham when Swithulf finally managed to sit with Sythric for a night and talk with him in earnest. They went through all their shared life from early childhood to that day. On the next day Sythric reported himself in front of the Lord Sighebert and asked for any task or duty where he might be of use. He then became a trainer for the young people wishing to become riders, those they would need if a war would actually come. He took the job with content and tried his best in it. But still there was something that nagged him from inside. He hadn’t seen his wife but a couple of times. Clearly they were too old to have new children any more, but just the bitterness of that being discussed between them held Sythric away from her. Perhaps even more importantly, he didn't dare to meet her eye to eye for fear of falling back to that madness that had overtaken him when he heard the news about his children. She would remind him of Hunlaf and Cwen too concretely for him to bear it. He just feared meeting his wife, although she could have been the comfort he needed. So he put himself wholeheartedly in to the education of the wannabe riders, teaching them how to ride, how to duck on saddle, how to throw a spear, how to use the sword...

Then came the general call to arms. The King himself was riding to aid Minas Tirith and was calling all the riders of Rohan to join him. It was time for the Rohanians to go to aid the Gondorians against the dark forces! That was something that Sythric didn’t have to think for a second. He would be riding too! Alone he had no chance to revenge the death of his children, but with an army like this one would be, he surely would do all to help cleaning the world from this darkness and evil.

As they were riding towards Dunharrow where the riders would gather, Sythric had come to some further thoughts. He rode beside lord Sighebert and asked him for a short audience there and then. Granted it he started,
”My lord, it has been an honour to have served you the last year and to ride under your flag. But I have to express my desire to ask for leave.”
Lord Sighebert turned to him with an ashtonised look, ”What is it now master Sythric? You have been a good man and I have trusted you. Is there something wrong?”, he asked.
”No my lord.”, Sythric answered and held a short pause before continuing. ”I would just like to draw my sword with my friends under the flag of Croacht. To fight with my old companions and to honour the memory of my friend Raedwald.”
Lord Sighebert thought about it for a moment but answered eventually, ”I will grant your wish and appreciate it. I would like to have had you under my flag to give the youngsters the example in the real situation as you have given them during the last year in your rehersals. But as I said, I’ll set you free to do your choice.”
Sythric was taken by the Lord Sighebert’s words and said humbly ”Surely sir, you have lots of exemplary riders under your flag and I’m not among them anyhow. I may be a good tutor, but in a fight I tend to be slower than I used to be. Anyhow, I will bid the youngsters farewell and give them my last encouraging counsel”, with a smile he nodded to Lord Sighebert and fell back in the line of riders.

At Dunharrow Sythric found the flag of Croacht easily. There were several of his old comrades there. The reunification of them was at the same time joyful and sad. So many of them had died, Raedwald was the latest lost from their ranks, and so many were too old to follow the King’s campaign. But with familiar men around, they all felt a little more secure and firm about their position. They could count on each other on the battlefield, they knew how all of them would react to sudden changes in situations, how to be effective, when to help and when just to count on one to make by himself. With a word, they knew each other.

Sythric died at the Pelennor field as one among many. He was not a spectacular hero of the battle but not the worst either. The old warhorses of Croacht fought well and made their part among the younger ones, encouraging the others when the things were going rough and trying to hold them back when everything seemed to be going too well. After the battle was over only two of the initial seven Croacht oldtimers were alive. Swithulf’s sons Waermund and Waerferth took part in the battle too under the flag of Hengistham. They both came out of it alive, although Waermund was seriously wounded again.

Sythric’s body was burned among the other fallen on the Pelennor fields.

[Undómë]

Undómë’s post


-- Late April, 3019 --

Word had come of the War’s end to the people of Hengistham when Lord Sighebert’s herald rode into the city crying that the Lord’s hall be made ready. There were cries of ‘Tell us! Tell us Sighebert rides before his men and Rohan is victorious!’ The herald had paused his mount before the lord’s mead hall and spoke loud so that all might hear the tidings he brought to the household.

‘Lord Sighebert returns, as do his sons!’ A cheer rose up, though beneath it ran the low murmurings of how the other families had fared. ‘And Rohan is victorious! The foe of the free peoples is o’erthrown by the spears and blades of the Riders of the Mark!’ Hands reached up to touch the messenger of such good tidings, as if to take some sort of luck away upon themselves. He waved them back, though, his face taking on a tired look as if some heavy burden weighed in his eyes now.

‘Lord Sighebert will tell you more of this when he arrives, but he bade me give you this news. King Théoden has fallen in battle.’ A pall of silence fell over those gathered about him. And then the whisperings. ‘Who is King now.....now that Théodred has also gone?’ The herald raised his hand so that he might be heard. ‘Éomer Éadig, he who was Third Marshal of Riddermark, sits in the Golden Hall!’

There were cries of approval that such a worthy man would now be King.’

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-- August, 3019--

In the early weeks of this last-of-summer month, Lord Sighebert had ridden out with his sons and a small retinue of his riders to Edoras. The old King must be laid to rest, and the new made formal welcome and allegiance. Those of the refugees from Wulfham and Bregoware had waited until Sighebert returned to tell him of their wishes.

Meghan’s family had decided to stay in Hengistham, on the small homestead they had farmed and raised their livestock on for the past two years. It felt safer here to them, near to the King. Meghan’s mother is now an added consideration in their choosing to stay; she is too old to be traveling back to the site of the old village. Rædwald’s little herd of goats has been added to theirs and they and their owners are thriving in this new place.

Brand’s family has grown fond of Meghan, and she of them. And it was with great sadness that she rode out with them to the edges of Hengistham’s eastern boundaries as they prepared to journey back to Wulfham.....


‘You’ll come of course in a year or two, won’t you Meghan?’ Winifred rode to her left, and Brand’s other sister, Hilde, to her right. ‘If the Orcs and Easterlings bypassed our little village, it shouldn’t take long for us to get the farm back into shape and the sheep fattened up in the pastures.’

Hilde clucked at her sister reminding her that it might all depend on Meghan’s mother’s health. ‘She can’t very well go haring off on some trip not knowing how her mother will fare while she’s gone, now can she?’

In the near distance where Brand rode with his mother and father, Meghan could see the three of them deep in conversation. She would miss them sorely, and already her heart was grieved at the thought they would be so far away.

The miles passed easily enough, the three women sharing little stories of their time together and hopes and dreams of what might come. At the mid-day mark, she stopped and bade them farewell, saying she would send letters as she could with the errand riders.

Meghan sat stock still on her horse, watching as the group grew small in the distance.....until at last the tall brown grasses of the plain swallowed them up as their figures dropped behind the gentle curve of a hill. With a heavy heart she turned round her mare and headed back toward her new home.....

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It was later that evening; the sky darkening just enough for the first of the stars to shine through. Meghan sat wrapped in her thick cloak, near the small fire she’d made. She’d taken her goats to the last of the summer’s pastures, northeast of the hill fortress.....soon the snows would come and there would be little freedom for her charges.

They were a pleasant company for her as the sun began to set. Their voices were soft, and oft times one or another would crowd near her, curious to see what she was doing. She pulled out her wooden flute, the one her brother had made for her when he’d learned how she’d lost her other. The flickering flames and the late autumn setting brought back memories of that journey two years earlier......sad memories, though tempered by time so as to be now bearable. She put the flute to her lips recalling an old tune she had played on a chilly night in that time ago.

The music (http://fingertrip.net/clipsnip/amhran_a_leabhair-mick.mp3) wove softly into the night air.....

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Arry’s post


‘Quiet now,’ the figure beneath the shadows of the trees said softly to his mount. The woman’s back was to him, her seated figure wrapped in a cloak. Backlit by flame she seemed another shadow herself as her head dipped and rose with the effort of the music, her nimble fingers playing up and down the length of her flute.

The dog who sat patiently near the horse and rider whined low, his brushy tail thumping wildly in the dirt. ‘Go on, then,’ the man said to him, smiling. Freed from his restraint the dog barked a loud greeting as he ran toward the woman. The force of his greeting nearly knocked her off her feet as she attempted to stand. Her flute flew from her grasp and went skittering across the grass and dirt.

‘I remember that melody,’ Brand said, stepping into the circle of light. Lady nudged past him to find what last clumps of grass the goats might have left for her.

Retrieving the errant flute from the ground, he made his way to Meghan, grinning widely at her. ‘I believe that was when you began your devious campaign to show the merits of goats over sheep. Never mind that I was wounded and unable to defend myself against your insinuating arguments or your spell-winding music.’ He drew her into the circle of his arms, resting his chin on the top of her head. She turned so that they both faced the fire and leaned back against him. They made a comfortable pair as they watched the flames crackle along the logs.

‘Father left us a third of the flock,’ Brand murmured, breaking the easy silence between them. ‘Your brother has them in one of his pens for now. Until we can build one of our own.’ He spread a blanket on the ground and bade her sit down with him.

‘My sisters both told me you promised them a visit would be happening in a year or so.’ He picked up a broken twig and cast it into the fire. ‘You know there will be letters as oft as they can find riders to bring them.....and they’ll try their hardest to get us to stay once we’re there, don’t you?’ Meghan shrugged her shoulders and smiled up at him. ‘Ah, well, little bird, we’ll cross that bridge when it’s come to.’

Brand reached for the flute he’d placed on the blanket beside him. ‘Play a song, won’t you?’ he said. ‘The one you were playing when I rode up. Little Rædi is safe in his blankets, tucked in with his cousin, I’m sure. There’s no need to get back soon.....’

[Farael]

There was the sound of horns in the distance and a frantic galloping. It seemed that he would never make it in time, yet Osmod and his men still rode as fast as they dared to push their horses. Even if they were too tired to fight once they got there, their place was by their brothers in arms, gathered under the banner of Theoden King.

A few stray orcs appeared on their way, doubtlessly the first of the soon to be routed armies of Mordor, and they were dispatched quickly and efficiently. It would seem that the men, both young and not so young anymore, had been fighting together for years, yet it was not so. When the call to arms reached Hengistham, Osmod and a few others readied themselves for battle. The young man had honed his fighting skills and had done so well enough to earn the honour of leading the reduced company. They were no more than twenty, some still too young to fight, some already past their prime, but they were brave and they were furious. No rabble of orcs would stop them.

The sight of the battlefield was unlike anything that Osmod had ever seen. The bodies of the dead lay where they had fallen, men on top of orcs on top of horses. There was no time to tend the wounded or carry the dead away as there had been after the few skirmishes Osmod had fought before. Not so far ahead a proud banner stood, Theoden’s own, surrounded by riders of The Mark cutting through the lines of the enemy. Even closer and right ahead of them, a small company of orcs was wheeling and trying to flank one of the eoreds of Rohan. Osmod and his men fell on those foul beasts like a hammer and the riders at the other side stopped them like an anvil. There was no time for explanations, nor the rohirrim asked any questions. They were reinforcements, albeit few, when none were expected and that was good enough.

Osmod and his horse were near exhaustion and yet they fought on, wrath fuelling their limbs. These monsters had burned Athwen’s village to the ground. These foul creatures had attacked his people as they fled to safety. They were guilty for the death of Ræwald and many others. They would pay. Yet when it seemed that the orcs had learned their lesson and were fleeing from their presence, a dark cloud covered the sun and drew away all light. A piercing scream was heard high above them and the foulest of creatures swooped down from the skies. Many of the men cowered and fled, even Osmod felt a sudden urge of dropping his weapon and riding back to Rohan as fast as he had ridden to battle. It was in that moment of struggle that a treacherous orc that had pretended to be dead, rose behind Osmod. All the man felt was a sharp pain on his temple before darkness engulphed him.

Osmod woke up, but he did not find himself on the healing house. Nor he felt any pain, other than what old age had brought to his joints. That dream seemed to haunt him every other night. He had earned honour on the fields of Pelennor and the nightmares were a small price to pay compared to what some of his friends had lost. The lucky among them had lost a limb, many had never returned. The dark lord had been defeated, by a Halfling they said, and his armies had been routed by the combined forces of Gondor and Rohan. After what the loremasters had called The War of the Ring there had been a period of peace, but there was still a place for men of honour and brave hearts. There were still many places in which the light and wisdom of the new King of Gondor, what an admirable man he was, had not reached and soon Rohan found herself at war again. Yet it was a different kind of war, not a war for survival anymore but for an ideal. Osmod wondered in days like this if so many deaths, so much pain, was not too much of a steep price to pay for that elusive ideal. In any case, it was not his place to make such choice, King Eomer knew what was best for his people and men like Osmod had dedicated his lives to the King’s service. Many had given their lives for him.

Now that he was too old to fight, or so they said, he had a place as a teacher of young warriors. The lion pups, as he liked to call them, looked up at him as if he was one of those legends the songs told about. He fought in King Theoden’s army they said. He once routed a whole company of orcs by himself they exaggerated (yet Osmod did not exactly corrected them, although he did not encourage the story either). He told them his stories, true ones that is, and they listened. It was probably a sign of old age, he admitted, that he enjoyed so much sitting by the fire and telling stories rather than setting out and living them. But, he reckoned, he had lived his fair share of stories and had earned the privilege of telling them.

After the war Osmod had returned to Bregoware and found it mostly re-built. He had met a young woman, married her and had two children. Cynuise had married and had children of her own to care about, which meant that Osmod had grand children to spoil. Even little Aldhelm had now followed his father’s footsteps and was a Rider of Rohan. His kids were not young anymore, nor was Osmod. As he laid in bed in the middle of the night, he looked back and reflected on his life. He had achieved glory and lived to enjoy it, he had earned money and lived to share it with those whom he loved and also those who needed it more than him. He had taken lives and saved many more, and he had taught his morals to future generations of Riders. Most importantly, he had started a family and a legacy that would survive him. Even after his soul departed to the halls of his fathers, there would be many who would remember him. It was then that he realized his life was finally complete, like a book that only needed a proper ending. Kissing his sleeping wife goodbye, he closed his eyes again and smiled for one last time. Then, Osmod son of Osric was no more.

[Folwren]

War. . .it killed friends and family, brought some back, alive and well, took others away, and sometimes let them return. . . Athwen had thought she had seen her share of war and its toll. She assumed that when they reached the safety of Hengistham, the companions she had been with for the last month would be able to stay, to rest, to remain safe. She wanted that, above anything else. But it could not be so.

When the company first arrived at Hengistham, Sythric, Eostre, and Fion left almost at once. Leod protested – Sythric shouldn’t go! He was still recovering! But the old healer was not heeded and the trio rode off together, seeking their kinsfolk. Within a week of their leaving they returned again, the people of their village with them. Athwen noticed a marked difference in Sythric after he returned. He was older, sadder than before.

Athwen didn’t have long to wonder about this. Among the Bregowares were wounds from some fight. Leod was hard put, even with the help of the healer from Hengistham. Athwen, having nothing better to do, stepped up to his side and helped him. In a few days, they had done all that they could, and once again, Athwen was left with nothing to do.

She took to wandering out alone, away from the safety of the walls. The wind blew fierce and cold over the plains there. For hours, she walked alone under the clear, pale blue sky, and sometimes in the night, with cold stars twinkling over head.

One night, when she had slipped off after a late supper, she came back, two hours later, to find the place in no little excitement. She allowed the shawl she had worn to slip back away from her hair as she looked about in curiosity. There were many new faces about, flushed with cold and excitement, and relief showed in every one. Slowly she wandered through them, wondering where her friends would be among the newcomers. Suddenly, someone caught her arm. Even before she turned to see who it was, she felt her heart leap, for there was excitement and joy in the hand that grasped her. But it was only Dorran.

"Athwen, they've come!" he said. "This is my sister. Criede, this is Athwen, the young woman I told you about." Athwen blinked to clear her mind of surprise and the hope she had felt and then she turned and found herself face to face with an attractive girl, both young and old at the same time. Their eyes met briefly and then both bowed their heads and gave a curtsey. When they looked up again, Criede smiled, and Athwen returned it, and from that moment forth, the two girls were friends.

Months passed - a year - more. Athwen lived happily. Criede and Dorran with the other Wulfhamers settled down and lived near Hengistham, some living within the walls. Criede worked within the household of Sigheberrt, Dorran found his place in the stables and horses. Athwen was happy for them both, but did not follow them to that great household. She went to Leod and asked him to teach her the arts of a healer.

"If I learn to heal, perhaps I will save lives, and that, above all else, I think, would be worth living for."

"You may find a husband yet, lass," the old man told her, a sad light in his eye. Athwen shook her head.

"Not now, Leod," she said quietly. "I don't know if I will ever marry. Teach me to heal others, and I will be happy, for I think it will also heal me."

So he taught her. She worked constantly by his side. Whenever he had a patient, she went with him to learn and to do. When he did not, they stayed at home and he taught her the different herbs, and how to pick and dry them, and store them so that they would last. She learned eagerly and with his teaching and constant guidance over her, Criede's sister like friendship, and Dorran’s calm, steadfast friendship, Athwen once more saw light come back to her world

And then the men of the Mark were called to take arms. Leod could not go, but Dorran did. Athwen was surprised, and a little dismayed. She had thought that after their adventures, none of the group of people she had come with would have to leave. Criede begged him not to go, and Athwen would have had she been his sister, too, but she did not. She stood by and said nothing. Cride was with him to the last and the brother and sister bid farewell at the gate. As he finally rode out, Athwen stood in the shadow of the gate watching him go.

Many of the men, and even boys who were almost men, rode off for war. Sythric, Fion and Brand went, too. The women and children and older people stayed behind and lived their lives as well as they could. Time passed and only rumors of how the war went on passed now and again to Edoras and Hengistham. They couldn't hear much. Once, the armies came through Edoras from Helm's Deep on their way towards Gondor to fight there. After that, all was dark and spirits and hopes were low. Weeks passed, and no word came. The first news they had was that King Theoden had died in battle, then more time elapsed, and there was nothing. Nothing - until they learned that the Dark Lord Sauron was overthrown and defeated.

But there was no more for some time. More waiting followed. . .agonizing waiting. No one knew who had died or who had lived. Athwen and Criede, who saw each other often, spoke little to each other, and little to the anyone else. Silently, they drew comfort from each other's company, but few words were spoken. Athwen was afraid to bring Dorran's name up for fear of hurting Criede.

Then, one day, he returned - strong and well, and far more a man than they had ever seen him before. He had grown, and was changed in every aspect. Criede and Athwen met him at the gate among others who had returned. Dorran spotted them and darted out of line, running towards them. He swept Criede up and they embraced, laughing and crying both at once. Athwen stood back, smiling amid tears of joy. Then Dorran, putting Criede down, turned to Athwen. He looked at her silently a moment, and then reached out his hand. She took it and he stepped a little closer.

“Hello, Athwen,” he said.

[Tevildo]

Epilog - 6th year, Fourth Age - Athwen, Dorran, Leod

"The ring, Leod? I can't find it. I know I put it down somewhere, and now it's lost." Dorran groped frantically through an assortment of items strewn out over the tabletop. He could hear snatches of conversation floating in through the open window from the large crowd that had gathered in the courtyard to witness the ceremony.

"Settle down lad," the older man reassured him while puffing on his pipe. "It's in my pocket. Remember, you gave it to me to hold till the morning."

Dorran flashed back a nervous grin. "Can you believe this? I am a Rider of the Mark. I survived the battles at Helm's Deep and Pelennor Fields and stood before the Black Gate without fainting or turning tail. Yet now my knees are buckling."

"Humph! None of that! It's about time you got around to marrying Athwen. You've had feelings for her as long as I can remember. And no wonder! She's an extraordinary woman, brave and good hearted and the very best of my students."

The younger man nodded and grinned even more broadly. "You are right. Even when we first rode towards Edoras, I felt she was special. It just took a while to summon the courage to take the next step."

"A while?" chuckled the healer. "I'd say ten years is more than a while."

This time Dorran's voice sounded far more serious. "Perhaps. But Athwen needed that time. She has been through so much. It's hard to think about marriage or a family when your mind is laden with grief."

"Well, lad, if any young man can understand loss and find a soft spot in his heart, that would be you.... you and your sister. It's no wonder such a fine girl became close friends with Criede and even agreed to marry the likes of you."

Dorran said nothing. No further explanation was required between the two men. Over time, Dorran had shared with Leod many harrowing tales about the years he and Criede had endured as slaves on one of Mordor's largest planations and how their parents had been murdered by marauding Orcs.

"Still, things turned out well, especially when you consider how bleak everything appeared in the beginning."

"Aye, we've both done better than expected," responded Dorran. "You have given so many fine young men and women the skills and knowlege they need to be healers. Sythric was there to teach me the ways of the Riders, and, with a little luck, I survived the war and the skirmishes to clean out Orc strongholds in Rohan and Gondor. I certainly can not complain."

"And now," added Leod, "at last you have your prize: a house, a bride, and a promised position at Eomer's court."

"Tis' true, yet I can't help thinking of all those who didn't make it through. There were too many of those, Leod… too many."

"But today is not for grieving..."

"Grieving, no. Just remembering. The worst thing we could do would be to forget."

Before either man could add anything to this observation, there was an eager knock, and the door pushed open. Athwen stood in the doorway dressed in an ivory gown embroidered with threads of silver and gold, her eyes bright and shining, her long golden hair twisted and crowned with a circlet of dark red roses. Leod reached out and gave his former student an affectionate hug, offering congratulations on this happy day. Then he hurried out into the corridor, making his way down to the courtyard, leaving the lovers to a few moments of quiet.

"You look beautiful, Athwen. Really beautiful. Your hair, your face..." The words tumbled out without any effort. "I am so lucky to have found you, so lucky for your patience and caring."

Athwen walked towards Dorran, her hands held out to him, and a smile of perfect happiness lighting her face. “It’s me who’s lucky that I was found,” she said. “All those years when you were gone fighting. . .I never thought you remembered us at home. I never really believed I would ever find love and a family again. It seemed so far away, so impossible to reach. But today, we start anew, not forgetting the sadness that came before but making it a part of who we are, accepting the past, but going on.”

She lifted her face to him as she finished speaking and Dorran, instead of answering, drew her close, and the two kissed - a small gesture but one that signified a lifelong commitment. Taking her small hand in his, they walked together down the steps and out into the courtyard. The sun shone bright on the assemblage as the couple stepped forward to exchange their vows.

[piosenniel]

~*~ Finis ~*~

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~