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Renedwen rode in a dream, her deep blue eyes focussed on something just out of reach; the vision was fragile, halfway between reverie and nightmare. She saw the faint shapes of those she had lost, walking through the long grass on that distant field, but the colours were dull and washed out as though a mist had descended. If she did not concentrate she saw only the grey walls of the city, the despoiled gardens, the awful black terror which had nearly taken her.
She was silent and still, and though she held the reins, she allowed the horse to take his lead from those about him. Her son had remained still, fast asleep wrapped in his swathe of blankets, but now he began to stir, and sensing the movement from the bundle strapped to her body, Renedwen was shaken from her visions.
The child’s small head turned and he opened his grey eyes to look up at the face of his mother. He grizzled a little. Looking down, she saw that he was hungry, but how was she to satisfy that while they rode? She knew she could not stop lest she fall behind, and though she knew she would quickly catch up, the fear of being alone in this place was too much to contemplate. Taking firm hold of the reins with her right hand, she did all that she could for now, and that was merely to soothe his brow for a few moments.
Now she was aware of what was going on once more, she caught sight of Captain Beregond, who had known her father. He had broken ranks and was riding quickly toward Faerim, the young soldier, who spoke with one of the Elves and another man. She hoped that Faerim might not be in trouble, for she knew Beregond to be an exacting Captain, and extremely proud. Taking up her reins again, she gently urged her horse on a little faster so that she might hear what was said. As she got closer, she suddenly slowed, for she saw something unexpected. There, peering from the folds of the Firstborn's cloak, was the face of a Dunedain boy not much older than her own son.
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