Outracing the Flames RPG

[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 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 ~*~