Outracing the Flames RPG

[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 ~*~