'Where now the horse and the rider?'
Prequel to 'Rain on the Mountain'.
Before the storm clouds of war gathered.
Before the growing shadow in the East took form.
Before the Riddermark knew the choking hold of a wizard's malice.
Before the illegitim...
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Chapter 7
Théadain grinned as she looked around the Golden Hall of Meduseld, drinking in the clamour and warmth of the feast, as well as the honeyed mead that slipped so smoothly down her throat. It had begun with perfect civility; she had stood with Théodred as the King had welcomed their honoured guests from Gondor. Her body washed of all traces of blood and grime, her long curls tamed in a thick braid that hung over one shoulder, she looked every inch the daughter of the King in her gown of deep moss green. It was times like these, when she had this role to play, that she had come to imagine Arwen by her side. She remembered the way her friend had glided rather than walked and it made her stand a little taller, reminded her to hold her hands before her so she would not fidget. When she had to play the Lady Théadain, she was infinitely grateful for those days in Rivendell, and the mannerisms she had adopted from that time.
And so, she had played that role. Seated at the feast beside Éowyn, she smiled politely across the King's table at where Boromir was seated between her brother and Éomer, even though she would rather be sitting at the table to her left, where Fenmer was seated with his company. Perhaps even at the Second Marshal's table, were Éothain was currently joking with the other young riders. Those options certainly sounded livelier than the one she was currently faced with.
It took all her effort to bite her tongue as she watched the Steward of Gondor pile his plate high at the beginning of the feast and then wave to have it taken away when it was barely half-finished. She knew well the hardships of hunger that some of the people of Rohan faced, and could not bear to imagine how much food must be wasted at the Steward's table in Minas Tirith. In addition, she knew how the cooks that served the Golden Hall had been working for weeks, curing the best cuts of meat and gathering all they could to put on their most impressive display for these visitors.
Still, she had pressed on as the dutiful daughter, minding her tongue and manners until the formal meal was completed. At her father's nod, she had sprung up from the table, grasping Éowyn's hand in hers as they had made their escape, and now found themselves seated at a table near the doors of the hall, their heads bent conspiratorially with a laughing crowd. Théadain was fond of the group of girls, the daughters of riders or those that worked in the Golden Hall, it was a breath of fresh air to speak of things other than training at times.
"He seems very serious, what did you make of him, Théa?"
She looked up from her examination of the depths of her tankard, raising an eyebrow at Hela, the fair-haired daughter of their healer, as the girl watched the activity near the head of the hall. A few years older than the daughter of the King, she had a softness about her that Théadain found endearing, and an observant eye that often provided amusement when watching a crowd. Turning, she pursed her lips at where Éomer still sat in conversation with the Steward's son, her lips quirking as she watched Théodred listening intently to his older peers.
