'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 12
The smoke stung Théadain's eyes as she lifted them to the sky, watching the clouds roll lazily over the Riddermark, stained crimson by the sunset. A gentle breeze toyed with the loose curls of her hair, making the strands cling to the damp streaks left by tears upon her cheeks.
She had stood at the pyre too long, here beneath the city. Watching the thick, black smoke curl towards the heavens as it carried away the heavy scents of herbs and oils. The scents used to hide the lingering odour of charred death.
It had been easier to watch the smoke in the first few hours, rather than focus on the vague shape being engulfed by flames. There was no long sleep under the earth for the common man of Rohan, instead his spirit was buoyed to the heavens on tongues of flame. Wrapped in linen he was anonymous, faceless. It was not how she wanted to remember him.
Her strength had ebbed and flowed like a tide, in these awful few days following that night. It had risen enough for her to mount Folca, when the sun had risen over the Westfold, revealing the freshly turned earth where Fenmer's éored had buried his stallion where he fell. However, when she had dismounted before the steps of her home, she had weakened. Looking at the pale, shocked faces of her riders, Baldan's sunken eyes, reddened from shedding his tears for his friend, her courage had wavered. She was grateful to be able to fall into the safety of Théodred's embrace, her brother dazed by the news of their loss.
Baldan had offered to go to Fenmer's family alone then, but she had not allowed him. She needed to do the right thing now, in comforting Cynelith and Fenmund. She was already wracked with enough guilt that she had not had the strength to comfort Fenmer himself in his final moments.
Telling her father was a lesser blow, but still bitter. She could see him struggling between mourning the loss of his friend and soothing his grieving daughter as he enclosed her in his arms. She had not felt strong, weeping into his chest like a lost child, but she could not bring herself to feel ashamed for needing the comfort of her father.
She did not feel strong now, watching the remaining embers of the funeral pyre glow as night began to close in around her. Bearing her Marshal's body down from the city, past the barrows of the Kings, walking side by side with Baldan and the other pallbearers, she had made herself play the captain. Looking into the eyes of the riders that lined the path down from the city, she could see that they needed that strength. She had forced herself to remain composed as others spoke of his leadership, his kindness, his love for Rohan. It painted a gallant image but fell short of the truth of the man.
Now, most of the mourners had been ushered away. Fenmer's wife and child had been guided home by gentle hands. Éomer and Éowyn, Theodred and even Baldan had retreated to the warmth of the Golden Hall, and Théadain had at last allowed herself to weep.
A gentle, reassuring hand pressed between her shoulder blades, holding her steady as she gripped her own arms tightly, her tears falling freely from her cold cheeks.
