'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 15
The child began to wail that night.
Unable to be soothed by his mother or any other, Théadain knew the signs well enough now to see that the infant she had held in her arms that afternoon had contracted the same sickness that had taken his father and almost claimed his sister.
Between the small hut that had served as the healer's home, and the dwelling of the family she cared for, the Third Marshal of Rohan carved out a path in the snow with her feet, pacing back and forth as the freezing blanket that covered the earth seeped over the tops of her boots. Her feet and legs were frozen, warming only when she knelt by her fire to check on the herbs she was boiling down into a fragrant tea.
She didn't know enough, she thought bleakly as she stared at the bunches of dried flowers and stalks hanging from the ceiling. Yarrow to ease a fever, of course, and sage to try and soothe the burning throat – there may have been others that might have been of greater value, but her exhausted mind could barely recall their names, let alone their uses. She was a soldier, not a healer. The battles she knew how to overcome were fought with steel, not with herbs. This was a battle she did not know how to win.
Idly she thought of the sweet, honeyed concoctions that were brought to her as a child when a winter cough had taken hold – but no hives were kept here, and so they would have to go without such a luxury. Scrubbing her cold hand over her aching eyes, she forced them to focus in the low light of the hut, ladling a little of her hopeful remedy into a bowl and forcing her weary legs to stand once more. There was no way of knowing if she had actually managed to help any of the villagers stricken with the putrid throat, but she could not stand by futilely and let either nature or fate take its course.
Hurrying between the silent houses of the village, Baldan paused in his delivery of supplies as he watched his Marshal trudge her path back to the house where she had stood vigil throughout the night. She had thrown one arm over her eyes as she walked, as though the watery winter sun was bright enough to burn them – he knew that beneath the shadow of her arm her usually bright eyes were dulled, and ringed by bruise-like shadows.
"Théa..." He called her name softly, jogging to meet her on her route and reaching for the steaming bowl of liquid she carried; "Théa let me deliver it, you look terrible."
"No." Lowering her arm from her face, she squinted in the midmorning light and shook her head; "I need you dispersing food."
"There is little enough left, Théadain." Her captain confessed softly, "Myself and the men have gone without this morning to stretch what we have."
Swallowing back the itching dryness that seemed to crawl up her throat at his words, the young Marshal glanced across the village to the gates they had entered through so many days ago. It felt as through she had already spent a lifetime isolated in this labyrinth of illness. "Our éored should have made it to Edoras days ago, they should be here by now."
