Prequel to my version of The Lord of The Rings trilogy

Theodred's Tomb

Two solemn lines of soldiers, heads bowed in reverence, form a solemn pathway amidst the throng of grieving people. With measured steps, pallbearers carry Theodred's body between them, a small bundle of white flowers resting upon his chest. Theoden follows behind, his once regal posture now heavy with grief. Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Liv, David, Saya, and Gandalf walk in silent solidarity, their faces etched with sorrow.

As the procession passes through the tightly packed streets of Edoras, the townsfolk stand in respectful silence, creating a narrow passage for the somber march. Only the soft shuffle of feet and the occasional stifled sob break the solemnity of the moment. Eowyn stands near the open door of the tomb, her expression a mask of sorrow as she awaits her fallen cousin.

With solemn reverence, the pallbearers lower Theodred's body and pass his wicket between the parted crowd, allowing the waiting women within the tomb to receive him. Eowyn's voice rises in a haunting lament, her song a tribute to the fallen prince as the tomb's door closes with a heavy finality.

Theoden's gaze lingers on a small white flower, a symbol of both beauty and sorrow, that catches his eye amidst the sea of mourners. With a heavy heart, he releases it, watching as it spirals down to join the other flowers adorning the earth.

"Ever has it grown on the tombs of my forbearers," Theoden murmurs, his voice heavy with grief. He turns to Gandalf, his eyes seeking solace in the wizard's wisdom. "Now it shall cover the grave of my son," he adds, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Theodred's death was not of your making," Gandalf offers gently, his words a feeble attempt to assuage Theoden's pain.

Unable to contain his sorrow any longer, Theoden collapses to his knees, tears streaming down his weathered cheeks as he mourns the loss of his son. Gandalf lays a comforting hand on his shoulder, offering words of consolation, but Theoden's grief is all-consuming, drowning out the wizard's attempts at comfort.

As Gandalf turns to leave Theoden to his private mourning, something catches his keen eyes. He pauses, his gaze drawn to the horizon where a lone horse trots into view, bearing two small riders. Eothain and Freda, their faces streaked with tears, approach the city, their presence a poignant reminder of the innocence lost amidst the harsh realities of war. Eothain stumbles, falling to the ground in silent anguish, while Freda reaches out to comfort him, their grief mirroring that of the kingdom they now return to.

To be continued.