How did it come to this?
Loyal to her family, her lands and her people, Théadain, the illegitimate daughter of Théoden, King of Rohan, has little concern for the world that lies beyond her familiar grasslands. When all that she loves is threatened...
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Chapter 39
Those who loved and cared for the Third Marshall of Rohan could only watch helplessly as she threw herself into her work, falling back on the familiar instinct to serve her people and direct her men.
Though few knew the true extent of what the fallen Ranger had meant to her, they could feel the heartbreak and shock rolling off her in waves. It was as if her spirit had gone with him over the edge of that cliff.
Those that understood tried to coax her to rest as night began to fall over the fortress, Legolas, Gimli, Baldan, even her father all tried to draw her into the Hornburg keep where she herself had overseen the setup of rough sleeping areas for the men. Yet each time she quietly refused, insisting that there was more to be done.
Although, around her, the people of Rohan who could not fight to defend their fortress were beginning to settle for the night where they sat on the pathways, those that she had not already helped into the Glittering Caves beneath the fortress. She could guide them in tomorrow, she thought, they were weary and should rest whilst they can. It had grown too dark for her to continue patrolling the walls, searching for advantageous points she could place archers when Saruman's inevitable attack came, so her feet carried her to the armoury.
It was quiet in the room, torchlight danced on the walls and reflected off the metal objects that scattered the wooden tables and benches. Battle would come, she was certain of it, and they would need to arm those that did not carry their own weapons. And so she busied herself, laying out the blunted swords she found leaning against the walls and settling on a bench at a table to sharpen them.
Refusing to acknowledge any of her own thoughts, she lost herself in the rhythm of working her whetstone over the blades, even as her eyes began to grow heavy.
As the night crawled on, at some point she must have allowed herself to lay her head in her arms on the table, granting herself a small moment of rest in the space between laying down one sword and reaching for another.
She dreamt of him, that night. Of the sound of a river washing past her as she stood on the bank, calling his name. She saw him, floating on his back in the water, carried past her by the current as she cried out for him. Then she was throwing her body into the rushing water, plunging herself into the icy depths as she struggled to reach him. Her clothes weighed her down, threatened to drag her under as she swam after him, stretching out her hand as the river seemed to whisk him away, always just out of reach. She screamed his name, calling for him desperately as she fought against the water, her exhausted body unable to follow him any longer as the current dragged her under.
With a frightened gasp of his name, she woke, her fingertips digging into the worn wood of the table beneath her as she sat up, rubbing at her eyes to chase away the dream. The torches in the armoury had burned out around her, leaving her in the semi-darkness that came just before the dawn.
