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 40
Under the late afternoon sun, Théadain fastened Folca to the harness of the cart, throwing her coat over the sacks of vegetables as she rolled up her shirtsleeves. The wooden wheels were indeed sunk in the mud, and the sturdy little pony that had pulled it hadn't had the strength to tug it free of the sucking earth some hundred metres from the stone causeway, churned up by the footfalls of the people passing over it.
"Come on Folca." She coaxed, hoping the stallion would have enough power in his strong legs to free the cart, "Don't look at me like that, I know you're a big brave warhorse but this needs done." She muttered as he blew what sounded like an exasperated sigh. Moving to the back of the cart, she dug her heels into the soft earth and grunted softly as she tried to push it free.
As she groaned and pushed, rocking the wheels in an attempt to move them as her boots became caked in mud, her frustration built, bubbling up inside her and creating such an irrational sense of hopelessness that she growled at herself, shoving hard at the cart and hissing in pain at the splinter that lodged in her palm.
Evidently, the tiny shard of wood was enough to crumble the wall she had built to keep her emotions in check, and as she looked down at her hands a helpless sob slipped from her lips. As the weight of her supressed grief and fear crashed down on her shoulders, she leant back against the cart, letting herself weep openly into her hands. She knew she shouldn't allow herself to indulge in this weakness, but she could not stop it any more than she could turn back the flow of a river. He was gone, and it hurt more than any wound she had ever felt.
And so she let herself cry for Aragorn for the first time since she had stood on that cliff edge, until she ran out of tears and all she could manage were a few choked, dry sobs.
Trembling, she wiped at her eyes, forcing herself to breathe deeply, knowing she couldn't linger out here. Whether it came today, or in weeks, an attack would come. She had to be ready, and so she let her rational Marshal's mind take hold once more.
The cart wouldn't budge, she would have to call men down to carry the supplies in by foot. So she moved to unfasten Folca from the harness, stroking his muzzle affectionately as she moved to lead him away towards the causeway.
"Come on..." She coaxed, tugging at his halter gently as he hesitated, frowning as he didn't respond and planted his feet firmly in the mud, jerking his head to look at something behind them. "What is it?" She breathed, fearing they had run out of time, and Saruman's forces were arriving.
Her brow furrowed at the sight of the lone mount approaching the fortress, the dark bay horse's rider slumped wearily in the saddle. For a moment she thought it was a straggling refugee from the Westfold, but as the horse drew nearer she suddenly feared she was seeing things, that her grieving mind had conjured this image to comfort her. She knew the man sat astride the horse, every angle of his face, every scar that marred his knuckles she knew, had committed to memory... It would not have been difficult for her mind to create his image before her.
