'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 3
She would never forget those first days in Rivendell. Though Théadain had already spent weeks removed from all she knew, travelling further from her homeland than she had ever been, this haven of the elves was akin to stepping into another world.
After she had been shown to the airy chamber set aside for their party from Rohan, and after she had spent far too long marvelling over the view of the valley from her balcony, trailing her fingers over the silken gossamer curtains that drifted in the breeze, she readied herself for their evening meal. She scrubbed her grubby body within an inch of its life in the deep bath that had been prepared for her, grimacing as the weeks of travel were sloughed from her skin. It would not do for the daughter of a King to appear as travel worn as she felt. Her legs and backside ached from weeks spent in the saddle, and her shoulders still complained after too many nights spent sleeping on uneven ground. Several times she caught herself glancing longingly at the large, comfortable looking bed that furnished her room, but reassured herself that there would be time enough to sleep, spurred on as she was by her desire to explore this ethereal place.
When she finally coaxed herself to rise from the cooling water of her bath, she found that Folca's saddlebags had been brought to her room. Their party of riders had travelled lightly, no carts laden with possessions had been brought, only what they could carry themselves, thus she was presented with limited choices of clothing for the evening. Her few dresses were awkwardly creased and clung to a lingering smell of horse, but they would have to do. Théadain could just imagine how Éowyn would roll her eyes at the way she shook out the least crumpled garment; her younger cousin always seemed to have a better eye for these sorts of things – how she should braid her hair or which dress to wear – undoubtably she would have some clever solution for smoothing the creases that bunched around her waist as she tugged it over her head.
Reaching into her saddlebag for the single embroidered belt she recalled shoving in amongst her clothing, she frowned at the one she pulled out. It was not the strip of fabric decorated with her own clumsy embroidery, but the elegant, swirling pattern detailed by another hand. She remembered some months ago, sitting side-by-side with Éowyn by the hearth in the Golden Hall, her injured arm caught up in a sling as her cousin tried to amuse her with different pursuits whilst her shoulder healed. Théadain herself could only laugh at the unsteady, jumbled mess of thread she managed to stitch onto her own belt but had marvelled at the beautiful patters her cousin could conjure from her own mind. The very patterns she now smoothed her thumb over, finding her eyes misting a little as she realised that Éowyn must had swapped the garments for her.
Her chest felt a little tighter as she finished dressing herself, her nose prickling with withheld emotion, touched as she was by Éowyn's thoughtful gesture. She had never spent more than a few days apart from her cousins and brother and was ashamed to admit she had thought of them little amidst the excitement of her journey – but now as her mind returned to them, she missed them terribly.
