Taller than Meduseld
Mar 15, 2019 14:20:47 GMT -5
Post by Beorhtric on Mar 15, 2019 14:20:47 GMT -5
Something was hanging over the city that made the March air seem somehow frigid to the very marrow, though overhead the sun soared unobstructed by cloud, for none of the cotton strings flew at all this day. Their return to the city had been the strangest one that Beorhtric could recall, for while relief should have set in the moment the high, wooden walls rose from the horizon, it was instead that his mind turned back toward the eaves of the Fangorn, of the monster—the magic—that had struck at them from within. Perhaps a year ago the man might have sought a more corporeal explanation for what had occurred; there was, after all, no way to deny that when the sun set upon the camp all of the men of Captain Ceolmund’s Eored and those brought by Prince Theodred himself had been alive and well, soaking in the warmth of company even on the edge of so strange a wood, yet when once more the sun rose, soldiers were dead, some even hewn in two in barbarous show.
None had seen anything. Perhaps that was the most disturbing part. Around the camp screams had risen, snuffed out like candles on a blustery day before any sense could be made of the garble, and though horses looked to have been bitten, though limbs of men rained from above, there had been no beast—not that Beorhtric had seen, not that any man had seen.
Though, what beast stood taller than Meduseld? What beast preyed upon the fringes of an encampment, and did not bull its way within if such might was theirs to command?
It was, perhaps, his acquaintance with the captain’s newest houseguest that had made the talk of magic and cursed forests resonate within; Adanedhel, an elf, lived now amongst the people of Edoras, healing from his assault that winter past, and by his presence alone, by the beings called wraiths that had followed him hence, much of Beorhtric’s worldly understanding had been shifted.
He had ambled home in the wee hours, for dark was it still when the Eored crested upon the hill and saw first Edoras’ walls. His home was quiet, his father asleep, his mother off already to the hall, or perhaps wrapping up a shift that had kept her busy all the night. The silence was welcomed at first; the thunder of hooves, the clatter of arms and armor, the rumble and roar of voices through a camp—much of this could draw the man weary. Still, as it pressed onward, as the sun slinked higher in the sky, Beorhtric felt restless.
When Amalric, his father, had risen, joy upon his face for his son’s safe return, Bear had hardly been able to speak. His words felt haunted, and the man feared that should he open his mouth too readily, his tongue would slip into details that he and the men alongside had promised they would keep unto themselves for the time being. Ceolmund was going to go to the King, share that which they knew, that which was uncertain, and seek an order.
They had not been summoned. Indeed, Ceolmund likely did not know the words had been spoken at all between those of his muster, so great had his thoughts grown as they approached again the city. Perhaps they did not speak as once they might have, though Beorhtric knew the quiet man was easily consumed in such ways, and wondered what fears and concerns had stilled his tongue. Still, despite the captain’s preoccupation, there were those of the ranks that had decided they would meet upon the training grounds.
“It’s going to be another call to arms,” Gerlaf had said, voice laden with the screams from the Fangorn yet. “We might as well make ourselves ready.”
Beorhtric agreed to such a meeting, though perhaps his own reasons were different. He did not understand what would call the king to take up arms, for there was no foe to strike that they had seen, and if such devastation was wrought by magic, they were sorely unprepared. Still, it was no secret that the captain had intention to go straight unto the king and beg for his ear, and it was no secret to Bear that Ceolmund held no fondness in his heart for the elf that shared his roof. Perhaps, the soldier decided, he might think the Fangorn was but flesh the same as Adanedhel.
Perhaps he was right.
Beorhtric himself knew no answers. So it was he gathered himself to leave.
“Going already?” Amalric’s deep voice rumbled in question. The tone was blithe in a way, though Bear could see by the cobbler’s face that something keener to the weight of the air sparked within. “You haven’t even unpacked.”
“Not to worry, Father,” Beorhtric hummed in reply, half free of the house’s wooden walls. “I’ll get my bags when they are no longer needed.” It was all he could say, and though Amalric immediately ruffled to further questions, the soldier promptly closed the door and paced a way down to the training rings.
He was not the first to arrive, though as he approached he began to wonder if he was the first to arrive that had bothered to wash his skin at all. A few men, those he knew to have little family remaining, looked to have camped out since the bright dawn, the slump of their shoulders indicative of their exhaustion, their hushed voices passing as herald to their fears.
A smaller form, crowned in flaxen hair the same as most of Rohan, was falling in step beside him. “Deorwine,” Bear drawled in greeting. He nodded toward the few Eored men mingling about the ring ahead, a small scoff on his lips. “You can smell the fear from here. I suppose some don’t know how to follow orders of secrecy.”
None had seen anything. Perhaps that was the most disturbing part. Around the camp screams had risen, snuffed out like candles on a blustery day before any sense could be made of the garble, and though horses looked to have been bitten, though limbs of men rained from above, there had been no beast—not that Beorhtric had seen, not that any man had seen.
Though, what beast stood taller than Meduseld? What beast preyed upon the fringes of an encampment, and did not bull its way within if such might was theirs to command?
It was, perhaps, his acquaintance with the captain’s newest houseguest that had made the talk of magic and cursed forests resonate within; Adanedhel, an elf, lived now amongst the people of Edoras, healing from his assault that winter past, and by his presence alone, by the beings called wraiths that had followed him hence, much of Beorhtric’s worldly understanding had been shifted.
He had ambled home in the wee hours, for dark was it still when the Eored crested upon the hill and saw first Edoras’ walls. His home was quiet, his father asleep, his mother off already to the hall, or perhaps wrapping up a shift that had kept her busy all the night. The silence was welcomed at first; the thunder of hooves, the clatter of arms and armor, the rumble and roar of voices through a camp—much of this could draw the man weary. Still, as it pressed onward, as the sun slinked higher in the sky, Beorhtric felt restless.
When Amalric, his father, had risen, joy upon his face for his son’s safe return, Bear had hardly been able to speak. His words felt haunted, and the man feared that should he open his mouth too readily, his tongue would slip into details that he and the men alongside had promised they would keep unto themselves for the time being. Ceolmund was going to go to the King, share that which they knew, that which was uncertain, and seek an order.
They had not been summoned. Indeed, Ceolmund likely did not know the words had been spoken at all between those of his muster, so great had his thoughts grown as they approached again the city. Perhaps they did not speak as once they might have, though Beorhtric knew the quiet man was easily consumed in such ways, and wondered what fears and concerns had stilled his tongue. Still, despite the captain’s preoccupation, there were those of the ranks that had decided they would meet upon the training grounds.
“It’s going to be another call to arms,” Gerlaf had said, voice laden with the screams from the Fangorn yet. “We might as well make ourselves ready.”
Beorhtric agreed to such a meeting, though perhaps his own reasons were different. He did not understand what would call the king to take up arms, for there was no foe to strike that they had seen, and if such devastation was wrought by magic, they were sorely unprepared. Still, it was no secret that the captain had intention to go straight unto the king and beg for his ear, and it was no secret to Bear that Ceolmund held no fondness in his heart for the elf that shared his roof. Perhaps, the soldier decided, he might think the Fangorn was but flesh the same as Adanedhel.
Perhaps he was right.
Beorhtric himself knew no answers. So it was he gathered himself to leave.
“Going already?” Amalric’s deep voice rumbled in question. The tone was blithe in a way, though Bear could see by the cobbler’s face that something keener to the weight of the air sparked within. “You haven’t even unpacked.”
“Not to worry, Father,” Beorhtric hummed in reply, half free of the house’s wooden walls. “I’ll get my bags when they are no longer needed.” It was all he could say, and though Amalric immediately ruffled to further questions, the soldier promptly closed the door and paced a way down to the training rings.
He was not the first to arrive, though as he approached he began to wonder if he was the first to arrive that had bothered to wash his skin at all. A few men, those he knew to have little family remaining, looked to have camped out since the bright dawn, the slump of their shoulders indicative of their exhaustion, their hushed voices passing as herald to their fears.
A smaller form, crowned in flaxen hair the same as most of Rohan, was falling in step beside him. “Deorwine,” Bear drawled in greeting. He nodded toward the few Eored men mingling about the ring ahead, a small scoff on his lips. “You can smell the fear from here. I suppose some don’t know how to follow orders of secrecy.”