narrators of fate

They waited at the outpost, hoping for months. And one by one, the travelers returned to safety and warmth. Merriment and laughter, followed by plans. To see the Sea, to finish a task. To explore what had never before been seen.

Soon... When spring came. For now, there were just these moments.

Winter, Herne. After all that had happened with Ryheric's chestnut colt Boltin in Rohan, and hearing Tarsorel speak about the ill fate of Grace, it occurred to Ryheric that while Boltin received a proper send-off from Brynleigh of Rohan, none of the other horses lost from his company in the last two years had received proper acknowledgment. Going with his gut, he detoured the group off the road and led them to the river. Small floating shrines were made and set adrift.

Sicarra was sad. Many might dismiss the girl as always sad, but Ryheric knew better. He had known the wayward Dunlending girl for some time now. Longer than Emmie, Eirik or Brynleigh. Sicarra was both responsive and reclusive. Ryheric did not care too much for the words that day. He only knew Sicarra was often left confused, not knowing when, where or how to act with the troubled Gondorian man who, at that time, was the object of her affection. Ryheric knew exactly what that was like. So, he took her to the top of Waterfall Mountain.

Outings and a rare few stolen weeks of peace. Though sometimes, malcontent from just a few individuals outside the clan was contagious in the towns. So some time spent afield in nature together was always rejuvenating. This night, Ryheric told several of his friends the tale of Boltin, his chestnut horse, and his demise in the White Mountains. The day Ryheric had met Brynleigh.

At the end of their ride, they climbed on foot, high up a hill and onto a ledge. The vista before them was breathtaking. They shared almost stupid grins, out of breath and for a few moments, very happy. Ryheric decided this was his new favourite place.

Lyri had come a long way, and there were mysteries about her. One or two of them unraveled, gave way to many more. They began on the wrong foot. But she reached out, and he reached back. They set off for a long, long ride together on one of Ryheric's Walks. There was something innately peaceful about the woman. He did not feel any need to put on airs with her. She knew a man named Herric. ... So did Ryheric.

They walked for miles. Fought and bled together, and spilled the blood of their foes onto the earth. Afterwards, they sat by the water. Some words given and taken. Pain shared, giving way to hope in the fresh air.