There was no cleric present beneath the tall trees of the nameless wood where the wagon had stopped, somewhere between Bree and the North Downs. The tall man with the hooded cloak and bowed head did not care to know if the forest had a name or not. He would not return to this spot again. Thunder grumbled overhead, and fat raindrops pelted against his massive shoulders as he studied the freshly dug mound of earth near his feet.
"Gone too soon, lad," he whispered to the warm, damp wind. "Gone too bloody soon."
He pulled one hand free of its kidskin glove, and knelt for just a moment. Laying his hand on the rough, wet slab of granite that he'd dragged from a nearby streambed, he spoke a few words in a low voice, and then pressed his fingers to his lips.
The pair of horses standing obediently at the head of the wagon turned their heads with curiosity as he returned and began removing their traces. "T'ain't no need for this damned wagon anymore," he growled. "Let it rot here." A harsh snuffle sounded as he gathered his personal effects. The back of a glove wiped across his eyes as if to brush away the pattering rain.
With a rough clearing of his throat, he took the reins of the two white mares and led them through the muddy grass. Away from the wagon, away from the wood, and away from the grave of his only friend.
