Miles and Plains

The breeze ripped through the air, crisp and clean as fresh linen flung by a stern old maid. A sweet, civilized harshness.

The smudge of a mare trod on through it, dun and mottled, riddled with dust of a long road. A horse bred for lands far harsher than these, and fierce masters.

Her rider, quite the opposite of plain. Indeed, outlandish in the cruel silhouette of imposing armor. He'd had no chance to even consider a more benign disguise, let alone source one on the road. Not that there were roads out here. Just endless stretches of green hills, blushing with life as spring languidly sprawled out of the cold. Like dawn. Like the color of the sunrise and the corals in deep water of the Southern Sea.

Months ago, Ry had left the ruined fort and his war-band after a triumphant coup. After the skirmish, he had gone, as he promised his friends of the West, to Winnie's father's outpost in the winter to meet them.

The gift of borrowed time was rare and precious. His friends bade him to stay with them, or even to take them with him. But, at last, the divergence of his path had fully split. That he had lived long enough to see it happen was a miracle. He could not bring his goodnatured, peaceful friends from the West into what was unfolding.

Purposeful people were rare, those driven by it even moreso. This, above all else, he had come to learn in the West. But Ryheric lived and fought every second now, every day, for his purpose. Silverstream's prophecy had strengthened, not weakened, since that day at Nen Harn when she had helped him to find violets of a certain colour to gift to a wayward Breeish girl. All begun by Sicarra's fateful letter. By Greengrove giving him a lute. 

Goodness, generosity, love. True gold.

It had all been stripped from him in his captivity. Thrown into dark politics, cruelty, violence. He had no choice now but to submit himself to it. To trust Silverstream's prophecy would prevail in the end. To witness and feel the beautiful things he knew existed in the world, and would exist long after he was gone.

 There were fractures through his soul, and he knew that no matter how hard he fought, it would soon collapse. Maybe to become nothing; but just maybe he could make it back out, and still keep this colour, somewhere, somehow... when it was all over. 

That winter day, there at the Rohirric outpost, in laughter and revelry, he had seen his friends all together one last time. And from the safety of Winnie's childhood home, he bade them all heartfelt farewells. He hid as much of the dark weights calling him as he could. He'd shield his friends from such things if it killed him.

And then he left alone, with the dusty mare who had carried him miles. The horse would travel with him many miles more. Just as Son of Mouse had done. Just as Boltin had done.

Now, he was making the most of that borrowed time. Daring it to end sooner, daring the violence and torments, both past and future, to stop him. On and on he rode through the country he was not even allowed to set foot in, by the rulings of its own people.

Anyone who had known Ryheric would think he was wandering the vast stretches of Rohan. Exploration, as was his nature. But he wasn't wandering, anymore. He was searching. This wasn't leisure; it was purpose.

He would not leave until he had either found the Rohirric widow, or found somewhere to leave word, with assurance she would receive it.

The search took months. And all the while, that fresh breeze of the country he held so much respect for, even while its people would gladly kill him on sight, whipped his face and dusted over his mare's footprints.

Rohan.