Edoras

The road stretched endlessly before her, beaten and dry beneath the early summer sun. Deorla walked—her boots scuffed, legs sore, cloak tight around her frame. She had no horse anymore.

But she was used to walking.

The land itself seemed at peace now. She saw no riders, no merchants, no enemy scouts. Even the wind was calm. Fields rolled on her left and right, broken only by distant fences or rotted wagon wheels half-swallowed by tall grass. For the first time in weeks, there was no urgency behind her steps.

I am a Man of honour, a Man of my land and ancestry. I am a Man of Rohan. The two always went together, or so I once believed. In days like these I am no longer sure. Bema be thanked, although there have been minor battles and skirmishes a plenty, my people have not seen the full force of open warfare in this generation. At least not yet. There are always orcs, always opportunist Easterlings. There are bands of Men of lesser sorts that are mostly brought to swift justice.

~Caras Galadhon~

Thibinoriel was sitting at her desk with quill in hand when she heard a knock on the door frame outside her study. Standing there was her sister Eregiel.

'Nésa, do you have a moment?' Eregiel asked.

'For you, dear nésa, I have *two* moments,' replied Thibinoriel with a laugh. Eregiel laughed, too.

Conspicuous by their absence from the wedding were Éomer and Éowyn of Rohan. They had business to attend to at Edoras, but Éomer would soon return to accompany Théoden's body on its journey home...

'Something I overheard has been troubling my mind, nésa,' Calentauriel said to her sister.

'What is it, nésa?' Eregiel asked.

'I did not intend to eavesdrop, but shortly after the Grey Company met the party of riders on the road I overheard Elrohir convey a message from his father to Elessar: The days are short. If thou art in haste, remember the Paths of the Dead.' (1)