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Bêthberry · 02-05-2003, 10:52 PM

Ælfritha had refused adamantly the offer of a Gondorian escort.

Never would she be able to forget the sight of the Gondorian traitor turning on them, slashing Malienna's throat, stabbing Izrenna. Nor could she dismiss the agonizing knowledge that her charge into him with Nithal was late, too late, to help either woman. She had become a killer as well; it was a viscious, betraying wretch she had trampled the life from, but still a life nonetheless. That one bloodied eye would stare at her for the rest of her life. And because of it, no thought or sight of the White City could ever be as hopeful as it had once seemed.

There were nights when her fingers suddenly felt strange, as if pin prickles of ice were forming in them and the sensation would spread to her knees and then feet. That night she had known a cold, not just terror, but a cold forbidding annhilation when despair snapped in her stomach like a wolf's snarl and left her heart shuddering.

It bit at her heels on the long solitary trek back to Rohan, to Edoras, a yapping, snarling, howling dog of despair, even as she searched sickeningly for any sign of Beowulf or Currin as she retraced the path of the attack on her return home. Perhaps they had made it out of that river. It was the most she could hope for. Even the loss of her horses, of Eomund's Doric, of the other horses, of all the lives, lives so trusting and quick to come to aid, paled at this despair.

The swift-flowing Entwash, the Snowbourne--neither seemed able rouse her to the joys of animate and inanimate life around her. The soft white snow which blanketed the ground no longer seemed to offer the promise of a surprise, wrapped under its cover.

She looked up, finally, after four day's ride, to see the sentinel rise from the lonely foothill of the White Mountain. Edoras. She longed for the warmth and quiet of her room at The White Horse, before she faced the trek back home, horseless and without profit, to her family. And as her mind voiced that longing she saw silhouetted against the afternoon sun a winged creature flying, flying towards her it seemed. As it approached, she recognized the bird. Wyrd. Bethberry's Wyrd. Come to find her. She bowed her head and murmured thanks for a small sign of community.

[ February 06, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

02-05-2003, 10:52 PM	#86
Bêthberry Cryptic Aura Join Date: May 2002 Posts: 5,983	Ælfritha had refused adamantly the offer of a Gondorian escort. Never would she be able to forget the sight of the Gondorian traitor turning on them, slashing Malienna's throat, stabbing Izrenna. Nor could she dismiss the agonizing knowledge that her charge into him with Nithal was late, too late, to help either woman. She had become a killer as well; it was a viscious, betraying wretch she had trampled the life from, but still a life nonetheless. That one bloodied eye would stare at her for the rest of her life. And because of it, no thought or sight of the White City could ever be as hopeful as it had once seemed. There were nights when her fingers suddenly felt strange, as if pin prickles of ice were forming in them and the sensation would spread to her knees and then feet. That night she had known a cold, not just terror, but a cold forbidding annhilation when despair snapped in her stomach like a wolf's snarl and left her heart shuddering. It bit at her heels on the long solitary trek back to Rohan, to Edoras, a yapping, snarling, howling dog of despair, even as she searched sickeningly for any sign of Beowulf or Currin as she retraced the path of the attack on her return home. Perhaps they had made it out of that river. It was the most she could hope for. Even the loss of her horses, of Eomund's Doric, of the other horses, of all the lives, lives so trusting and quick to come to aid, paled at this despair. The swift-flowing Entwash, the Snowbourne--neither seemed able rouse her to the joys of animate and inanimate life around her. The soft white snow which blanketed the ground no longer seemed to offer the promise of a surprise, wrapped under its cover. She looked up, finally, after four day's ride, to see the sentinel rise from the lonely foothill of the White Mountain. Edoras. She longed for the warmth and quiet of her room at The White Horse, before she faced the trek back home, horseless and without profit, to her family. And as her mind voiced that longing she saw silhouetted against the afternoon sun a winged creature flying, flying towards her it seemed. As it approached, she recognized the bird. Wyrd. Bethberry's Wyrd. Come to find her. She bowed her head and murmured thanks for a small sign of community. [ February 06, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ] __________________ I’ll sing his roots off. I’ll sing a wind up and blow leaf and branch away.