[Rimbaud]

Guthrin woke suddenly. His dreams had been awash with images, savage and terrible, of import he could not imagine. Sweat was beaded on his face and his limbs were shaking. His right arm was still stiff and unwieldy, crossed against his chest. His tunic was soaked and he rose to move away from the others, sleeping under the cold blue stars. Dwarin had stopped them an hour or more after nightfall, seemingly reluctant to cease moving, but aware that fatigue threatened to cripple his companions and their mounts. Guthrin looked at the sleeping Dwarf, one hand on the worn, smooth haft of his axe. Across the other side of the small and temporary encampment, Baronthol lifted his hand in acknowledgement but said nothing and continued the watch. A man with secrets, Guthrin thought.

His mind began to race in the chill night air. His left hand groped for the star shaped stone that hung on a leather cord around his neck. He gripped it in his fist, the smooth edges pressing into his tender skin. Hands that once had been smooth and well-tended now carried scars and callouses from days of riding and rough-sleeping and that night…

He shuddered and sat, his back pressed to a thick and unyielding tree, gazing out away from the others, into the black of the forest. Tethered not far from him, Mim opened an indolent eye and whickered softly at him. Guthrin smiled wanly at the thickset horse and turned his attention back to the immalleable dark around them. He looked down at himself. The small paunch he had carried in more luxuriant days, caused by his choice of the finest cuts of meat and the thickest ales had dissipated, and his tunic fitted poorly around his waist. His legs were scarred and bruised and his boots, standing five paces behind him, he knew were worn but would keep.

He could not believe the change in his life. I used to order people like this around… but the thought did not carry the pride, which it once would have, and he reflected again on what a fool he had been for much of his time. Observing the Riders of Rohan and the tall Gondorian Thenamir had been something of a revelation for him; their poise and manners, taking command of situations when they demanded it. Unafraid of action, yet not blind pugilists, they sought solutions with reason. The beatings he and his friends had given to others at his homestead filled him with shame and a great bitterness grew in him. He saw that his father was not the great man he had thought him. So long he had feared the rotund yet embittered merchant, a man who had become a high ranking Captain of the Mark through less than bravery, he saw now. He saw that compared to his new companions, his father was weak-willed and foolishly arrogant. He sank his head into his hands. The air felt chill upon his clammy skin and he shivered, wrapping his arms around his legs, huddled beneath the trees.

His thoughts returned to his dreams. A tall bearded figure, dressed in ethereal white stood before him and some shadowy mass he could not make out but must reach… the myriad enemies clung to him, yet they seemed like flies. His size was disproportionate, he strode through an army of orcs, yet their swords were as pinpricks yet within him a pain grew and grew, his chest aflame…

He woke again, gasping for breath, his throat rasping. He could feel Baronthol’s eyes on his back, yet he ignored them. There was a sharp pain on his breast and he unlaced the top of his tunic and pulled it apart. He stopped breathing; scarred on to his chest, the shape of his white star-shaped stone was visible, red and painful, illuminated only by the dim light of the moon through the treetops.

A dread clarity descended upon Guthrin in those moments and his rebirth was complete. His jaw hardened and he turned back to meet Baronthol’s gaze firmly. A quizzical look came into the Rider’s eyes but they dropped from Guthrin’s stare after bare seconds. Guthrin remembered, as he did so often, Flandhere’s last stand and his lesson of true courage. He moved soundlessly to where Dwarin slept, and although the grizzled Dwarf’s breathing pattern altered, he did not move, as Guthrin took his sword and returned to his seated position. With great care he eased the stained blade from the scabbard and began the laborious task of cleaning, with oily rag and a stone, sharpened for such a purpose, that Kalohern had beside him as he slept.

Far above his head, two ravens, unnaturally alert for such an hour, observed the party with glittering eyes…

[ September 13, 2002: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]