[Kransha]

The midsummer air, fresh and crisp, may have had the gentle temperament of a cooling breeze, but Osric of Aldburg only felt the restricting heat, which forced his garb to cling to him with more weight, dragging down his resolute posture as he dragged his quivering right leg and his stiffened left along the grassy ground, swinging up his oaken cane beneath him and planting it firmly in the soft earth. His shadowed eyes sparkled anew as his gaze drifted up, taking in the serene sight of the White Horse Inn that sat, nestled into the rural terrain of Edoras, before him. The wrinkled wreaths of reddened flesh around his two clouded eyes pulled apart and his narrowed mouth curved into a satisfied smile as he looked upon the structure, letting his armored chest heave with the relaxed atmosphere of a refreshing, deep sigh, breathing in the brisk air. He lowered his wizened head, shaking it with a furthered smile as his mind slipped into the shroud of reminiscence, which clouded both vision and his experienced senses.

He looked older somehow, which he was, but by more than a simple season. His shoulder-length hair and unkempt beard, formerly speckled with shadowy gray, was now as white as winter snow. His beard stretched down farther, hanging in limp strands over the glinting leaf mail and furnished leather hauberk that covered his chest. The aged Rohirrim seemed older in the way he carried himself along as well, stooped over with an arched back concealed by a long cloth cloak with a collar of bristling fur. He held a long staff of oak-wood that had been polished delicately and sanded of all blemishes, with a rounded sphere, amber in murky hue, which his gnarled digits were curled around tightly, clutching the cane near him. He wore more elaborate garb than he had borne the last time he came this way, garb which weighed heavily upon him as he staggered along a winding path which only he saw. Osric wore a simple tunic, evergreen, that hung down like a cropped robe and a sturdy hauberk of brown leather over that with the stencil of a braying steed drawn into the material. His forest-colored sleeves and trousers swung limp on his limbs, too large for him, but were affixed to his arms and legs by two glinting, golden-bronze vambraces and greaves, strapped with bands of cloth to each appendage, pauldrons bound to his sagging shoulders, and a skirt of dull golden leaf mail, all these designed with constant thematic motifs of horses and blades. It was ceremonial dress, to be sure, as it served no purpose but to make old Osric look nobler, more chivalric, more royal in gait and bearing, or so it would seem to most who had seen him before under any circumstances.

But, Osric was not alone on this journey. Beside him, half in his shadow stood a taller, but far less imposing individual with a more colorful face and youthful complexion. He was a fair-haired lad, certainly young, with a bright face, a merry expression, though wrought with seriousness, and a quick and patient gait as he wandered on behind the other. His head was held upright, ovular, and capped by some unruly dirty-blonde hair which hung down but an inch less than that of Osric, unkempt and untamable. His eyes, cold and watery blue, searched the sky rather than the ignoble ground and his features remained smooth and simple. His outfit was certainly not as contrived as Osric’s, which gave him a more amiable look, as he wore naught but the earthy colors of brown and green shades upon him, a long, withered tunic, a tight hauberk over that, and a frock coat draped messily over his prominent, broad shoulders. He was a lad by most standards, no longer a child, but not yet a man. He stood and walked, ever nearing Osric until the older man began to droop on his course, sliding down. Then, suddenly, old Osric stumbled. The young man groped for the opportunity and dove, his hands clenching around his uncle’s arm and hauling him tenderly up.

“Here, uncle, let me help.” He crooned, his voice calm and composed, “I said in Aldburg we should have ridden.” It was a scolding tone, one of reprimand, he held, which elicited an irked and involuntary wince from the other, who's eyes, narrowed and suddenly tinted with a darker hue.

“Ulfmane is not the steed he was once, Sigurd.” Osric almost snapped as he wrenched his arm foolishly from the younger man’s grip, “I do not take him on trivial journeys like these. I would not trust his care to the most renowned of stable-masters in the Wold, and you know that. My legs can carry me the distance, and I do not doubt that yours can carry you faster than you are going.”

“I’m not trying to patronize you, uncle.” scowled Sigurd, Osric’s nephew, letting go fully of the armored arm of his mother’s elder brother and shaking his head, showing a look of meek frustration. Osric, his facial expression loosening wearily, turned to him as the pace of the two slowed. “I know, I know,” the Rohirrim grumbled, “It is the fact that you’re right. My leg protests whenever I try to force it into action, no matter what circumstances apply. You are right to worry. But, all of that is unimportant. My woes are no longer your concern, which is why you are here, in Edoras. I assure you, you’ll find the same in the Horse that I found, and t’would do you good to get away from Aldburg for a week or two…or three…” his voice faded steadily, but suddenly rose again and swelled as the two of them caught the vague sight of two figures on the horizon, headed in the opposite direction from them, “And there they are now, I’ll wager! That’ll be Miss Maercwen.”

Sigurd didn’t bother to ask how his uncle had managed to recognize someone from so far away so quickly, and sighed heavily. “You know her, uncle?” he queried, rather glumly. “Oh, yes.” said Osric, his delighted air disrupting Sigurd’s moody one, “I suffered the great shame of trying and failing to summon a poem that could do her young beauty justice.” Suddenly, Sigurd’s deep blue eyes widened with a strange, shocked horror plastered against his gently sloping features. “It wasn’t the-”

Osric cut him off before he finished, sharply, “No, of course not! You don’t think I’d…” his voice died in his throat as suddenly as it had peaked. He looked down at the ground and turned slowly from Sigurd, taking a few small steps forward with his nephew close behind. “I didn’t.” the same nephew acknowledged icily, “You’ve been frivolous with it before.”

“I’m careful enough as it is, Sigurd.” Shot Osric again, becoming incensed for the second time, though he did not turn to his nephew, “I don’t need you telling me not to be frivolous with my words, when you have trouble enough keeping rein on your affections.” Now, as Osric finished, it was Sigurd’s turn to be incensed. The young man, less than half Osric’s age, seemed about to leap at his uncle, as he grabbed Osric’s pauldrons-cloaked shoulder and managed to spin him until the two men, of the same height, faced each other. “You don’t know that, Osric,” he said in a low, meaningful voice, “and I would appreciate if-”

Yet again, Osric severed his words in midair and pulled onward, trying to look mildly optimistic. “Fine. No more of this. We’re here to be merry, nephew, not to sulk about our sins. Let me introduce you to Miss Aylwen and Bethberry. T’wouldn’t surprise me if old Liornung was there as well, since that was his niece…” suddenly, as he paused, a gleeful glint rippled across the musty surface of his eye as a grin peeled over him. “Ah, yes, I should definitely introduce you to Maercwen. I’m sure you’d get along very well with that charming girl and-”

Sigurd coughed loudly, forcing the sound to halt Osric. Though the old Rohirrim still bore the same devilish look, he stopped speaking as the two of them neared the darkened threshold of the White Horse Inn, stumbling as gracefully as they could inside, through the heated air around, managing to work past the first signs of new life in the inn. Osric smiled again, still with some grimness in his look, but it faded as his face and that of his nephew’s was bathed in shadowy light, beaming from above and seeming to make the air sparkle serenly. It had been some time since he’d been in the White Horse, but the last day he’d spent there had been imprinted on him, emblazoned on the stony palette of his mind, as it was a most memorable experience. His meetings, his celebrations, his conversations, all things he felt being relived. This was what he wanted for Sigurd…though he wasn’t as keen to say why.