[Nogrod]

Even though they had been told that messengers were already sent to search for their villages and to guide them safely to Hengistham, Sythric just couldn’t stand back and wait. The Elven medicine had won in the end and got better of the poison in him. He was ready to ride, and after been ”towed” for too many days – as he referred to his sledge-ride, he was more than anxious to mount Thydrë again. But there was one reason to his impatience above all the others. His children, Hunlaf and Cwen whom he had left behind. He had to see them. He had to see them alive and well, as soon as possible.

So he took his leave on the morning and went off with Eostre and Fion who were also very eager to see their families. They met the ragged Bregowarins on the second day of their ride, as they were pulling slowly towards Hengistham. There were mutual cries of joy as both the riders and the villagers recognized each other from afar. Sythric saw the Skara people from the distance and left Eostre and Fion to find their own people. He spurred Thydrë to full gallop towards the Bregowarian marchline. As he passed by the Bregowarins in front of the line he started to shout his children’s names: ”Hunlaf! Cwen! We’re safe!”. The jubilant cheers of the Bregowarians died down as he went on crying his childrens names. The joy changed into a hollow silence. Sythric sensed the sudden change in the athmosphere. It felt like a cold hand had taken a hard grip of his heart. ”Hunlaf! Cwen!”, he shouted once more reaching the Skarans, his voice already shaking. When he reached near enough to see the painful expressions on his brother’s and wife’s faces, not seeing his children anywhere, the painful truth was hammered in.

He didn’t exactly unmount Thydrë but kind of fell off her. He tumbled down to the ground, still half hoping to catch his children among the kinsfolk gathering around him. But they were not there. There were just the grim and sobby faces of his kinsfolk staring at him. The tears started to fill his eyes and his chin was starting to tremble. ”Why? Where are they? Hunlaf! Cwen!”, he cried aloud, his voice already breking to a burst of anguish tearing him apart from the inside. Sythric fell flat on his face to the ground. Swithulf and his younger son Waerferth ran to him, helping the crying and shaking man to his feet. His wife Ceolflaed and the young Winflaed came to him too. They embraced him in between them, all feeling the same terror and pain, sharing it together by holding each other tightly. Slowly all the rest of the Skarans came forwards and joined the embracing. Many of their neighbours had come too. It was a massive expression of anguish in the middle of the plains. But it was also an act of defiance to show all the world, how cruel the world decided to be, that men would stick together and share their pains and misfortunes.

The Bregowarians had had a tough journey. On top of all the other hardships they had been ambushed at the ferrysite by a small band of orcs. The orcs had waited for a host of able-bodied men to cross the river to get the raft to the east side before they attacked. They used a ”hit and run” tactics, going for the children, the women and the elderly. Easiest targest with the maximal terror effect. The Skara people were among those who beared the brunt of it. Hunlaf had grasped his little sister to his arms trying to get her away from the sudden attack, just as his father had told him to do. But an orc ran them through with a huge spear, both of them with one thrust. Swithulf’s older son, Waermund had ran to face the orc enraged and roaring just to be caught by an arrow to his chest. He was still fighting for his life at their wagon. Swithulf’s wife was dead too, almost beheaded by an orc who then met its end from Swithulf’s hand. So it had been just a nightmare for the Skarans: of the eleven dead Bregowarians, three had been of their kin.

The Bregowarians hadn’t dared to make any burials on the eastside of the river for fear of more attacks and so they lit the pyre only after reaching safely to the west bank of the Great River. As Sythric gained an understanding of all this in the middle of the mass-embrace, he insisted on seeing his childrens funeral pyre immediately. ”No one can prevent me from seeing my children!”, he bellowed, trying to wrestle himself free from the grip of his kinsmen. But there were people enough to force him down. Sythric was clearly going mad, yelling his childrens names, his voice already trailing off as he fought to free himself. In the end they had to tie him down and carry him to the wagon where young Waermund was lying in his pain. That was the brilliant idea of Sythric’s wife, Ceolflaed. As soon as Sythric noticed the wounded Waermund, he calmed down and started to ask about his condition. The rest of the journey to Hengistham he cared for Waermund, tending him like he would have been his own son, or daughter. Partly because of Sythric’s efforts Waermund made it to Hengistham and to the hands of a skilled healer. But to others Sythric made no contact whatsoever, not to his brother or his wife, not to anyone, even if they all tried. The stories of the riding party were told to Bregowarians by Eostre and Fion. And the nights at the fireplace went swiftly with those accounts of bravery and daring, very nicely coloured by the two.

In Hengistham Sythric continued keeping to himself. He went to see Waermund every now and then, slowly coming to talks with his younger brother Waerferth too. As Waermund got better, all three used to take long walks or rides in the surrounding countryside. They didn’t talk much on their rides, but they felt belonging together and that was the most important thing. Swithulf kept on assuring everyone that Sythric would be back any day. He should just had to be left in peace and take his time.

And he really took his time. It was almost a year after their coming to Hengistham when Swithulf finally managed to sit with Sythric for a night and talk with him in earnest. They went through all their shared life from early childhood to that day. On the next day Sythric reported himself in front of the Lord Sighebert and asked for any task or duty where he might be of use. He then became a trainer for the young people wishing to become riders, those they would need if a war would actually come. He took the job with content and tried his best in it. But still there was something that nagged him from inside. He hadn’t seen his wife but a couple of times. Clearly they were too old to have new children any more, but just the bitterness of that being discussed between them held Sythric away from her. Perhaps even more importantly, he didn't dare to meet her eye to eye for fear of falling back to that madness that had overtaken him when he heard the news about his children. She would remind him of Hunlaf and Cwen too concretely for him to bear it. He just feared meeting his wife, although she could have been the comfort he needed. So he put himself wholeheartedly in to the education of the wannabe riders, teaching them how to ride, how to duck on saddle, how to throw a spear, how to use the sword...

Then came the general call to arms. The King himself was riding to aid Minas Tirith and was calling all the riders of Rohan to join him. It was time for the Rohanians to go to aid the Gondorians against the dark forces! That was something that Sythric didn’t have to think for a second. He would be riding too! Alone he had no chance to revenge the death of his children, but with an army like this one would be, he surely would do all to help cleaning the world from this darkness and evil.

As they were riding towards Dunharrow where the riders would gather, Sythric had come to some further thoughts. He rode beside lord Sighebert and asked him for a short audience there and then. Granted it he started,
”My lord, it has been an honour to have served you the last year and to ride under your flag. But I have to express my desire to ask for leave.”
Lord Sighebert turned to him with an ashtonised look, ”What is it now master Sythric? You have been a good man and I have trusted you. Is there something wrong?”, he asked.
”No my lord.”, Sythric answered and held a short pause before continuing. ”I would just like to draw my sword with my friends under the flag of Croacht. To fight with my old companions and to honour the memory of my friend Raedwald.”
Lord Sighebert thought about it for a moment but answered eventually, ”I will grant your wish and appreciate it. I would like to have had you under my flag to give the youngsters the example in the real situation as you have given them during the last year in your rehersals. But as I said, I’ll set you free to do your choice.”
Sythric was taken by the Lord Sighebert’s words and said humbly ”Surely sir, you have lots of exemplary riders under your flag and I’m not among them anyhow. I may be a good tutor, but in a fight I tend to be slower than I used to be. Anyhow, I will bid the youngsters farewell and give them my last encouraging counsel”, with a smile he nodded to Lord Sighebert and fell back in the line of riders.

At Dunharrow Sythric found the flag of Croacht easily. There were several of his old comrades there. The reunification of them was at the same time joyful and sad. So many of them had died, Raedwald was the latest lost from their ranks, and so many were too old to follow the King’s campaign. But with familiar men around, they all felt a little more secure and firm about their position. They could count on each other on the battlefield, they knew how all of them would react to sudden changes in situations, how to be effective, when to help and when just to count on one to make by himself. With a word, they knew each other.

Sythric died at the Pelennor field as one among many. He was not a spectacular hero of the battle but not the worst either. The old warhorses of Croacht fought well and made their part among the younger ones, encouraging the others when the things were going rough and trying to hold them back when everything seemed to be going too well. After the battle was over only two of the initial seven Croacht oldtimers were alive. Swithulf’s sons Waermund and Waerferth took part in the battle too under the flag of Hengistham. They both came out of it alive, although Waermund was seriously wounded again.

Sythric’s body was burned among the other fallen on the Pelennor fields.