Fìriel

Death, then Determination ...

"Fìriel?"

I sat with my chin resting on my knees in our camp watching the flaming ball rise out from the east, it's rays are slightly muted, attempting to pierce the Darkness that is Mordor. Birds sing their songs around me, within the bushes and few trees around, a complete contrast of what my mind feels like.

I get up and go over to Henedan. The sun is reflecting on his sweaty face. He has had a fever all night, and his wound looks as black as ever. Oh, Edoras! Why must you be so far away! It is impossible for my friend to receive the treatment he needed. Henedan cannot tread one step, let alone all the way to Edoras.

"Fìriel," Henedan called again weakly reaching out for my hands. His eyes were clouded and I knew then he was close. Tears sprang into my eyes.

"Goodmorning," I answer him softly. I kneel before him, cupping his face to examine him, I notice his blue eyes are bloodshot, his skin was clammy. "We are staying here, for now, until you again well." I complete the sentence softly, even weakly.

"You know well that I would not survive . . ." He croaked, squeezing my fingers in his grasp, a faint shadow of his previous strength. "Perhaps not even the day."

"No! Henedan, you will see Edoras once again. I found herbs last night, they may help you to home." I futilely insisted.

Henedan didn't answer, only raised his hands to my head, delicately wiping the tears from my cheeks that I hadn't known were there.

"Don't cry," he whispered, locking eyes with me. "I will pass doing my duty, for the Mark, for lord Éomer, for you . . . It's an honor. It really is." He smiled.

I choke back a very audible sob, "Your parents would of been very proud to have seen how far you have come, dear friend." I reply, caressing his hand still touching my face.

His eyes suddenly looked up as if seeing something, "Would you sing to me?" He asked, his eyes on me once again.

"What song?"

"Anything."

I think for a moment and and begin to sing a poem by the men of Rohan, about Eorl the Young and his horse, Felaróf. The poem is common and it was the first thing that rushed in my mind. In Rohirric I begin to lowly sing the notes, mournful and and full of sorrow they were.

"Where now the horse and rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain -"

Then I saw the light go out of his eyes and his hand go limp. But I kept on singing, my voice wavering, vision blurry, until it was over.

"- like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?"

And so he died.

Shocked, Nay! I should not say shocked, but then again: I was. Though I did know his time had come, I would never be less prepared than I was during this moment.

"No," I whisper.

I stayed with him all the morning, procrastinating to put his body under the earth until the sun's rising had finished. This would be last time my friend will bask in the face of Rohan's yellow sun ever again.

***

A light metal tink is heard as I set Henedan's helm onto a broad stick by the head of his grave, the metal glinting, as it wobbled on the stick. I pay my last respects, and with a sniffle I turn and go to the horses.

I take Beregorn's bridle and pull up his cast down head, his brown irises wreath black rectangles look back to me with some sort of pain, strange how an animal can sense things as this, no stupid beast is he; he fully well knows his master is gone.

Closing my eyes, I rest my head against the gelding's and sigh. Two of my friends have gone in less than a week. My hands run themselves over his long brown neck and I feel a nudge on my behind. My vision blurry, I see a black blob that is Fwalda wanting attention, I swat her away, hearing a disgruntled grunt from her throat in return.

I cry silently into Beregorn's mane, I just want to go home, I want to curl up in a ball and have Éomer hold me. I want to feel safe again.

And I won't be able to do any of these things sitting here.

I pull myself from my pity party and set to the task at hand: getting to Edoras.

I mount Fwalda and we ride again, Beregorn following. Unto the now Westward sun, to the only place to settle my turbulent mind: home.

///

hello good readers!
thank you so much for your support :)
this is only gonna get better from now...I think this may be the lowest point in here...but idk I could be wrong.
I'll try to update soon!

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I actually do more reading than writing oops
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-kenna