(Archive) A Funeral in Rohan

Forensvale
The stars glitter overhead in the clear Summer sky.
******************** There is a full moon above. *********************

>From what little you can see, you are in the middle of a small village. You can espy but but few buildings, and there are lights coming from only two of them--and another, some distance away. The faint light cast by nature shows small roads going northwest, northeast and south from here, and several objects of some sort closer by.

Contents:
Halvorn
Mardamir
Dolwyr
Maernus
Aearwen
Galdorim
Maeghan
Caravan Campsite(#15235Qae)
Obvious exits:
South leads to Across the Plains.
NorthEast leads to Upon the Plains.
NorthWest leads to Plains.
Grassy path leads to Manor of House Hrugarth.

The glowing red of the horizon parts with a tall figure of a horseman. Lone, Xatra makes his way toward the sullen gathering...

It is very nearly evening, the crimson-yellow crown of the sun nearly occluded by the horizon, only a hint peeking over still, perhaps to look out, for one last time, upon a great warrior.

he is here, is Eartnan, his body resting upon a bier which is being bourne out of the manor house by eight men...four riders from Forensvale, and four from Gondor. From somewhere, out of sight, a drumbeat resounds, evenly paced, somber.

Colinor follows the eight men and their precious load, his face devoid of emotion save for his eyes of emerald, which are touched with sober reflection. Tonight...tonight, the young man looks composed, even regal. With him is his betrothed, and he matches his pace to hers, or she to his, long and slow, shadowing the fallen hero respectfully as it makes its way towards the barrow which has been opened for it. Where Eartnan shall be lain to rest alongside his brethren, his ancestors.

As the funeral procession winds onward, clouds that had been hanging in the sky during the day, small and puffy ones, begin to grow darker and more thinly spread, as if they bleed into each other. Even the sky is mourning, in honor of this act.

Hoofbeats are muted, but one animal included in the solemnity of this occasion. Charcoal-coated Nacahring follows the lonely bier of his master, the noble beast having survived the most epic of battles only to lose his lord. There are those, certainly not in Rohan, who might argue the intelligence of an equine creature. As this day dies, there can be none such, for a grim sort of understanding lays as well, upon the horse. Within the silken plaits of his white mane and tail have been carefully braided streamers of ebon velvet. No saddle he bear, no bridle to lead him. He paces, slowly, knowing precisely whom he will follow.

Past the gentle-tempered stallion, Aelspeth gazes out upon the lowering evening.. her eyes taking in those of the village that have come to pay homage to a man all respected, and many loved. Somber faces line the path through which the funeral procession wends.. hats removed as men and woman fall in behind those we have already gathered. Sorrow touches the healess' features, and a stoic acceptance of the battles which steal life from the plains. But there is no peace in such things for her and one hand fists itself at her side, this action lost in the folds of her skirts.

Following the procession at the distance is a lone rider... Closer to the final resting place, he dismounts and for a while cannot be seen among the rustling tall grass.

The night has passed in a haze for those inside the Manor House of House Hrugarth. The Lord of Forensvale has lain in state all through the night. A steady stream of people came to pay their respects to their fallen leader and hero. Quietly moving past the bier, tears flowing down many of their faces as they express grief over the loss of this man.

Now the Lord of Forensvale's funeral bier is moved to the out of doors for the final ceremonies. Ceremonies that will reaafirm his bravery, loyalty and honour among men. A final goodbye for his beloved cousin, Colinor and the peoples of Forensvale

Attired in a black satin dress with a high neck and devoid of any decoration, save the black lace trimming the collar and sleeves, Aearwen moves with behind the bier with graceful fluidity. The normally long flowing tresses of her hair are upswept into an elegant twist. Golden pins secure her coif, glittering against the rich darkness of her auburn hair Wispy tendrils of hair frame her pale face and curl gently along the long curve of her neck. Upon her head is a tiny, black hat. Attached to the front brim of that hat is a gossamer black veil that drops to just above her soft pink lips. Black satin gloves that tightly hug her dainty hands complete her mourning attire.

Following a respectful distance behind the family of the deceased is a very sombre man, greying blonde hair tied back with a length of black ribbon -- the only concession this man makes in dress to the dreariness of the occaision. At Rorgan's heels, two men of the Silver Guard march softly, keeping the same stately pace as their Guildmaster.

And now too there are common people lining the roadways leading in and out of Forensvale--some having spent their lives here in this small trading town, and others new and only here for business--watch with tears in their eyes as the body of the slain Rohirric lord is brought here for his final rest, at home. The House of Hrugarth can be proud today, though, many whisper for such as he has done has not happened since the days of Fastred and Folcred...and indeed, while he was here he did well.

Yet even so, two score sets of blue eyes stare at the procession, old and young: the old look troubled, and the young merely cling to their forbearers, knowing not what this death is but not liking the sight or thought, the strange silence putting a damp, cold claw on their usual exuberances.

Leading the twenty men that make up the Gondorian Honor Guard, is Galdorim. The tall Lieutentant leads the procession of his men and the Men of Dol Amroth. He face does not show one of usual stoic face he bore the other day, but of one who is extremely distracted with recent events. His eyes move about the procession of people searching for someone. His eyes rest on Aearwen for a moment, but it does not seem to give him his ussual rest seeing the woman that hold his large heart. He then scans the rest of the crowd of people tos ee if he can spot someone else.

Walking near Rorgan is a fireyhaired woman, dressed in a dark violet. Maeghan is silent, her hands clasped in front of her. Pain fills her eyes as if mourning not only for the fallen rider, but for others. A white hankerchief is clutched tightly between her clasped hands.

Their grim faces tucked beneath a veil of shadow, a small contingent of Rangers (hailing from Eastaway Ithilien) march solemnly at the rear of the precession. Each man lays his eyes upon the distant bier of the Fallen and some that witnessed his fall shed a tear of respect. Nearing the front of these men is Halvorn, treading forth in unison with his brethren. Behind him flaps a green cloak, seeming to beat in tune with the somber drums.

The rain begins to fall into a more regular pace, five times faster than the slow beat of the drums. A leaden curtain, a constant drizzle, it peppers the ground and places marks in the outside's dust--enough to remind, if not to get wet.

Wading through the tall grasses, a grim shadow is seen. The hair let loose wafts around his darkened face, a mane thrown about with the wind. Cutting across the wide plain toward the solemn pocession, Xatra is neither hurrying nor tarrying. Everything has its pace, and at this hour it goes by the funeral beat...

Less than a week, and the wear is evident upon Colinor. A matter of days ago, he was young, effervescent, a smile so common upon his face that a room would seem to want for the brightness of such when he wore none. But now, he is older. Older with the loss. Older with the burden. As the bier stops just before the barrow, the door to which has been set open to admit Eartnan's mortal remains, Colinor follows suit.

Braziers stand tall to either side of the door, and two riders stride up to them with burning torches, stopping only long enough to set the braziers ablaze, before moving with solemn purpose back into the host of warriors who have come here this eve.

Colinor follows the progress of those two men with his eyes, waiting until they are out of sight to nod to them, at which point the eight set down their precious burden. Colinor approaches, detatching himself from Aelspeth's side, for once in his life not even looking back at her. Anybody who knows this man to any extent might realize, just by that seemingly innocuous detail, just how seriously he takes this duty.

He stops there, beside the bier, casting a gaze colored with heartbreak upon his fallen cousin. Something inaudible does he whisper then, before turning around to face the assembled throng. Aearwen is the focus of his eyes now and he meets her own, nodding then...as if signalling that the next step should be taken.

Stationed amongst the crowds that line the road, a man, tall above the others, looks brightly upon the procession that files past, his grey eyes following the bier bourne slowly through the village by eight noble men. Dressed in the simple garb of a traveller, the man's clothing is not fine but shows attention to keeping it in an a state of extended service, noticeable even with the heavy downpour that drenches it. The young man's countenance does not seem to match those around him, his expression being full of pride and glory, far from sorrow for the fallen man. As the rear guard of Ithilien's men comes upon the road, he slips through the crowd to silently join their procession.

Instead of the Lady Ethring-Bragollach stepping forward at the nod from Colinor, the tall man with greying-blonde hair that is beginning to dampen slightly in the rain does step forward. Rorgan of Minas Tirith and of Ethias, many have heard that this was the man with whom the Drihten spent his last days, and now this man moves slowly solemnly forward, his matched pair of bodyguards left standing at the edge of the gathered crowd as this man niether of the Mark nor the Tree, but of both, makes his slow way to Colinor and speaks a few words softly, only for the ears of that man.

Heavily and almost reluctantly, Xatra halts his stride. Before anyone else, his eyes catch the warrior to be honored for this last time. In a moment, they are hidden in a bow of his head. For as long as needed, to conceal the words unspoken, the feelings unreconciled... A warrior's tribute...

The light rain sprays Galdorim's face as he was somberly ahead of the Honor Guard. He continues to activally scan the crowd of people. He looks forward as his friend Rorgan steps forward. The proud Lieutenant sighs deeply and looks to the ground as he tries to put his racing mind in the here and now.
Long distance to Colinor: Rorgan grins, "No worries. Just give me a posed nod or something and I'll begin." :)

Rorgan whispers something to Colinor, who nods respectfully to the man.

Not a tear is there to mar the starkness of Aelspeth's ashen countenance, the rain and looming clouds casting a pall of muted silver upon features that cling to a dearth of expression. This is the burial of a hero, and she bears a set of pride in her slender shoulders as her eyes, darkened with sorrow to ebon, remain upon the shrouded figure of the fallen. A fitful wind snaps the banners which have been brought, stirs the tail of the noble beast who even now waits at one side of the barrow.. and whispers gilt tendrils of hair across her brow. But she does not move, keeping to the fringe of the activities, close enough to lend unspoken support to Colinor, close enough to do honour to the slain warrior.. and yet not near enough to impinge her presence in any way upon the proceedings. She glances sidelong, back through the throng that has gathered, sighting the faces of her children. They have not been kept away, death.. is merely a different face on the life that surrounds them. An older woman keeps them to their places.. and after a moment of maternal reassurance, her gaze returns to the tribute, lifting to Rorgan.

As the rain falls from the dark sky, Aearwen pays it no mind as she stands quietly, waiting for Rorgan to begin the eulogy for the fallen Lord. Hands folded in front of her, face solemn and pale as the rain continues. Her eyes gaze out into the crowd, noting the faces of many that she talked to and comforted during the long overnight vigil. Nodding her head briefly to one old man that she sat with for hours, listening to his tales of the Lord. Returning her gaze to Rorgan, awaiting his words.

Standing tall and grim, his visage befitting the southern lines of his blood, Rorgan turns and faces the crowd, clearing his throat slightly as a bead of rain drips off the tip of his nose. After what seems like an eternity of quiet mutters and shuffling feet, those gathered begin to grow silent, and this silence is filled with the clear baritone words that issue forth from this man.

"In a far off land and what seems like ages ago, I came across a rider - the Drihten of Forensvale - in the most unlikely of places, Hero's Inn in Pelargir. He had attended to his business in that city and should have been long for home when the Gondorian Host began its ill-fated march to Umbar."

Not far from the manor house stands a house of earth, in a smoothly rolling series of green downs a gash quite deep, square and lined with stone. Beside it, the earth--rich and dark--is set in a great pile and there are timbers set aside, also, to aid to structure what will be a fine barrow. Around it is only mourning, though none stand near it long, or look into it long, and the stones that line within it are with rainwater slick.

As Rorgan speaks, it seems to listen. . .

Still more moisture falls from the face of Rorgan as he continues to speak in an even paced manner that somehow befits both the occaision and the words which seem to pour forth from the man in a neverending stream.

"Eartnan numbered himself among my own men, saying that the Oath of Eorl demanded he assist his allies against their foe in the desert. Such devotion to the Oath I have never seen - more than once did I try to dissuade him ere we reached that ancient monument and mound to Fastred and Folcred and fought the Narishki and Desert Tower soldiers at its foot."

"He rode and survived with me The Massacre on the South Road, and continued to prove himself ever more valliant and skilled at the taking of Caldur. Never before had I seen such courage and fierceness, but it came again as we finally did assail the enemy capitol of Umbar and began to lay siege to her gates."

Nearby, Maeghan listens to Rorgan as he speaks. Occasionally she lifts the square of white material to her eyes. She glances towards the fallen lord and sighs sadly before looking back to Rorgan.

And still the voice of Rorgan continues to address the gathering, "Neither his courage nor his ferocity and neither his valour nor his skill did fail him on that fateful day we made out final assault on that city, breaching her gates even as our army was pinned between the walls of Umbar and that foul Goblin host which fell upon our rear in their rush to aid their Harad allies."

"The great Rider and Drihten did fall then, swallowed from sight by a great horde of Goblins, yet still alive when we had fought our way back to him. Grievous were the wounds suffered that day, and Eartnan was no exception."

"Battered and bloodied did we fight our way back out of that writhing host, trying to meet again with the main body of the Gondorian host. Of the more than 200 men who rode onto the field with us, only Eartnan, myself , and six others made it safely back to the Gondorian lines, but the Drihten made it no further. He fell at my feet with a single red-hafted arrow piercing his heart."
"The Drihten of Forensvale died well, even as the best healers of Gondor struggled to reverse his fate. His final words were not cries of torment, but words which confirmed his acceptance of fate, formed into a simple request: "Do not leave me in this desert to be fouled by the hands of our enemies. Promise me that my body and possessions will be returned to Forensvale so that my people will be able to hold a proper funeral and let me go in their own ways.""

Rorgan does pause here, however, and blinks back moisture that might not be entirely due to the rain. Then swallowing, he continues, "He did not die alone or among strangers, for even as his life ebbed, the soothing language of our ancestors fell upon his ears, and he knew he would ride once more when the Lost Eored comes forth in glory. Like Fastred and Folcred before him, princes of the Rohirrim, he died in a foreign land. He died satisfied with his contributions to this life and at peace within himself. None among us have the right to ask for more."

"ROHAN! A HERO HAS RETURNED!"

Tthese last words of Rorgan are shouted as a challenge to the falling night and falling rain, a challenge to all those who would end the lives of his countrymen and kin, of his friends and allies far far too soon. As the echoes of these words fall upon the crowd, Rorgan does turn to the heir of Eartnan and nod once. Then with a sharp pivot, he is moving back into the crowd, between his bodyguards and his beloved, reaching out a hand for Maeghan even as his eyes seem to move toward the Lady Ethring-Bragollach in some form of signal.

With these words, there is a brief look of happiness on the eyes of many of the Rohirrim here assembled, a brightness in the many pairs of eyes. A short cheer is raised to the air from many of the townsfolk and some of the children, still not understanding, look widely up and down the road for the sign of an approaching caravan. The air is charged, if for a moment, with festivity before crashing down to a more ceremonial somberness.

Looking to the back of the crowd, Aearwen steps forth and nods her head slightly. At her signal, two men begin to move down the middle aisle towards the dias. On the left is a guard from the Minas Tirith Guard, wearing a black tabard with the silver embroidarded crest of Minas Tirith, the White Tree. His left arm is outstretched with the palm facing upwards. On the right is a Men-at-Arms from Dol Amroth, wearing a blue tabard bearing the ensignia of the Silver Ship and Swan. His right arm is outstretched with the palm facing upwards

Resting on the soldiers upturned palms is a sword, glittering in the light. Pausing long enough for each and every mourner to get a glimpse of the swords splendor, as they slowly move forth. Taking one step in unison and pausing, another step and pausing. This glimmering sword of honour is being returned in a ceremony befitting the hero that he was, the Lord of Forensvale. This sword from Scatha's hoard, with its bronze pummel and ivory hilt. The ivory hilt framed with electrum rings and studded with beryls, glows richly. On the blade, written in runic writing is " AETRENTOTH", skillful engravings of flames and dragons cover the remainder of the blade. The guard, of bronze, is tipped with carved images of flames and dragons. Silence falls over the crowd as the solemn procession of the soldiers continues. The sword of Eartnan, the beloved hero and leader is being returned to Colinor, his only living heir. Reaching the end of their journey, the soldiers click their heels together smartly and stand at attention.

Walking over to the two soliders, Aearwen holds out both arms, palms upturned and with a bow of her head, the men place the sword in her hands. Both soliders salute the heir of Eartnan and again, in unison, they turn and march down the aisle to stand quietly at the back of the crowd

Turning to face Colinor, heir of the Lord of Forensvale, Aearwen nods solemnly as she moves to stand before him. Her voice rings out clearly to those present, ". My own hands dripped with his blood as we healers fought to save your cousin's life outside of Umbar." Looking down at the sword in her hands, Aearwen continues, "This sword has brought down many an enemy. I was witness to many as he travelled with the Gondorian host from Pelargir to Umbar. Fierce and mighty was his swing as this sword arched in an attack on his enemy. It humbles and honours me to return this mighty sword to you, Colinor, as your cousin requested in his last words." Lifting her arms up higher, she offers the sword to Colinor, a bittersweet smile curving her lips as she gazes at him.

"My heart is saddened greatly by your loss, but you are blessed. Blessed beyond words by the rich loving memories that you have of your cousin, enough to last a lifetime. Do not let his memory die, he deserves that." Tiptoeing up, she gently places both hands on either of Colinor's shoulders and for a short second of time, presses her cheek against his, softly whispering, "You have my sincere condolences." Reaching into the deep pocket of her dress, she pulls out a parchment scrolling bearing the insignia of the Prince of Dol Amroth on the seal, "This is from Prince Imrahil, a private message conveying his deepest sympathy." Smiling a soft smile at Colinor and his love, Aelspeth, Aearwen moves to the side and stands again with hands folded, reverently quiet.

Mardamir steps in time with the his brothers, a purposeful stride till the procession comes to a halt in the rain before the readied mound of green earth. Attentive now, Mardamir sets his gaze upon Rorgan as he begins, and he nods with emphatic approval during the recount of the man's last deeds. And when Rorgan comes to the end, greaves of green are raised as the men of Ithilien join the throng's cry and then fall silent with more than one bowing a head toward the west.

Colinor stands there, stoic, surprisingly regal, and appears to be ready to accept the sword......

Xatra's eyes are stern and unreadable. He peers quietly toward Colinor, as if waiting for something...

From the Master Healer of Rohan there comes no sound.. no flicker of emotion to break the mask of respectful tribute she has worn for this week long. Though her eyes, Aelspeth's emotion misted eyes shift quickly to the Lady of Gondor, and there remain.. imparting some silent meaning, some understanding.. some linking of spirits with Aearwen before they return to their proper place upon Colinor and the bier of his cousin. A sentinal of silent esteem, her slender figure is nearly lost amongst the masses, clad similarly in somber shades. Unconsciously, one hand, finely-boned and graceful, has risen to her breast, palm and fingers encircling the badge of her own service while her lips finally move in whispered parely with the Healers' Lady.

Colinor nods then, steeling himself before moving forward, three singular, fluid steps, to stand at the center of the throng's attention. He stands directly beside the bearer of the sword now, not having reached out for the weapon, or the scroll, yet, but far from being rude, he does what he does now to add importance to this moment. The sun has fully set now, and the only light comes from the two braziers, which crackle and hiss fitfully, for it has begun to rain. It is cold, this eve...unseasonably so, and breaths begin, once the feeble heat from the stymied sun is gone, to mist the air before those who have come.

For once, Colinor scarcely notices the rain.

He stands there for the space of several pregnant heartbeats, sweeping his gaze from left to right. There is something noble in his bearing, something hawkish and fierce and fiery. It is a new thing. It will not go away after this night.

"Friends," he begins, the simple address covering all who are here, binding, for this one night, all nationalities, all families, blurring the lines of politics and blood, though he stands alone outside of them all, for he is the last of the Hrugarth line, and it is that blood which fills his veins, and marks him with a purpose. He can not let the line die with him. He must carry on, and be the first of the new. "I was, before I took up the spear, said to be a man of words. A bard, if you will. But this evening, I find thatwords which would be fit to describe the honor, the courage of my cousin....they do not come...for such grand words which measure up to this man...they exist not. So I shall speak as a mere man...from my heart."

A pause...another sweeping of his gaze, this time from right to left, eyes lingering upon this person or that, before he looks out just above the head of the assembled crowd. It is a time honored tactic of the bard, for it makes him appear to be looking at nearly everyone from their own point of view. He's long past the point of doing such a thing consciously...and this is good, for at this moment in time, he can only go on instinct.

"Eartnan was...is....my cousin. He was so much more than words could ever convey..." and then he drops his gaze to the ground, remembering. " Eartnan was more than a brave warrior and a just lord over his people. He was more than a hero....he was -my- hero."

And with that concise summation, which clicks in his head as the most fitting, most honest thing possible for him to say without crossing the boundary into showmanship, he turns to reach out in acceptance of the sword...

And a fine sword it is, wrought by some wonder-smith ages ago in who knows what land, lost in the Hoard of Scatha for ages uncounted its metal gleams as if it were new, but it is not... It is a blade worthy of any lord.

Yet...events are not all as they might seem now.

For...

Out of the crowd comes a small gray horse, a one that is thin and looks to have little been ridden--but a Mearh proper, coat shining silver. Astride this is a man, much like the horse: girt in finery is he, hooded--but no gleaming mail and he himself is not the largest or bulkiest of men. "Hail from King Theoden!" he calls however, riding to where the sword is and he dismounts, the hood falling back.

He is the councillor Grima.

"The King in Edoras accepts this sword," he says to those that bring the weapon to the lord's cousin. Then he repeats it, louder.

"The King in Edoras accepts this sword, in recognition of the valor of Lord Eartnan: Eartnan Drihten, Eartnan Hlaford--may he long be remembered in the annals of the Mark!" None notice the slight glint of pleasure afforded by his saying this, the slight flash in a pair of glass grey, rain-blue eyes."

Galdorim stands there stoicly as he listens to speakers and giving of scrolls and the sword. He stands there like a statue as the rain roll down his face and soaks into his finest dress uniform. He once brilliant blue eyes are now somewhat glazed over as he forces his recent personal issues behind him and forces himself to pay revetent attention to Rorgan, Aearwen, Colinor, and now Grima.

A muttering arises from the head of the Gondorian contengent, centered around Rorgan. With a shake of his head he repeats the question that began the muttering, for all to hear, "If the King in Edoras wishes to accept this sword, then why did not Theoden King come accept it with his own hand?" And this brings silence to all who had begun muttering.. To criticize a king? Is even this not beyond the man they call Rorgan? Into this deafening silence, Rorgan sends his own...

silence.

A shocked expression covering her face as the King's councillor comes riding into the crowd and makes his demands. Looking at the other faces around her, Aearwen stands in shocked silence. Finally, gathering some sense about her she says, "Forgive me, I am unaware of the customs in Rohan. So I beg your forgiveness if my words are offensive in any manner. Your action do confuse me greatly councillor. The Lord of Forensvale requested as his last dying wish that this sword be returned to his only living heir."

Oh.. the heavy pall of silence that falls should well please the evil-intentioned deed of one.. though he couch it in the guise of something noble. Few.. if any.. would heretofore doubt the King's own Counsellor, but times are such that men's hearts may be turned by the words of a stranger. The cries of the honorably Gondorians are not missed by those of Forensvale, and indeed.. those that have assembled from the areas surrounding Edoras to pay tribute to the parting moments of a true hero.

Aelspeth has known Grima for some time, though it be but a passing knowledge.. for it is her hands that tend the ruler of Rohan when he falls into pain or illness. Her eyes sharpen, grief scattering before a hardened intensity that well bespeaks how greatly surprised the healess is by such actions. "Indeed, Lady Aearwen," flows her smooth voice, like a distillation of honey beneath the clotted clouds and the anger of some hearts. Liquid motion graces her steps as she paces forward, coming to stand beside Colinor, though her gaze remains upon Grima. "Though Theoden King would not do such honor to the fallen Drihten without returning something of like kind to his kinsman. I must believe that the Lord of these great lands, and my own Liege, has bidden Counsellor Grima to offer something just as honorable in return as token of his condolences and grief."

A politic answer, but she is one with accessto said King, and leaves her attention upon Grima solely.

Eyes that seem nearly asleep but hold in them vast troves of unfired lightning blaze like smoldering fires for a moment, and Grima smiles faintly, still holding out his hand to Rorgan. "Alas, our king has but yesterday caught a chill, and with what business he must do in Edoras has also a great need to rest." His words hold truth in them. All of this that he says is true. "Yet I am told to send to Forensvale greetings, for his village Forensvale is a beloved one."

To Aearwen, Grima nods and smiles also. Genuine is his smile, yet there is something pained about it, too--as if there is some point of law yet to be discussed, which he would not at such an hour as this--but must. "Ay," he says, smoothly. "'Tis a noble sentiment, were it not for the will of his forefathers. Indeed, I would have it otherwise, but the wish of Hrugarth himself was thus: 'If ever my line should end itself, and no son direct be found of that one which has died, I decree my sword, and all my property, shall go to the King in Edoras until such time as a new heir can be found, it originally being the king's property.'"

He allows this to sink in a bit, looking somber still--as if the words were poetry he had read, and even more. "Yet--" he says, after a moment, "I am not fit to carry such a blade. Would you, Colinor, act here as the king's arm?" He defers to Rorgan, and steps back, bidding the cousin of Forensvale to take Aetrentoth in hand.

Colinor stops, then, and looks up to the man who has come into the scene...and he brings a gasp from the crowd...or some of them, at least, as he grips the sword by the hilt and accepts it from the bearer who offers it up to him. "If the King wishes to take the blade of my fallen kinsman, then I shall offer it unto him myself. But I shall carry the honor of Eartnan to no man other than him." Simply put, but the fires of resolve burn within Colinor's emerald gaze, echoing the braziers which glow fitfully behind him.

Jaw set and eyes narrowed, the countenance of Rorgan does only soften now as the blade is placed in the hand for which it had been intended. With a shake of his head, the language of his body does soften, too, and he awaits what shall next come.

Grima, this being promised of Colinor, bows and smiles at this action. "It is a good thing," he says, "Colinor of Forensvale." He does not honor him by mentioning his house, yet his every fiber seems to be giving praise beyond this little slight. "Hail to Lord Eartnan from the King in Edoras!" he calls again, and this elicits a confused cheer from some of the Forensvalians all around.

"My work," he whispers to Colinor and Rorgan, "is now done: the laws of the Rohirrim shall bother us now no further." He strides back into the crowd, standing near to his horse, and watches the barrow.

A harsh sound suddenly comes from behind... that of a sword leaving the scabbard. A whistle through the air, and a flash of light almost spooks the guards into suspecting an attack... For a bare second... Xatra steps forth, a cold smile on his lips, "A sword..." His voice is just as shrill, "A Rohirrim warrior must be laid down with a sword."

Suddenly, with a well-placed blow, he blows a hilt off his sword. The bare metal is laid down next to the fallen hero, "The sword is now properly sacrificed. The grave will carry the glory... Remember!"

Minnar dismounts from his house, leaving him ground tied some distance from the ceramony. He approches quietly, his face lined with sorrow as he joins the edges of the group

Galdorim 's mind snap to alertness as the accusation and inquiries as cast about the intentions of the King's counsellor. His blue eyes watch the interaction of his close friends Aearwen and Rorgan with the man who has disrupted this somber occasion.

This from Xatra, such a sacrifice of /his/ own blade, causes a cheer to erupt from the scattered Rohirrim. "Eartnan! Hrugarth! A proper burial at last!" some call, while others cheer other things. Says one patriarch of the Forensvalians to Xatra, "Step forth, Eowaining, and walk closer to him that died that he might be further honored by your closeness no clans he knew, nor rivalry, but only peace."

This, while not particularly true in the case of one brash Lord Eartnan, is not remembered at the present.

Shaking her head in disbelief, Aearwen eyes the counsellor with stormy blue eyes. Quietly holding her tongue, she watches as the scene unfolds before her. Eyes widen as the sword is placed in Colinor's hands. Narrow eyes watch Grima stride through the crowd.

Just as silently as he stepped out, Xatra steps back into the crowd. The sun reflecting from the steel sets a halo over the head of the fallen warrior...

And this, too, is accepted.

Moving closer to Lady Aelspeth in what appears to be a melee to her, Aearwen whispers softly for her ears only, "Could you please explain to me what is going on here? Is this some sort of ceremony that accepts the end of one Lord and the reign of another?" Her words barely audible as she continues to watch the crowd.

Minnar slips through the crowd to stand next to Aelspeth as he watches the crowd stir and murrmer around him

At the unsheathing of the blade, the men of the Silver Guard, near thirty strong, but scattered in the crowd, tense as one, hands on hilts, but then relaxing but for the two nearest the Guildmaster. These two step forward to their charge whose own blade had suddenly appeared in his hand and only now does return to its proper place for such an occaision. Rorgan's words are spent, but not his spirit as his blue eyes begin to turn from the cold that had engulfed him and he runs a hand across his face to wipe away the glittering beads of rain gathered there.

Suspicion.. is it that which glints lighter hints of ameythst into the depths of the healer's eyes as they track the departing path of the King's Counsellor? Aelspeth has never cast such a glance in Grima's direction in all her life. It lingers.. that gaze, those thoughts, then she smothers it up beneath the solemn mask of mourning, turning anew to Colinor. Her fingertips brush his arm before she glides back to the place she once held.. more alert, more watchful. "Lady," her lowered voice is designed to reach the ears of but one, and she turns herself toward Aearwen with the bare ghost of a smile that soon is gone, "This is no ceremony that ever I have known in all my days upon this Plain. Theoden King is a noble man, and would not perform such interruption unless due honor was meant." There is a pause before she continues. "There has been no acknowledgment of Colinor's house by the King's Counsellor, though. I fear that the passage of these lands will not be so easily won as the respect of your people for those that remain to House Hrugarth." The message is subtle, but there for the other woman, Grima came. But he brought no appointment of title from the King.

A short bow, Xatra at the bier's side... The sunliht shining forth off the blade, sets a halo over the head of the fallen warrior... "We fight and win. We fight and die. With glory, without fail..." The silver-haired captain turns to face Eartnan for the last time, "Sleep well, the comrade in arms. More are coming to fill your place in the ranks. More to taste the sweet and bitter of the warrior's glory..."

Minnar tences as he hears the clear sound of steel being drawn from its scabbard, but relaxes as he hears Xantra's proud and noble words. He glances over as Aelspeth whispers to a stranger, a gondorian by her dress but then returns his eyes to the ceramony

Continuing to speak quietly to Aelspeth, Aearwen says quietly, "I, myself met with the King just days ago. He knew of the reason for our official visit to Rohan, was aware of what we returned to the heir." Her head shaking in confusion, "What steps must be taken for Colinor to assume his rightful role as heir to House Hrugarth? "

A heavy pause, the air tight with a strife... Xatra, before returning back to his anonimity, "Some are coming up and going by," a glance toward Grima... "Those lying with a naked sword in their arms are always remembered. Do not forget!" Just two steps away, and he is gone...

Colinor holds the sword then, and turns back to the crowd, his gaze lingering upon them all for a long moment before he moves to the bier one last time, stopping there and casting his eyes down upon his dead kinsman. Alone...he is alone now in the blood. Those words echo through his mind once again as he memorizes the sights, the sounds of this moment. The smell of the smoke in the air, the feel of cool wind against his face, as he drops to one knee there, laying one hand upon both of Eartnan's, which are folded serenely before him. "Now go, my cousin...my friend. Go to the long plain, where you will ride beside Brema and all our noble kinsmen."

He lowers his head, pressing forehead to the bosom of Eartnan, eyes closed, and there he remains for what might be an eternity, what may be just a few minutes...before he finally stands, nods to the bearers, and turns to the crowd as the bier is lifted by all eight men as one, and bourne into the barrow.

"I shall journey to the king himself to make my claim upon this land. Rest ye well, my brethren and sisters of Forensvale I shall not fail in this task. The honor of my cousin...of my ancestors do i carry there with me, and our blood shall live on until the end of time."

It is at that time that the door to the barrow is closed by the men who have placed Eartnan to rest, the sound of such, stony and final, lending ominous credence to his words.

The shield upon Eartnan's breast, a crown binding together and delineating East and West, for a moment glimmers as the last bit of light is on it then, as the workers begin to throw dirt upon the timbers and the door in the midst of them, and as the horse Nacahring whinnies--rather, shrieks--in sorrow and rides nervously about the barrow, prancing, there is no more of the Last Lord of House Hrugarth, Eartnan Lord of Forensvale.

Xatra's words are heeded by the golden-haired healer, Aelspeth pausing in her murmured discussion to pay her cousin the respect that echoes in that which he has said. But Aearwen is not forgotten, though the Rohirrim takes a few moments to compose her thoughts, and settle them into words. "There is but one step, Lady.. and that is direct acknowledgement by the King. There are no other kinsman to be tested.. and Colinor's loyalty needs not be measured." Again she is stopped.. her entire expression fading into something else at that very man's announcement. Whatever else she might add is lost as silence falls again with the closing of the barrow, only to be stolen by the waiting stallion's screaming.

Grima stands still, watching the actions of the building-over of the barrow, watching the horse's char-covered misery and the lost looks on the faces of an entire people--and the sharpness in the eyes of Xatra, and of Colinor--and then bows. Placing his hand upon his breast, he shows his respect to the slain lord of Forensvale, and then mounts his horse...and speeds off unto the South.

There is no more of him, though there will be.

Minnar bows his head as the Lord is carried into his final resting place under the wamn sun and the plain where he will ride no longer.

Colinor approaches, as his final task for this evening, Nacahring. Eartnan's mount eyes him calmly, levelly, as if the horse knows what is going to come next, and welcomes it.

"Friend...noble warrior...you were all of these things to Eartnan, and to him alone shall such ever be said about you. He was a man without peer, and thus it should be that no other shall ever ride you..." he places a hand upon the horse's nose, leaning in to whisper something, and Nacahring's eyes widen, he prances in place, tail dashing from left to right as if he is ready even now to jump into the fray.

"Go, noble warrior, to roam the lands for the remainder of your days. May theybe long, and free. May no hand ever claim you again. Such is my will."

He steps back, then, and Nacahring sprints forward all of the sudden, through the crowd which parts for him as one, as he disappears into the night.

Dolwyr bows his head as a sign of respect for the man who once fought at his side, rain mixing with his tears. He is only disturbed by an old man at his side, lifting his cane and shouting "Let us hear a horn here!" his words respoken by young Dolwyr "Let us hear a horn indeed, so that its sound travels all the way where Eartnan rests now, and that he knows he will not be forgotten"

Dolwyr bows his head as a sign of respect for the man who once fought at his side, rain mixing with his tears. He is only disturbed by an old man at his side, lifting his cane and shouting "Let us hear a horn here!" his words respoken by young Dolwyr "Let us hear a horn indeed, so that its sound travels all the way where Eartnan rests now, and that he knows he will not be forgotten"