Rohan, West Emnet, heading South, February 26

Chapter 4: Rest

"Up w' both o' ye now, quick, on up you go there," Fyren said as fast as he could, his words clipping and running together so that Brytta understood more what me meant by his action than the actual words. Strong hands abruptly swung her up into Wintra's saddle, and Fastred, to his consternation, was lifted up as well. Brytta knew how he hated being treated as a little boy, but she also knew that they must hurry, for the crows' beating wings could be distinguished now against the clouds that foretold of snow. She feared the crows, and dreaded the snow.

Fyren looked at Wintra for a long moment. The children were both slight of frame. They had to move fast – he couldn't very well get away in good time if he were running along beside them, could he? Still, with a reluctant drooping of his shoulders, Fyren knew that the saddlebag with his bedroll attached would have to go – the extra weight would not be fair to the horse, and, Fyren reasoned, they would be passing his old grounds anyway. He could surely find other blankets when they got there. He knew the herding house was likely to have been burned (he had not looked back to check, being in too much of a hurry to get out when he first heard the orcs coming) but perhaps the barn there, like this one, had been saved. There were thick horse blankets in there. The pack was expendable. Or at any rate, it had to be expendable now, whether it was needed or not. With a pained grimace and deft fingers he undid the buckles that he had only moments before tightened on the saddle as well, all the while cursing the luck that had brought him here in the first place. But there was no use in it, he knew, for whether he liked it or not, the crows were nearing them and the beating of their wings could now be heard scratching at the very air. It was too late to go unnoticed by them, but perhaps if they made it far enough away, the crows would consider them trivial.

Fyren hated the sound of the leather saddle hitting the ground, but there was naught to be done about it. He was stuck with the children, and if it was a choice between them and the saddle, it had to be the saddle. And he had to go too – he had no intention of staying for the crows to take delight in, after all. He'd seen Leofwine too, and had no plans on finding out what the crows would do if they found a live person, if that was what they did with a dead one. These crows, he knew, did not fear the living the way other birds did. These were different, and crossing their path was not something in his best interest at all. He did not know if the crows were following them or someone else, but he knew it would make little difference if the winged creatures caught up with them. Even if they weren't the true quarry, they were still just as vulnerable as whoever or whatever was.

They had to hurry – Fyren knew that if they did not, they stood an even worse chance of ever seeing another place beyond that field again.

Once again, Brytta found herself hoisted upon Wintra's back, though now she clung to the gelding's mane with a tighter grasp, determined not to slip from the smooth hairs. This time, Fastred mounted by himself, and within seconds Fyren had mounted behind both children and took the reins into his rough hands. One fast clicking of his tongue urged Wintra into a quick walk to a trot to a rocking canter. If it had been another day, Brytta would have smiled and pretended to fly, for it felt so wonderful, as if they and the horse were one giant flying beast, pounding into the earth in a way that did not jolt one at all. To Brytta, they were no longer fleeing some terrifying black shroud in the sky – they were soaring, they were free in the wind, they were practically floating.

She was startled from her reverie as she felt her knees loosen and she slid to her left as Wintra switched from the canter into the gallop that Fyren was urging him into. A gasp of panic rose in Brytta's throat as she clutched at Wintra's mane, only to regain her balance when Fastred held onto her waist. There, that was better – she did not want to go tumbling now! The idea frightened her, and she grabbed at the rough mane with a new ferocity. She knew that Wintra would not feel it no matter how hard she tugged, and that gave her all the prompting she needed to hold on as tightly as she could.

The beating intensified as if a violent thundering storm was clapping down upon them. Or at least, so it seemed to Brytta as they sped on. At first she did not want to look back, did not want to see what she feared would be her fate falling down upon her, but soon she could not bear not knowing, and so turned her head up and behind them to peer over Fyren's head to the black wings. There were nearly fifty of the birds that she could see, not many to the eye, but to the terrified young ear they were a thousand. And the nearest shelter she could think of was Master Leofwine's hold, and that was miles away.

As Fyren urged Wintra on down the slope that had been the far-away hill obstructing the view from the burned home, Brytta called out over the wind and the sound of hooves and the beating wings, "But where're we going?" Her voice was small and distant, quavering so much that Fyren at first could not decide whether it had been his imagination speaking in the wind or the girl. He whipped his head around to calculate their situation with the crows, and tried to cover the mounting despair he was sure must be showing on his face.

"Where'ever there's a decent place is where we'll be headin'," he answered without meeting her eyes.

"But there's snow coming soon, what'll we do, what about them, they'll just follow us, won't they?" she insisted. Fyren suppressed the urge to tell the girl to keep quiet – at least she was not crying, he reasoned – and instead only grimaced as he answered.

"I know that. I'm findin' a place where we might be able t' hide, and it'll be a little protection from the snow that'll come, eh?"

"But where? There aren't trees for miles, and can't they see in the dark?"

The girl was certainly going to be a handful when it came to questions – though it probably would balance out the lack of questions from the boy.

"I don't know if they see in th' dark, and I'm only hopin' they can't, so we'll give it our best shot and 'ope for the best, since we haven't much of a choice, do we then?" Sensing the next question she would yell, he finished, 'I don't know if they burned everythin', so mayhap there's a woodshed or somethin' of the sort that'll do for sleepin' in for the night and snow. If we're still alive by morning – lucky if we are - then we'll set off same direction – there'll be trees nearer there, and then we'll be better off."

Fyren's grim prediction sank to the bottom of her stomach. Brytta gripped Wintra's mane tighter when Fyren mentioned the slim possibility of their still being alive come dawn. Her knuckles were bright red, and on them small white flakes fell and stayed before sliding down to Wintra's coat. It had begun to snow.

Down another hill they plunged, then forward through the churning grass that was beginning to froth like water with the snow beginning to stick to the tops.

To Fastred, the white-topped fields resembled some slanted, skewed vision of a plain of Simbelmyne. In his mind, he saw it change from a spring field full of bobbing flower heads – the refuge he had once known in better times - to one of the present, with harsh black blots of crows swooping in over the white flowers, their shadows becoming larger and larger until the snow-Simbelmyne-flowers were engulfed and swallowed by one large black shadow of wings, and over it all the grating squall of the crows could be heard. Fastred blinked, and the vision was gone, and in its place was the snow falling down in a silent rhythm to his clenched hands, and the beating of wings behind and above them.

He had dreamt of this. Indeed, he had even drawn the flowers for Brytta once, on a night so recent. Yet it seemed as it he had drawn it in another life. In his heart, there was a burning – if he had felt it in his eyes, he knew he might have cried. But he did not. He could not let himself – not here. Later, if he found time alone, he would, if the feeling remained. If it did not, then so be it.

The sky had darkened with the falling of the snow, and though they continued to ride and the crows continued their pursuit, neither party felt as though they were gaining an edge over the other. At first this trouble Fyren, but when he discovered that as he was not gaining over the crows, so they were not gaining over him, he settled into the rhythm of the ride. Eventually they had to slow, for Wintra was tiring, but as they slowed to a quick walk, Fyren noted that the crows too seemed to be tiring. They had fallen behind at last – this, he decided, would give them enough time to find the shelter he was seeking. The land was beginning to look more familiar, and later he recognized the land as the outer rim of Leofwine's hold.

The snow still fell, and their way was made harder as the cold grew more bitter, yet in his heart, Fyren hoped that the harder the snow made it to see, the harder the crows would find the task of following them. At least it might hinder them until dawn. It was a small sliver of hope, but it was enough to urge the sorry party on until Fyren pointed to a small building far ahead that stood out against the grey snow.

"There," he said, as he led the others to follow his gaze to it. "Not much, but it'll do to sleep in. So kind of them to leave it for us."

For indeed, the small woodshed had been left unburned, whether by fate – Fyren preferred the term 'destiny' for the moment, as it sounded a tad more on the cheerful side - or negligence. As fast as they could manage with their stiffened fingers, they helped secure Wintra close to the shed where there was a small bit of shelter from a small portin of overhanging roof. Fyren would have liked to see if the barn was still standing, but it would be dark soon and he had no torch with him, and if they lost their way in the snow, they would find themselves in a much worse situation than the one they were presently in. The best he could do was to use his cloak as a makeshift horse blanket and hope it would suffice.

"Not a bit more I can do, my friend," he consoled Wintra. "Ye're simply too big to fit in there w'th us."

Once inside the woodshed, the three travelers hugged their knees and looked at each other. Then they looked away. Fastred blew on his hands and Brytta followed suit, trying to thaw sore fingers. Soon Brytta was warm as she felt she would get, and she hummed softly to herself, trying to block out the fear that at any moment, the crows would alight on the roof to have their way with them.

"What're ye hummin' there?" Fyren asked as he broke a small twig from the pile of wood to his back into pieces. "You can sing a little bit so I can hear the words at least eh? Singin'll make the night pass."

Brytta's voice was still low and slight, but she raised it to a slightly higher pitch.

"There are flowers growing upon the hill

like they always have before…"

She stopped.

"I, I forget the next verse."

"It's alright, just go to the next part ye do remember," Fyren prompted.

A/N this verse showing where the title of this fanfiction novella came from has been deleted due to policy on not quoting other writers, even if one gives them full credit for their work. Paraphrasing, it talk about a young boy riding way to war, using the phrase, "Away, fine lad, once more".

Again Brytta halted, this time casting her eyes to the ground. "I don't remember the rest."

"Oh, come on now, yes ye do, just think hard on it an' it'll come to ye right quick." Fyren said, misunderstanding her tone and thinking she had merely lost her nerve. He sent her a smile, hoping to cheer her, but was met with a sullen-faced stare that was brimming with despair. She shook her head.

"I don't remember it."

Fyren was silent as he thought about what she had remembered. Finally, he said, "That's a mighty sad song for someone your age to be singing. Who taught it to you?"

"Modor – it was at the wake of our cousin Cynne, and one of the old masters was singing it with another group – men who were warriors, I think – and she taught me the words later that night." Brytta wiped her nose on her sleeve and shivered.

"You know any nicer songs? One that's not about dying and such, mayhap?" Fyren tried. The last thing he wanted was for her to sing a dirge. He feared his own death well enough this evening as it was – listening to his own death song was far from what he would call a pleasant time.

But Brytta was not finished talking about the first song. "It's about dying in battle, isn't it? And the flowers – Simbelmynë, the little white grave ones? I like them. They're pretty."

"Yes, it is, and now if you'll be s' kind, I'd thank ye to find a nicer song – ye know any about great feasts in large halls with roaring fires?"

Brytta shook her head. "I don't know many. I'm only this old." She held out seven fingers. They were dirty and scraped, and in his heart, Fyren wished that these children had not been born for such times as these. Such dark days he and they had seen, and he feared more would arise with the dawn. Such dark days.

"You don't know a one more? Just a wee one, somethin' a mite more cheery then?" Fyren coaxed. "A drinkin' song, a Yuletide song? A foaling song?"

"Modor doesn't sing much – doesn't like it that Fasted." She glanced at her older brother, silently brooding in the corner. "Doesn't like it that he can't hear them, so she never sang much. Just when it was required."

"So you know the battle song – ever hear any other required songs?" Fyren was desperate. He didn't want the last song he would hear from a youthful voice to be the one sung for death. It wasn't fitting – or maybe it was too fitting, he couldn't decide. Yet the songs he knew were not ones meant for the ears of a little girl – they just wouldn't do, and he'd have to think back hard to the decent ones he did know.

Sighing, Brytta clasped her fingers behind her back and in a hollow, lilting voice that sounded more like a haunted recitation of a poem than a real song, she lilted,

A/N: this short verse ommited due to regulation stating that I may not so much as partially quote another person's work even if I use footnotes giving them credit.

"Can't be arguin' with that now, can we?" he asked wryly. Outside, if the birds were still there, they could not be heard, but the idea of them was enough to keep the travelers alert. To himself, Fyren echoed, "Can't be arguin' with that at all."

"Yes we can," Brytta replied flatly. "There aren't any trees."

Fyren chuckled. "Ah, but there are – in the mornin', if ye look out and see, you'll notice way beyond this, out south still more, there're trees, and beyond them're more trees – wild ones, they say."

"Wild ones?" Her response came as an echo.

Ah, that caught her attention – good, all the better to keep it until she fell asleep, better to distract her for now. What Fyren would do about the boy, he did not know, but the lad seemed well enough on his own, sitting in the corner mulling to himself. Fastred – yes, that was his name, Fyren remembered – looked well accustomed to solitude, and if the attention his younger sister was getting bothered him, he showed no trace of it on his face.

Aloud, Fyren replied with ease, "Yes, wild ones – they say they used to roam the hills, walking up and down and making the queerest noises – and all of them different. Some having long beards of roots and leaves, others tall and slim like beeches, and the old oaks all gnarled and aged. And all of them wild and free – aye, there are still tales that say they roam there still."

Fyren's words brought a glow to Brytta's eyes as she imagined trees wandering as if alive. Then her voice dropped in disappointment.

"But those are old tales, aren't they?"

"Old? Only as old as the trees are. All tales are old, after all – the ones of the trees, the wake songs, and the Yuletide songs. All of them old as old. But not all are cheery then, not the battle and funeral songs which you seem to hold so dear. I'm for hearing a Yule song."

Brytta frowned. "But Fastred can't hear it – it's not proper, it's like eating infront of someone starving, 'tis what modor says."

Fyren raised one eyebrow. "I don't think he's starvin'. Looks fine thinkin' by himself if you mind me say so. If I sing real low, he won't even know what he's missin', eh?"

She fidgeted. It had been so long since she had heard a new song – she could not even rightly recall the last time she had heard one. She was so cold too – a song would warm her insides, she thought, just a little bit. Fyren's jingling voice interrupted her decision.

"It'd be a right small secret a-twixt us."

A secret – a secret song that she could savor – a song only she knew the words to, aside from Fyren, she reasoned. It would be all hers, a delicious song.

Smiling in the dark, she agreed. "Yes, I'd like to hear it very much."

But Brytta stopped and frowned before Fyren could begin. It just wasn't right, somehow, to be singing Yule songs, even if they were secret. The memory of warm smiles and oranges at Yule, and candles lit to shine on their faces as they licked their fingers of the sweet, foreign fruits rushed back to her, and she sighed, and closed her eyes. She fell asleep the sound of Fyren singing alone, his clipped voice blurring in her dreams to a language she did not know, and her dreams confused her, for they were of places she had not seen, and of creatures only known in tales.

In the corner, Fastred fingered a piece of paper that he had pulled from his pocket. He knew that the two others were singing, and it mattered little to him. Oh, he wished he could hear what they were saying – wished indeed that he knew what it was like to hear at all – but such a wish could not be granted, and so he did not dwell on it too much. He had more important things on his mind.

There would be no going back to their home – that much he knew, if Brytta did not. So what was there to do? The answer was simple in theory – to go forward, since going backwards was no longer an option, and staying where they were, right there in the woodshed, would be absurd.

But what was beyond, what lay ahead of them on the plains? He had seen pictures in the larger holds during Yule when they had visited – had seen weavings of far countries of tall green trees, and a city of white stone that was built into the rock itself and had almost shimmered with the pure threads used to portray it. He knew there were places that were different. But he had never thought he would be heading towards them as he found himself doing now. Where would they end up, he wondered. And how far would the man who had let them ride with him go with them? Would he stay with them, or would he drop them when it was most convenient for the man? Fastred understood that they had been saved by his good graces, and that they would part with him when it best suited the man. If the young man stayed with them, Fastred decided it was all for the best, for he and his sister were young. Despite how the boy would have liked to think he could easily fend off any danger that came their way, he knew in his heart that he would be an adversary that would be easily dealt with.

Did he like the young man who was speaking with his sister, was making Brytta grin to forget the cold? Fastred was not sure. But they were safe – and the young man had helped them to be that way, and so any thoughts as to his character were set aside for the moment. Now, they were at least under some shelter, and after a yawn, Fastred folded the piece of paper he had been wrinkling between his fingers and placed it back in his pocket, then blew on his hands to give the tips of his finger some small tingling feeling again. He would think of their situation once the dawn came. Now, he was tired.

Though he did not know it, Brytta was singing softly with scattered stumbling over the new words as she repeated the "Yule" song that Fyren was attempting to teach her. To the silent tune, Fastred fell asleep curled in the corner, one hand in his pocket clutching the unfinished sketch of Hwesta.