The weight of Théodred's death hung heavy in the air as Théoden stood before his son's tomb, his head bowed in grief. Kitra watched from a respectful distance, her heart aching for the king's loss. She knew all too well the pain of losing a loved one, and seeing Théoden's anguish brought back memories of her own father's passing.
Eowyn's mournful voice echoed through the somber silence as she sang a lament for her fallen cousin. Her ethereal melody carried on the wind, a haunting tribute to Théodred's life and bravery. Kitra closed her eyes, letting the sorrowful notes wash over her, mingling with her own unspoken grief.
As the ceremony drew to a close, Théoden remained motionless before the tomb, as if the weight of his sorrow had turned him to stone. Kitra hesitated, wondering if she should approach the king and offer her condolences, but a gentle hand on her shoulder stopped her. She turned to see Aragorn, his eyes filled with understanding.
"Give him time," Aragorn murmured, his voice low and soothing. Kitra nodded, acknowledging Aragorn's wisdom. She cast one last glance at the grieving king before turning away, her steps heavy as she made her way back to the Golden Hall.
Before she made it to the doors though she glanced over her shoulder and caught sight of something in the distance. There was a horse with two small figures a top of it. As it slowed it's pace one of them fell off and she realized that it was two children. Without warning she took off at a sprint to get to them.
Kitra raced across the grassy plains, her heart pounding as she approached the horse and the two children. As she drew closer, she could see that they were a young boy and girl, both looking exhausted and frightened. The horse, too, seemed weary, its coat matted with sweat and dirt.
"Are you all right?" Kitra called out, slowing her pace as she neared them. The boy, who appeared to be the older of the two, looked up at her with wide, haunted eyes. He nodded slowly, his arms wrapped protectively around his sister.
Kitra knelt beside the children, her voice gentle as she asked, "What has happened? Where are your parents?"
The boy swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he spoke. "Our village... it was attacked. Orcs came in the night, burning and killing. We barely escaped."
The girl, no more than six years old, began to sob, burying her face in her brother's shoulder. Kitra's heart clenched at the sight, and she reached out to place a comforting hand on the girl's back.
"You're safe now," Kitra assured them, her voice steady and soothing. "I'm Kitra. What are your names?"
The boy hesitated for a moment before answering. "I'm Eadric, and this is my sister, Aelfwyn."
Kitra offered them a warm smile. "Eadric and Aelfwyn, you've been very brave. Let's get you inside and find you some food and rest."
She helped the children to their feet and guided the weary horse towards the stables. Aragorn met her halfway, taking the horse from her. As Aragorn led the horse to the stables, Kitra wrapped her arms around the shoulders of Eadric and Aelfwyn, guiding them towards the Golden Hall. The children leaned into her, their small bodies trembling with exhaustion and fear.
Inside the hall, Kitra found a quiet corner and sat the children down on a bench. She knelt before them, her eyes filled with compassion. "Wait here," she said softly. "I'll fetch you some food and water."
"Can you watch after them while I go find some food for them? Maybe find some blankets?" Kitra asked Alana, as she got the kids settled at a table.
Alana nodded, her kind eyes filled with concern for the young siblings. "Of course, Kitra. I'll stay with them until you return."
Kitra gave Alana a grateful smile before hurrying off to the kitchens. She quickly gathered a tray of bread, cheese, and dried fruits, along with a pitcher of fresh water and two cups. On her way back, she stopped by the linen storage and grabbed two soft, warm blankets.
When Kitra returned to the corner where she had left the children, she found Alana sitting beside them, speaking to them in a gentle, soothing voice, her arm around Aelfwyn's small shoulders as the girl leaned against her. Eadric sat close to his sister, his eyes still haunted but his posture slightly more relaxed in Alana's comforting presence.
Kitra paused for a moment, smiling sadly as she saw the mother in Alana coming out. It had been twenty years since
Kitra approached them, setting the tray of food and the blankets on the table. "Here you go," she said softly, offering the children an encouraging smile. "Eat as much as you'd like. You must be famished."
Eadric and Aelfwyn looked up at Kitra with grateful eyes, their small hands reaching tentatively for the food. As they began to eat, tears streamed down their dirt-stained cheeks, the simple act of being cared for overwhelming them after their harrowing ordeal.
Kitra's heart ached as she watched them, and she gently draped the blankets around their shoulders, providing them with warmth and comfort. She exchanged a look with Alana, both women understanding the long road to healing that lay ahead for these young survivors.
As the children ate what remained of the fellowship joined them in the hall, Théoden trailing in behind Gandalf who had witnessed the entire scene. Théoden approached the table where Kitra and Alana sat with the children. His eyes, still heavy with the grief of his son's loss, softened as he took in the sight of the young survivors. Gandalf stood beside him, a knowing look in his wise eyes.
"Who are these children?" Théoden asked, his voice gentle yet tinged with concern.
Kitra stood, bowing her head respectfully to the king. "My lord, these are Eadric and Aelfwyn. They fled their village after it was attacked by orcs. They have lost everything."
Alana, standing tall beside Kitra, stepped forward, her voice rang out solemnly as she addressed the group, words heavy with weight and urgency. "They were taken by surprise, defenseless against their attackers. The Wild Men have swept through the Westfold, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake - homes, crops, and even trees have been burned to ash." As her eyes swept over the gathered people, her words cut through the air like a sharp blade.
One of the children, Freda, looked up from her plate of food with wide, frightened eyes. Her small voice trembled as she asked, "Where is Mama?"
Eowyn approached with a sad smile, gently wrapping a warm blanket around Freda's shoulders. She whispered soothing words to the child, trying to provide comfort despite her own sorrow. The weight of loss hung heavy in her voice.
Gandalf sat beside Theoden, his wise eyes filled with concern as he spoke softly. His every word carried great weight and significance. "This is only the beginning of the terror that Saruman will unleash," he warned gravely. Theoden lifted his head, listening intently to the wizard's words. "His fear of Sauron drives him now, making him all the more dangerous. You must ride out and meet him head-on, drawing him away from your women and
Aragorn took a step forward. "You have 2,000 good men riding north as we speak. Éomer is loyal to you. His men will return and fight for their king."
Theoden stood abruptly, his face etched with lines of worry and responsibility. He slowly paced back and forth, his eyes fixed on the ground before he finally spoke. "They will be 300 leagues from here by now. Éomer cannot help us. I know what it is you want of me," Theoden's voice was firm, yet laced with sadness. "But I will not bring further death to my people. I will not risk open war."
Aragorn's patience began to wear thin, his frustration slipping into his tone. "Open war is upon you, whether you would risk it or not."
Theoden's eyes flashed with defiance as he retorted sharply, "When last I looked, Theoden, not Aragorn, was King of Rohan."
Kitra, who had been silently observing the heated exchange between the two men, stepped forward from her spot next to Alan and the children. Her voice was calm and composed as she addressed both of them. "Yes, and if the roles were reversed, you would both do what is best for your people." She scanned their faces, imploring them to see reason in each other's perspective amidst their own pride and stubbornness.
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of Kitra's words settling over them all. Aragorn glanced at her briefly, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes, while Theoden's expression softened slightly, though his resolve remained firm.
The moment was broken by an unexpected interruption—Gimli, who had been eating and drinking rather noisily, burped loudly, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment as he looked around sheepishly.
Gandalf, undeterred, turned back to Theoden with a grave expression. "Then what is the king's decision?" he asked, his voice steady but filled with urgency.
Amid the chaos and fear outside the Golden Hall, Hama stood tall and steadfast among the people of Rohan. His voice carried through the air with a commanding tone as he relayed Theoden's urgent orders. "By order of the king, the city must empty. We make for the refuge of Helm's Deep."
As Gandalf walked through the throngs of people, his grey robes billowing behind him, Kitra, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and Alana followed closely behind. The streets were filled with anxious crowds, their movements frantic as they gathered their belongings in a hurry.
Hama's words echoed off the stone walls as he called out to the people, urging them to leave quickly. "Do not burden yourselves with treasures," he bellowed over the commotion. "Take only what provisions you need."
Kitra's heart felt heavy as she watched families scramble to pack their most precious possessions, knowing they may never return to this place they called home. She could see in their eyes that they had already lost so much, and now they were being forced to abandon what little they had left. The weight of impending battle hung thick in the air, like a stormcloud threatening to burst at any moment.
The journey to the stables was tense and heavy with worry. The sight of the towering fortress, Helm's Deep, looming in the distance only added to their growing sense of dread.
Gandalf muttered under his breath as they walked, his face etched with concern. "Helm's Deep," he said solemnly, his eyes scanning the horizon.
"They flee to the mountains when they should stand and fight," Gimli grumbled, his frustration palpable. His grip tightened on his axe as he spoke. "Who will defend them if not their king?"
Aragorn, ever the voice of reason, responded quietly. "He's only doing what he thinks is best for his people." He glanced briefly at Kitra, offering a small smile of reassurance. "Helm's Deep has saved them in the past."
As they entered the stables, the scent of hay and horses filled the air. The animals stirred nervously, sensing the tension radiating from their companions. Gandalf paused, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "There is no way out of that ravine," he said gravely, gesturing toward Helm's Deep. "Theoden is walking into a trap. He may believe he's leading them to safety, but what they will get is a massacre."
Kitra's heart sank at Gandalf's words. She exchanged a worried glance with Alana, both knowing the harrowing truth of it all. Helm's Deep, once a symbol of hope and strength for Rohan, now seemed like a fragile defense against the gathering storm.
Gandalf turned to Aragorn, urgency burning in his eyes. "Theoden has a strong will, but I fear for him. I fear for the survival of Rohan," he said urgently. "He will need you before the end, Aragorn. The people of Rohan will need you."
Aragorn took a deep breath, his jaw clenching with determination. "The defenses will hold," he said, though the weight of the impending battle was evident in his voice.
Gandalf approached Shadowfax, his fingers gently stroking the horse's shimmering mane as he spoke in a low, melodic voice. "The Grey Pilgrim. That was my name in days past. Three hundred lifetimes of Men I have traversed this earth, and now my time is running short."
Kitra observed Gandalf with reverence as he mounted his steed, his expression transforming into one of determination and courage. He cast a fleeting glance at Aragorn before his eyes settled upon Kitra. "Watch over her for me," he whispered, his voice laced with trust and concern.
Aragorn nodded solemnly, stepping forward to hold open the gate for Gandalf. The wizard gazed down at them all, his voice projecting strength and authority. "Keep watch for my return at first light on the fifth day. At dawn, look to the East."
Aragorn nodded once more, his gaze unwavering. "Go."
With that command, Gandalf rode off into the night, the rhythmic sound of Shadowfax's hooves gradually fading into the distance until they could no longer be heard or seen. Kitra's eyes followed the path where he had disappeared, her heart heavy with a mixture of hope and trepidation. The journey to Helm's Deep would undoubtedly test their limits and the battles ahead seemed insurmountable.
The dim light of the stables was filled with the sounds of restless horses, their heavy breathing and shuffling hooves echoing off the wooden walls. Kitra stood beside Aragorn, her eyes scanning the scene before them. Two men struggled to control a horse that was clearly distressed, thrashing and rearing, the ropes taut in their hands. The horse's eyes were wide with fear, its movements erratic, and it was clear to Kitra that it had seen too much battle.
Nearby, Eowyn, with her flowing blonde hair, was tending to her own grey horse, her face focused as she brushed its mane. Kitra caught sight of her, the daughter of Rohan's house, proud and composed. She sighed softly, her gaze lingering before she turned to her cousin.
"Alana," Kitra said quietly, "would you go ahead and prepare our things? I'll stay here a bit longer."
Alana nodded, her eyes briefly meeting Kitra's in silent understanding. "Of course," she replied, turning to leave the stables. Kitra watched her go, knowing Alana would make sure everything was in order for their journey.
Kitra then turned back toward the commotion as Aragorn moved closer to the distressed horse. Her brow furrowed as the stablemen tried to reason with him.
"That horse is half mad, my lord," one of the stablemen said, his voice strained as he struggled with the rope. "There's nothing you can do. Leave him."
But Aragorn, with his quiet, unshakable resolve, ignored the warning and approached the horse with calm confidence. "Fæste, stille nú, fæste, stille nú. Lac is drefed, gefrægon," he said softly, his voice steady as he spoke in the ancient language. Fast, be quiet now, fast, be quiet now. A battle is stirred up, they heard.
Kitra watched as the horse, once wild and terrified, began to calm at Aragorn's gentle words. The sight of it made her smile fondly. He had the same calming affect on her as well. Slowly, she approached, her hand reaching out to stroke the dark neck of the horse. Its skin trembled beneath her fingers, but she could feel the tension easing as Aragorn continued to speak.
"Hwæt nemnað ðe?" Kitra asked, her voice a soothing balm to the creature's fear. What is your name? Hm? What is your name?
Eowyn, having noticed the scene, turned toward them, her eyes locking onto Aragorn. She stepped closer, her voice soft but filled with emotion. "His name is Brego. He was my cousin's horse."
Kitra's eyes shifted to Eowyn, noticing the way she looked at Aragorn, a mixture of sadness and admiration in her gaze. Kitra couldn't help but feel a slight irritation at Eowyn's intrusion. Eowyn seemed captivated by Aragorn, and it perturbed Kitra more than she wanted to admit.
Aragorn, unaware of the tension building in Kitra's chest, spoke again, this time addressing the horse. "Brego. Ðin nama is cynglic," he said with a gentle smile. Your name is kingly.
Eowyn took a tentative step closer to Aragorn, her eyes never leaving his face. Kitra's breath caught in her throat as she watched the obvious admiration in Eowyn's posture, her body leaning ever so slightly towards the ranger. Aragorn, completely focused on soothing the skittish horse, was unaware of Eowyn's intense gaze.
Stepping away slightly, Kitra felt her heart tighten at the sight before her. It was here, watching Aragorn's gentle yet firm touch with the horse, that she couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy as Eowyn inched closer. She tried to suppress the emotion rising in her chest and looked away.
"Man le trasta, Brego?" Aragorn murmured, his voice soft and soothing as he stroked the horse's head. "Man cenich?" What troubles you, Brego? What did you see?
Eowyn, still watching Aragorn with barely concealed adoration, spoke up. "I have heard of the magic of Elves... but I never expected to find it in a Ranger from the North," she said, her voice filled with quiet awe. "You speak as if you are one of their own."
Kitra bristled at the compliment, feeling a twinge of annoyance at Eowyn's open admiration for Aragorn.
Aragorn's reply was simple, his voice like a steady stream running over smooth stones as he continued to stroke Brego's neck. His fingers moved with practiced ease, caressing the powerful muscles of his trusted horse. "I was raised in Rivendell... for a time," he said, his gaze still fixed on Brego, oblivious to the undercurrents swirling around him.
Kitra couldn't help but take a small step back from Aragorn as he gently untied the last of the ropes holding Brego and whispered, "Turn this fellow free. He's seen enough of war." Her heart swelled with admiration for him; he was everything she admired: strong, kind, and compassionate. But at the same time, Eowyn's presence and obvious infatuation with Aragorn left Kitra feeling unsettled. As Aragorn walked away with his saddle slung over his arm, Kitra couldn't help but watch him go, her gaze softening at the sight of such a noble man.
But her attention was pulled back to Eowyn, who stood with Brego still by her side. The delicate features of the Lady of Rohan were clouded with longing as she watched Aragorn disappear from view. Kitra felt a twinge of sympathy for her; it wasn't easy to have one's heart set on someone who could never return those feelings.