Hiraeth - A home sickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past
First light was rising in the Westfold, and the spring sky brought a red horizon in the east. The Fords of the Isen were littered with a feast fit for carrion. Once noble steeds now lay silent, some nearly picked to the bone in the slow moving water, and their riders nearby, their armour still bloody from the battle not long ago, though they had now started to be feasted upon. All the Crebain of Saruman had their fill and then some, and wolves of Dunland had even smelled the invite of death on the air and came to gorge.
Now there was no army here, for the grass was trampled leading away from Dunland. Thousands upon thousands of booted feet had turned up the green grass to turn it to thick mud, but they passed on and now they had set up camps along the eastern border of the Westfold against the foot of the hills, pouring up dark smoke as they burned their fires. The Uruk-Hai kept mainly to themselves with the other orcs, and the Dunlendings took up another main part of the camping grounds as their own, practicing swinging their newly-acquired Rohirric swords around, others wearing tall helms with horse-hair flowing from the crest while a few others threw them about to pass the time in a game of sorts.
There was one portion of the Wild Man camp quite empty, for the warlord Pren Rhyfelwr, one of the important warriors who had helped lead the army across the ford in the Battle. Now however, he was sat on the plains just out of the camp on the back of his horse. It was bloody, though it was not its own. Around its thick neck was rope, and attached to these were heads tied by their golden hair. Each one had their eyes open and glazed, and their skin was pale. Some had wounds across their heads, others burn marks though each one looked rather noble in a sense, if they were alive they would certainly have been great horse lords and were just a few days ago.
“Bore da, Pren,” a raspy voice spoke from behind, and up walked the Chieftain of the Draig-Luth, a man known as Tân Brenin. His face was burned from years passed, and around him he wore a worm-skin as a cloak, shimmering in the morning sun. “Ready for what is to come?”
“Bore da, Brenin,” Pren spoke and dismounted from his horse to stand more equal to the powerful man. “More than ready, Brenin. The hour draws closer and we stand on the land of our fathers.”
With that, a large hand reached down to pick up some loose soil and rubbed it between his leather bound palms, feeling it run through his fingers. This alone was like he was having a vision, as images of his ancestors, proud and at home. A strong feeling of hiraeth resonated through his body, and a rare smile came to his lips. Though as the soil ran out in his hands, images of these northern invaders came to his mind, with their long golden hair and their wicked iron swords, chasing his forefathers away to the hills. A deep burning of anger grew in his chest, and he looked to Tân Brenin with a deep frown.
The Dragon Chief reached out to pat a scarred hand against the warriors shoulder, “We will complete what Wulf could not.”
Pren nodded, and looked to their destination. Far in the distance stood the stronghold of Helm’s Deep, and his hand itched for his axe, fighting the urge to gather his men and ride out now. Though he had to wait, the strongest blow will come when the hammer strikes the anvil with the full force of the arm.
“Soon.”
