Bree-land, a long time ago…
It was a quiet summer evening in Middleham, the southernmost part of the Bree-fields. The atmosphere matched all the customs expected of such a night. The scent of flowers hung heavily in the air accompanied by the chirping of insects and minor twittering of birds in the trees. This silence was soon to be broken by the trotting of hooves upon the road, a horse being led by Remis Locke; upon which his wife, Ofelie Whitesage, sat astride.
The pair made their way along the path to a large house situated beside a rock formation. Remis paused, taking a deep breath as he stared at the door. Ofelie dismounted, walking beside her husband and placing a hand upon his shoulder, a silent gesture of support. He appreciated it, half turning to face her with a faint smile. There was no delaying the situation any further.
Remis knocked upon the door and waited. It was not long before it swung open casting light upon the porch. There stood Donhelm, staring down at Remis. He made no effort to mask his expression, anger mingled with disappointment. His gaze lingered for a while, which seemed like a lifetime for the youth, before he turned his eye to Ofelie and offered a crooked smile. “He’s upstairs” he said, gruffly.
Stepping aside, Remis and Ofelie removed their cloaks, folding them to place upon a nearby chair. Ofelie took the lead, taking Remis by the hand and guiding him through the common room toward the stairs leading to the upper chamber. Voices accompanied by the sounds of grief could be heard above, which made each step taken by Remis all the more dreadful. He felt numb, fearful even. The thought of what was to come made him sick to the stomach.
Upon entering the chamber, Remis and Ofelie were greeted by a small gathering of familiar faces. Cymaru was there, with her daughter Eoryn. Kailey and Donhelm’s brother were also present, crowded around a bed that contained Remis’ reluctantly accepted mentor, Sir Matheric Oakheart. All heads turned, their eyes fixed upon Remis.
“What is he doing here?” said the other Graymare.
Remis felt a hot, burning sensation rise from the back of his neck to his head. The unmistakable searing sensation of guilt. Ofelie moved forward as if to answer for him, but he stopped her. Only he could make this right, no one else.
“I came for Matheric” he said, somehow mustering a voice. “I came to… pay my respects.”
Donhelm snorted as he followed the couple into the room, brushing past Remis to make his way towards the head of the bed. “Too late to come askin’ for forgiveness, isn’t it?”
“Don!” said Cymaru, an exasperated expression upon her face.
“Well, it is! Look at him!” replied Donhelm, gesturing to the bed.
Matheric lay, bandaged and broken. Despite the blood that had soaked through the fabric he seemed at relative peace. Still alive, he lay in silence. His eyes drifting slowly around the room to each individual in turn. It was difficult to see him in such a sorry state. The once great Knight laid low from a vicious bear attack in the Trollshaws. There was no denying, in any shape or form, that Remis had brought about his demise. Straying from the caravan to hunt treasure, Remis was set upon by the beasts that Matheric fought off bravely. Remis was saved, but at what cost?
“Enough…” said Matheric, weakly. “I want to speak with him.”
Donhelm cursed. Slapping a hand against the wall.
“Alone…” Matheric added.
Soon, Remis found himself standing alone within the room as the group began to file out. Once the door had closed, Matheric raised a hand to beckon him closer.
“You know what is about to happen, don’t you?” he asked, a placid gaze resting upon Remis.
“I do” said Remis, struggling to meet his eyes.
“I’m going to die tonight. I can feel it in my bones, I shan’t last long now.” Matheric reached out to grasp Remis by the hem of his waistcoat, pulling him closer. This encouraged Remis to look at him directly in the eyes. There was a look of determination, almost pride. “Do not…” he winced.
“Matheric?” Remis asked, reaching to grasp the wrist of his unlikely friend.
“Do not… disappoint me, Locke. I gave my life to save yours. Do not waste it, and never forget what I have done!” he released Remis and slumped back against the pillows of the bed. “Put aside the scoundrel. Make better yourself and…”
Remis felt his mouth open, as if to speak; but he couldn’t. Strength had all but left Matheric, also, who merely stared back at Remis. There was a faint flicker of a smile, then his facial muscles relaxed.
Matheric’s funeral was held the following day. Many were in attendance, almost everyone from the caravan along with half of the occupants of the Prancing Pony. He was a popular man, and it showed. Remis contemplated whether his own funeral would prove as fruitful. The thought felt like a punch to the chest. He had made many enemies that day. What was to become of his name?
The Thirsty Boar, Hamglen, the present day…
Remis sat beside an open fire with a glass of wine resting in one hand whilst fingering a ring the other. He swirled the wine in a circular motion, completely lost in thought as he contemplated his fallen friend. Twelve years to this day, and what did he have to show for it? Remis glanced down at the ring in his left hand. The ring symbolised his rank as Spymaster within The Black Steel company, an order devoted to the protection of Eriador and its people. Now thirty-five years of age, he had matured in many aspects. His con-artist days had come and gone, for he decided to put his skills to better use, for a greater cause. He rose the glass toward the fire, casting shadows upon the nearby wall. “Matheric” he said, before taking a long sip.
.
