(Many weeks earlier)...
Ryheric had finally left Cwennie in a peaceful glade. They had sought her signs of fate in their easy travels. Then, said their farewells. Now the maiden peacefully slept while Son of Mouse, the colt dark as the night sky, bore away his rider. The pale eight course lute Greengrove had given him was almost luminous on the dark bard's back, under the starlight. The long, curved and twice-chipped blade on his hip containing the darkness and starlight in its polished grey. Vicious as the far south where it was made, benign as a still lake.
Onward through the night they moved. Ryheric paced the horse. Kacis was eager, but they had a long road ahead. Night became day. Ryheric spurned sleep, but he stopped to eat, drink and let the horse rest, graze, drink and breathe. Kacis, whom Ry only outwardly referred to as Son of Mouse, was not the finest bred beast, but he was at least part Rohirrim stock, and took well to the hard press.
Another day and night of travel, then another. Then another. A balance and rhythm was found, through paths of nature, or along the tracks and roads. The best places to tread through glades, copses or over hills were picked by the colt through the terrain as it became routine and familiar. The sounds and sights of the waning summer wilderness were their home, and the gradual change as they moved was a natural novelty.
Ryheric napped, rather than sleeping. Sometimes when they stopped, sometimes drooped momentarily in the saddle. He never slept for long. The dreams and flashbacks worsened and woke him every time. Fatigue set in. The naps became more prevalent, in short bursts.
It was near the edge of autumn when they passed out of Breeland along the East-West road.
