Eomen

The days wore on with the quiet rhythm I had grown to trust , the creak of leather straps, the ring of axe on wood, the whisper of wind through the high grass. Eomen stayed. That, in itself, told me more than his words ever could.

The brushing soothed the horse more than it soothed me, though I suppose I pretended it did both. His coat, dark as a thundercloud, gleamed beneath my hand. He was a good creature. Strong. Still young, still restless. Much like another soul I’d been expecting. I heard the boots before the voice, quick, clipped steps that hadn’t yet learned to walk with patience. Then came the greeting, sharp with youthful pride.