#the eriador version is no good for eating

[rohirric-hunter]

Angstober Day 02: Countdown

I did not write this on the second. I wrote it this morning.

~*~*~*~

The final day dawns, and you are up early.

Well, you believe it is dawn. The sun does not penetrate the cloud cover above, which you imagine is thickest to the east, where it originates. But the earliest risers in the Camp of the Host have begun to stir, and you with them.

Breakfast is surprisingly cheery.

You all know what lies before you, and what lies behind. And you all know that today is likely the last day you will ever see. There is no reason, you suppose, for the cooks to be stingy. The rations are still road rations, but the helpings are larger than you had expected, and more dressed up. You find what remains of the Grey Company gathered around a cookfire with a few Rangers of Ithilien. Most of the party is known to you, and you laugh along with the others as Radanir and Thurindol exchange barbed words with no heat behind them about the use of Elfspear as a seasoning. The plant they are arguing about bears little resemblance to the Elfspear you are familiar with, which grows in spiky bunches close to the ground up and down the Great East Road from the Brandywine to the Hoarwell. You daren't venture a guess as to whether or not they are related. You suspect Orthonn knows, but he watches the argument with a smirk, and does not offer his opinion on the matter.

Radanir and Thurindol both likely know too, you reflect, but the argument is comfortable. It feels safe.

Your back and shoulders still ache from — you do not allow your mind to drift to such dark thoughts, not yet. There are better things to reflect on. Instead you set your empty plate aside and stretch the sore muscles. Lothrandir sits beside you, startling you. You had not heard him approach. But he does not speak, only smiles sadly, and takes your arms, gently repositioning them into what you can feel at once is a more effective stretch. You nod your thanks, and he accepts it with a gentle squeeze of your hand, before turning his attention back to the entertainment in the center of the little breakfast circle.

Breakfast cannot last forever. The minutes are counting down until you must all go your separate ways, to attend to your last duties before the end.

But for now, you laugh, as Thurindol finally wrests the Elfspear from Radanir's hands and throws it into the pot, drowning out Radanir's cries of protest with a triumphant exclamation: "It's good for you!"

"And tastes of mud from the swamps of Angmar," Radanir retorts.

You pull your cloak about yourself and lean your head against Lothrandir's shoulder as they argue, tuning out the details and relaxing in the moment. Part of you wishes Hathellang was here — but no. He is — not safe, but safer. He will have a chance, the chance you tossed aside when you agreed to come here, to follow Strider the Ranger to certain doom in the hopes of buying time. He can run and hide and live.

Breakfast will be over soon — but until then, you are content.