LotR fic -- Mithril Endures
A short story of the Fourth Age, inspired by penknife's Nothing Gold Can Stay, though you don't have to have read it first.
Because the great stories never end....
Theodred paused on an outcropping of stone, shading his eyes against the bright sun slanting off patches of snow still remaining in the hollows of the hills. Already the snow was gone from the green slopes that led down to the Swanfleet, swollen with spring melt. Beyond, three peaks towered against the sky, Celebdil, Fanuidhol, and Carahadras, glittering with snows that never failed.
He was a tall, rangy young man, loose limbed, with untidy blond hair pulled back to hang in a tail at his neck where his double quivers also rested. He wore a bow slung on his shoulder and a long knife at his side, for he hunted as he traveled and carried little else in the way of provision, though the leagues were long from Isengard to Bree. Theodred traveled alone. It was very quiet that way, and sometimes a man yearned for quiet. One would not easily guess that he was the nephew of a king.
He would be the first to say that he was one of many, as Eldarion had half a dozen nephews by four sisters, so it was not as though Theodred stood in the direct line of Gondor. Two of those half dozen were his older brothers, sons of Theoden of Ithilien, the Lord of Ithilien's brother, so no one tried to stop him when he found the courts too small and warm in the winter and even the loftiest towers too crowded. "He is a Ranger," his uncle said with a kind laugh, "And no shame in that. He will make a home when he finds a place that speaks to him, and that may be scores of years. We are a long-lived folk, and there is no hurry."
No hurry indeed. And how should there be so when despite the King's Peace there were leagues and leagues of the Wild? The Dunlendings did not live here, close as it was to the Gates of Moria of old, fearing the orcs that had now been driven out by King Durin. In any case, the Dunlendings left him alone and he them, except for some times when he came to an encampment to trade. The wars between them and the horse-lords were old stories now, and no living man could remember when Isengard had been other than a garden. He himself remembered King Elessar, his grandsire, only as a vague memory of early childhood, though he knew he had fought a great battle against the Dunlendings once.
Theodred scaled the tumbled stones, looking down into the valley by the ford. The swans had begun to come in, pairs circling round before they landed, staking out their nesting territories. The river ran turgid over its banks. It was a fertile land, and beautiful at all times of year, framed by the peaks of the mountains. But there was naught to fear from Caradhras now, naught to fear from Moria, though King Durin's people dwelt only in the eastward side. Perhaps, he thought, he would camp here for a day or two.
That night the stars seemed very bright, clear and cold and piercing. The evening star rode high, the Mariner's Star to set one's course by in the Wild. It seemed to him that the night should be filled with music, so he sang. He sang all the songs he knew, songs of the court of Gondor and songs of the Rohirrim, a song he had heard from the dwarves and his grandmother's lullabies that fell like drops of water. He sang the sad old staves of war and ruin his tutors had drummed into his head about heroes who had killed one another for the Great Jewels long ago. He sang the drinking songs of Bree and the lament for a king of Rohan who had died in the Pelennor Fields. He sang until the stones echoed, singing back to him his own voice. When he was out of music he went to sleep, closing his eyes against the stars above, half-framed by a tumble of stones like a window on the night.
In the morning Theodred woke and stretched in the sun, warmer already than the day before. The last of the snow in the hollows would go today. "What a beautiful land to be so empty!" he said, and his voice was loud in the silence. Only the swans answered.
He drank and ate waybread perched on a rock, then made his way along the river northward toward the mountains, among the scraggle of bushes and bracken and young trees that reached toward the perfect blue sky. Their roots did not seem deep along the river. Perhaps there had been a road? He was curious enough to stop and dig -- yes, a handspan down there were fine laid stones, and the roots of young trees could not force their way between them. Something glittered. He dug it out of the mud where who knows what rough feet had trod it there long ago, brushing the dirt off it so that it gave back the light of the sun untarnished, eternal and impenetrable in its beauty, a single holly leaf wrought of mithril.
Theodred turned it over in his palm. It was exquisite. It was pierced to attach to something, to a fillet or a crown? To hang as a pendant? How could it have come to lie in the mud along an old road to the ford? There were no answers to those questions, but he knew this -- it had come to him. It was a token.
Theodred stood up, pushing a lock of pale hair back from his face. Perhaps this was to be his home. Above, the swans circled in the flawless sky.
Because the great stories never end....
Theodred paused on an outcropping of stone, shading his eyes against the bright sun slanting off patches of snow still remaining in the hollows of the hills. Already the snow was gone from the green slopes that led down to the Swanfleet, swollen with spring melt. Beyond, three peaks towered against the sky, Celebdil, Fanuidhol, and Carahadras, glittering with snows that never failed.
He was a tall, rangy young man, loose limbed, with untidy blond hair pulled back to hang in a tail at his neck where his double quivers also rested. He wore a bow slung on his shoulder and a long knife at his side, for he hunted as he traveled and carried little else in the way of provision, though the leagues were long from Isengard to Bree. Theodred traveled alone. It was very quiet that way, and sometimes a man yearned for quiet. One would not easily guess that he was the nephew of a king.
He would be the first to say that he was one of many, as Eldarion had half a dozen nephews by four sisters, so it was not as though Theodred stood in the direct line of Gondor. Two of those half dozen were his older brothers, sons of Theoden of Ithilien, the Lord of Ithilien's brother, so no one tried to stop him when he found the courts too small and warm in the winter and even the loftiest towers too crowded. "He is a Ranger," his uncle said with a kind laugh, "And no shame in that. He will make a home when he finds a place that speaks to him, and that may be scores of years. We are a long-lived folk, and there is no hurry."
No hurry indeed. And how should there be so when despite the King's Peace there were leagues and leagues of the Wild? The Dunlendings did not live here, close as it was to the Gates of Moria of old, fearing the orcs that had now been driven out by King Durin. In any case, the Dunlendings left him alone and he them, except for some times when he came to an encampment to trade. The wars between them and the horse-lords were old stories now, and no living man could remember when Isengard had been other than a garden. He himself remembered King Elessar, his grandsire, only as a vague memory of early childhood, though he knew he had fought a great battle against the Dunlendings once.
Theodred scaled the tumbled stones, looking down into the valley by the ford. The swans had begun to come in, pairs circling round before they landed, staking out their nesting territories. The river ran turgid over its banks. It was a fertile land, and beautiful at all times of year, framed by the peaks of the mountains. But there was naught to fear from Caradhras now, naught to fear from Moria, though King Durin's people dwelt only in the eastward side. Perhaps, he thought, he would camp here for a day or two.
That night the stars seemed very bright, clear and cold and piercing. The evening star rode high, the Mariner's Star to set one's course by in the Wild. It seemed to him that the night should be filled with music, so he sang. He sang all the songs he knew, songs of the court of Gondor and songs of the Rohirrim, a song he had heard from the dwarves and his grandmother's lullabies that fell like drops of water. He sang the sad old staves of war and ruin his tutors had drummed into his head about heroes who had killed one another for the Great Jewels long ago. He sang the drinking songs of Bree and the lament for a king of Rohan who had died in the Pelennor Fields. He sang until the stones echoed, singing back to him his own voice. When he was out of music he went to sleep, closing his eyes against the stars above, half-framed by a tumble of stones like a window on the night.
In the morning Theodred woke and stretched in the sun, warmer already than the day before. The last of the snow in the hollows would go today. "What a beautiful land to be so empty!" he said, and his voice was loud in the silence. Only the swans answered.
He drank and ate waybread perched on a rock, then made his way along the river northward toward the mountains, among the scraggle of bushes and bracken and young trees that reached toward the perfect blue sky. Their roots did not seem deep along the river. Perhaps there had been a road? He was curious enough to stop and dig -- yes, a handspan down there were fine laid stones, and the roots of young trees could not force their way between them. Something glittered. He dug it out of the mud where who knows what rough feet had trod it there long ago, brushing the dirt off it so that it gave back the light of the sun untarnished, eternal and impenetrable in its beauty, a single holly leaf wrought of mithril.
Theodred turned it over in his palm. It was exquisite. It was pierced to attach to something, to a fillet or a crown? To hang as a pendant? How could it have come to lie in the mud along an old road to the ford? There were no answers to those questions, but he knew this -- it had come to him. It was a token.
Theodred stood up, pushing a lock of pale hair back from his face. Perhaps this was to be his home. Above, the swans circled in the flawless sky.