Of Mabrand, the Axe of Lossarnach.

This is a tale set during the War of The Ring, at the eve of the Third Age, and stretches approximately 30 to 40 years into the subsequent Fourth Age. Whilst Tolkien and his son have given some detail regarding the Fourth Age, this is patchy at best. Therefore, although canonical character, dates and events are used where possible, I have had to fill in any gaps required. This is a Tragic piece; more along the lines of 'The Children of Húrin' than 'The Lord of The Rings'. Its focus is not on Elves and Gods, Hobbits or Dwarves, but on the race of Men.

Chapter I

Of the Vale of Lossarnach.

Forlong of Lossarnach was a Man of Gondor. He was a tall man, broad at the shoulder, dark of eye and dark of hair. A long beard framed his strong jaw, and flecks of grey shot through its dark, wiry mass. He was a lover of feasting, of song, of women and of war and blood, of home and his hearth. In battle, he was fierce; orcs and evil men beyond number fell to the great axe of Forlong. In the feasting hall, he was fiercer still. Songs were sung of his skill in battle, but more were sung of his booming, drunken roar and more still of his great gut. Forlong was a greedy man, a loud man, a reckless man, but most of all, a good man. Honourable and strong, Forlong upheld his duty to protect his family, his hall, his people and his home.

Some say the old blood of Númenor ran through his veins. And that it did; though it was far from strong, diluted by the lesser blood of lesser men. The blood of the north, from the vales of Rhovanion. The blood of Horse-men, from the vast plains of Calenardhon. The blood of the south, from accursed Umbar and the endless deserts of Harad. Like all the Lords of Gondor, Forlong had old blood.

Forlong held Lordship over Lossarnach, the Vale of Flowers. Like his Father and his Father before him, he grew up under the peaks of The White Mountains, in the shadow of great Mindolluin. Lossarnach was rightly named; for in spring, flowers of all shades and hues spread across its rolling hills like flame. The floor beneath the tall trees of its forests became a rich carpet of blue and purple, and the banks of the river Erui became a lush blanket of red and green and yellow come summer. The farmers of the Vale produced some of the finest crops in all of Gondor, and its herbs and salves were highly prized by healers and kings alike.

The Hall of the lords of Lossarnach was built onto the south face of Mindolluin itself; a great rocky outcrop at the end of the valley, crowned by a hall of blue stone and a single tower, standing like a pinnacle above the vale floor. The great feasting hall of the keep was famed across the fiefdoms. The cold flagstones were strewn with fresh flowers, soft and fragrant, and its fire pit wound around its tables like a snake of embers, each coal a scale and each flickering spark the sun's light. Its great iron doors were decorated with endless vines of flowers and scenes of battle and victory, each great warrior of renown wielding his axe with iron fury, the might of the Valar behind every etched strike. Aside from this, the hall was bare. The Lords of Lossarnach cared not for wall hangings or tapestries; the bare stone of Mindolluin was enough for them.

Forlong loved his halls. And he loved his wife. Fair Marileth, a daughter of Pelagir, raven-haired, emerald-eyed, Forlong's flower. She was only young when they wed; perhaps too young, sent away by her Father to a man she had never truly met. She was afraid of the great warrior that was to become her Lord and her husband. Yet this did not defeat her. She saw the goodness behind his harsh eyes, and soon the Lady learned to love the Lord. The Lady was kind to the people of Lossarnach, and they loved Marileth as much as the Lord did himself, and took her to calling her the flower of Lossarnach. It was said that none could command the Lord, save only the Steward and his Flower.

It was soon announced that the Lady was with child, and the land rejoiced. The Vale sprung to life with the news. It seemed as if the very flowers announced the child's arrival, their heads, raised to the sky, a fanfare of life. The child came in the harshness of winter; snow fell from far above Mindolluin's peak, smothering the Vale with a thick blanket of frost and snow. And thus to the snow, the child was born. A girl, small and soft and pink. She did not last the night.

The Vale echoed with Marileth's screams of despair, and its people responded in kind. There were no feasts to end the year; even Forlong's indomitable spirit was damaged by the loss of his dear seed. The Vale itself seemed to mourn the death of its child; the following spring, no flowers coloured its green hills, and crops failed to grow in its once-fertile soil. The woods were silent, and it seemed that even the great Erui slowed in mourning. It took many years for the Vale to recover. Yet, in this time of sadness, another child was conceived.