Of Mabrand, the Axe of Lossarnach

by gregja21

A tragic tale of war, love and loss concerning the life of a man of Gondor at the end of the Third Age. Mabrand is the heir of Lossarnach, one of the largest Fiefdoms of Gondor. This tale follows him from his youth in the Vale, through the War of the Ring, and the subsequent military campaigns of Elessar in the early Fourth Age. My first fic. Enjoy!

2. Chapter 2

Chapter II

Of Mabrand's Youth.

The child proved to be a grievance upon Marileth. The following months were a time of great strife for the Lady and her Lord; it was a relief to all the people of Lossarnach when the child came out of the womb, screaming and wailing. A boy; a new Lord of the Vale. Marileth was left half dead. There were few celebrations that year.

The named the child Mabrand. He was like his father in all but the eyes; they were a deep, piercing green, like that of the ocean. His mother's eyes. His cries tumbled through the halls of Forlong like a great sigh of relief; both mother and child lived to see the morning light. Yet there was no sense of happiness. The people took to calling the boy Naeron, the sad one, for he did not possess the usual joy of a child. This would never reach the ears of Forlong, for all lamentation was overshadowed by his blind pride.

And so, Mabrand came into this world. He grew quickly, and as he grew the Vale began to prosper once again. Even in youth, Mabrand possessed the stubborn nature of his father. He was quick to anger, and displayed a surprising grimness usually possessed by those many times his age. His arrogant commands were like roars, constant and demanding, inspiring frustration and even fear in the most stoic of manservants. 'He will grow to be a warrior!' they would all cry. 'Just like his father'. They were not far from wrong.

Mabrand spent much of his youth alone. The palace children did not trust him; their parents warning them about Naeron and his misfortune. Many a day would Mabrand spend staring out from the battlements, awaiting the return of his Father from one errand or another. However, under his grim exterior, Mabrand was nothing but compassionate. He would spend many a day wandering the Vale with his mother, picking flowers from its deep green fields of grass. Mabrand could spot the beauty in the smallest of things; some say it was in his Númenorean blood to find love in the woods and forests and vales of his home.

For a time, all was well in the Vale. One year, when the sun was high in the sky, shimmering over the top of Mindolluin, Marileth desired to visit her kin, in Pelagir. She loved the Vale, for she was its flower, but she longed for the seas of her youth. She longed to taste the salt upon the wings of the wind, and hear the cry of gulls once again.

"I will not be long, my sweet." Marileth said to the young boy. And he knew she was right. Pelagir was not a long ride away; she would not be gone long. Forlong was away, in Minas Tirith, with his Lord, the Steward. Forlong always promised he would take Mabrand one day, to visit the White Tower. The Steward had sons, too. He wanted to meet them, one day. Mabrand was a strong boy, a happy boy, but nevertheless, a lonely boy.

And so Mabrand waited. Every day, like always, he would stand upon the Battlements, looking out across the Vale, awaiting the arrival of his mother. Alas, she never returned.

It was one day, on the cusp of autumn, when the rider from Pelagir came. Mabrand stood on the battlements when the grey steed cantered over the horizon, the armour of its rider shimmering in the setting sun. He did not bring good news. Marileth, the flower of Lossarnach, had drowned, lost to the deep blue waves of the Sundering Seas.

Mabrand wept for the loss of his mother. He wept for days, hidden from all deep within his chambers. Forlong was more furious, like a storm unleashed upon the Vale. The temper of Forlong was already that of legend, but none were more fearsome then the Lord of Lossarnach in mourning. The Lord wept for his lost flower, and the Vale wept with him.

Marileth's death cast a great shadow of Lossarnach and an even greater shadow over the young Lord. It is said that Mabrand never truly recovered from his mother's death. It made him stronger, fiercer, wiser and warier. More and more would people make comment on his likeness to her; especially his eyes. The sea drifted through his eyes. Marileth's eyes, and Forlong's heart.

Forlong did his best to raise the boy. The Lord taught him in the only way he knew; he instructed Mabrand in war, in the axe and in the shield and the horse. Mabrand became strong, stronger than ever, fighting on the crest of his mother's death. Even still, every evening he would wait, staring into the setting sun of Gondor. Waiting, watching on the battlements for his lost mother.