Chapter One
A/N The story finally starts here…most songs/poems where they appear were not written by self but lifted or adapted from traditional English folk songs. Titles given, complete lyrics on request, it's an unusual genre but some of them are really lovely.
These words were composed
By Spencer the Rover
Who travelled Great Britain
And most parts of Wales
He had been much reduced
Which caused great confusion
And that was the reason
1 He took to the road*
On the swell of a grassy hill, his cloak wrapped close around him and his gazed fixed on the darkening winter sky, a Man stood, and watched the coming night in silent contemplation, all alone. To the creature moving slowly along the base of the hill the Man was little more than a silhouette; he appeared as a statue carved from a curious misty stone, a strange figure indeed with one hand by his side and the other resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.
The creature, whose name was Tirian, usually took pains to avoid company, but this invader of its barren territory had aroused its curiosity. Tirian had followed the man of Gondor – for his powerful stature, fair face and grey eyes marked him out as such – for many days, his presence noted but tolerated or ignored, but Tirian had not yet chosen to speak with him. If indeed the Man spoke at all, for he seemed so dark and brooding, so detached from his surroundings, that conversation seemed highly unlikely.
Nevertheless, Tirian, whose species and lineage was almost entirely indeterminate, was an inquisitive creature, and its curiosity eventually won out over its love of solitude. Circling slowly around the hill, getting higher and higher by degrees, it gradually approached the Man, who by the time of its ascent was sitting upon the ground and taking bread from his scrip.
Tirian settled behind a bush for a moment and watched the Man tear a chunk from the loaf. Carefully, the creature crept forward, moving silently, until it was within a few feet of the other. Without warning, the Man sprang to his feet, drew his sword, which gleamed eerily in the dying light, and placed it at the trembling creature's throat.
"What do you want?" He demanded, in a voice husky with long disuse. "Why do you follow me?" Tirian, shrinking back from the sword's glinting tip, addressed the Man for the first time in a croaking, lisping voice, like the hiss of an ancient serpent.
"You are in my place."
"What? Explain."
"This is my place." The Man narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
"What is your claim to it, then? Speak!"
"I…live here." Tirian whispered. "And you will please…take your blade from my throat. I mean you no harm, Man of Gondor." Still suspicious, as was typical of his species, the tall stranger withdrew the weapon. True enough, this little creature looked far from dangerous, but one could never be too sure in these largely uncharted regions of Middle-Earth.
"How do you know me?" Tirian gazed up at him with glittering yellow eyes.
"By your appearance, and your manner. Now that we are acquainted, I welcome you to my home. It has been many years since Men have visited these lands. I would be most interested to hear your tale. What brings you to such distant parts, so far from the homelands of your people?" The stranger sighed; replacing his sword in its scabbard he sank down upon the ground once more. Tirian, scenting victory, crept a little closer to him, and sat also, although it barely reached the Man's waist while standing.
"If I have offended you with my caution, I apologise. I accept your welcome with thanks. But I would ask…" the grey eyes swept thoughtfully over the small, twisted being crouched upon the grass, "what are you?"
"My name is Tirian." Replied the creature simply. "People I have none. I would ask your name, visitor to the barren lands." The Man appeared loathe to give any information away. He turned his gaze to the last shreds of sunset disappearing behind distant, dark mountains. Eventually he said,
"My name is Boromir."
"And who is your father?" Whispered Tirian, it being so rare for a Man to introduce himself without giving the name of his ancestors.
"My father is the Steward of Gondor." The question and its answer seemed to discomfort him. Tirian studied its guest thoughtfully, swaying a little, back and forth.
"And what," it said eventually, "brings you here, my Lord?" There came no answer. Tirian tried again. "What are you seeking?"
"How do you know that I seek anything?"
"Men are always seeking something." Replied the creature. "Especially young Men like you. It seems strange to me that a young Lord would wish to pass his life as a Ranger."
"I am simply a wanderer. I know not what I seek. But I know that there is solace in the mountains, in the lakes, in the night, in solitude itself. I have been all over Middle-Earth, Tirian; I have travelled with elves and with dwarves and with Halflings, and with a fair Royal whom I will not name. I have seen all the peaceful and beautiful and terrible places – the Shire, Rivendell, the Mines of Moria. I have walked through the forests and sailed the seas and rivers. I have witnessed wonderful and dreadful things, all alone. And yet I do not know what it is I seek." Tirian had remained silent during this melancholy speech; now he leaned forward, peering at its guest with its spidery gnarled hands twisted together.
"It seems to me," it murmured, "that what you seek is a way of returning home." The Man gazed at Tirian curiously, then lowered his head with a small sigh.
"Perhaps." He whispered. "But that is impossible."
"Maybe you have quarrelled with your father?" Tirian crept closer still, eyeing the Man's scrip. Boromir gave a weary half-smile, tore the loaf of bread in half and offered one of the pieces to Tirian. The creature took it, retreated a few inches, and began to eat. Through mouthfuls of bread it entreated,
"Tell me your tale, Man of Gondor. For many years it has been since I heard a story, and you and I both have the time." The Man seemed to hesitate, a desire for solitude and a need to share the burden of his sorrow warring in his proud breast. After some moments, with a sigh of resignation, he drew his cloak around him, and settled back. Tirian leaned forward with its thin fingers steepled and its yellow eyes peering intently at the Man's face, as the wanderer began to tell his story.
A/N What do you think so far? Obviously nothing has really happened yet. The scene is set however for our dejected wanderer to tell his tale. You've probably realised who he isn't and perhaps who he is already. From now on he can tell some of the story for himself. Please review! ;-)
* "Spencer the Rover", Trad.
A/N The story finally starts here…most songs/poems where they appear were not written by self but lifted or adapted from traditional English folk songs. Titles given, complete lyrics on request, it's an unusual genre but some of them are really lovely.
These words were composed
By Spencer the Rover
Who travelled Great Britain
And most parts of Wales
He had been much reduced
Which caused great confusion
And that was the reason
1 He took to the road*
On the swell of a grassy hill, his cloak wrapped close around him and his gazed fixed on the darkening winter sky, a Man stood, and watched the coming night in silent contemplation, all alone. To the creature moving slowly along the base of the hill the Man was little more than a silhouette; he appeared as a statue carved from a curious misty stone, a strange figure indeed with one hand by his side and the other resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.
The creature, whose name was Tirian, usually took pains to avoid company, but this invader of its barren territory had aroused its curiosity. Tirian had followed the man of Gondor – for his powerful stature, fair face and grey eyes marked him out as such – for many days, his presence noted but tolerated or ignored, but Tirian had not yet chosen to speak with him. If indeed the Man spoke at all, for he seemed so dark and brooding, so detached from his surroundings, that conversation seemed highly unlikely.
Nevertheless, Tirian, whose species and lineage was almost entirely indeterminate, was an inquisitive creature, and its curiosity eventually won out over its love of solitude. Circling slowly around the hill, getting higher and higher by degrees, it gradually approached the Man, who by the time of its ascent was sitting upon the ground and taking bread from his scrip.
Tirian settled behind a bush for a moment and watched the Man tear a chunk from the loaf. Carefully, the creature crept forward, moving silently, until it was within a few feet of the other. Without warning, the Man sprang to his feet, drew his sword, which gleamed eerily in the dying light, and placed it at the trembling creature's throat.
"What do you want?" He demanded, in a voice husky with long disuse. "Why do you follow me?" Tirian, shrinking back from the sword's glinting tip, addressed the Man for the first time in a croaking, lisping voice, like the hiss of an ancient serpent.
"You are in my place."
"What? Explain."
"This is my place." The Man narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
"What is your claim to it, then? Speak!"
"I…live here." Tirian whispered. "And you will please…take your blade from my throat. I mean you no harm, Man of Gondor." Still suspicious, as was typical of his species, the tall stranger withdrew the weapon. True enough, this little creature looked far from dangerous, but one could never be too sure in these largely uncharted regions of Middle-Earth.
"How do you know me?" Tirian gazed up at him with glittering yellow eyes.
"By your appearance, and your manner. Now that we are acquainted, I welcome you to my home. It has been many years since Men have visited these lands. I would be most interested to hear your tale. What brings you to such distant parts, so far from the homelands of your people?" The stranger sighed; replacing his sword in its scabbard he sank down upon the ground once more. Tirian, scenting victory, crept a little closer to him, and sat also, although it barely reached the Man's waist while standing.
"If I have offended you with my caution, I apologise. I accept your welcome with thanks. But I would ask…" the grey eyes swept thoughtfully over the small, twisted being crouched upon the grass, "what are you?"
"My name is Tirian." Replied the creature simply. "People I have none. I would ask your name, visitor to the barren lands." The Man appeared loathe to give any information away. He turned his gaze to the last shreds of sunset disappearing behind distant, dark mountains. Eventually he said,
"My name is Boromir."
"And who is your father?" Whispered Tirian, it being so rare for a Man to introduce himself without giving the name of his ancestors.
"My father is the Steward of Gondor." The question and its answer seemed to discomfort him. Tirian studied its guest thoughtfully, swaying a little, back and forth.
"And what," it said eventually, "brings you here, my Lord?" There came no answer. Tirian tried again. "What are you seeking?"
"How do you know that I seek anything?"
"Men are always seeking something." Replied the creature. "Especially young Men like you. It seems strange to me that a young Lord would wish to pass his life as a Ranger."
"I am simply a wanderer. I know not what I seek. But I know that there is solace in the mountains, in the lakes, in the night, in solitude itself. I have been all over Middle-Earth, Tirian; I have travelled with elves and with dwarves and with Halflings, and with a fair Royal whom I will not name. I have seen all the peaceful and beautiful and terrible places – the Shire, Rivendell, the Mines of Moria. I have walked through the forests and sailed the seas and rivers. I have witnessed wonderful and dreadful things, all alone. And yet I do not know what it is I seek." Tirian had remained silent during this melancholy speech; now he leaned forward, peering at its guest with its spidery gnarled hands twisted together.
"It seems to me," it murmured, "that what you seek is a way of returning home." The Man gazed at Tirian curiously, then lowered his head with a small sigh.
"Perhaps." He whispered. "But that is impossible."
"Maybe you have quarrelled with your father?" Tirian crept closer still, eyeing the Man's scrip. Boromir gave a weary half-smile, tore the loaf of bread in half and offered one of the pieces to Tirian. The creature took it, retreated a few inches, and began to eat. Through mouthfuls of bread it entreated,
"Tell me your tale, Man of Gondor. For many years it has been since I heard a story, and you and I both have the time." The Man seemed to hesitate, a desire for solitude and a need to share the burden of his sorrow warring in his proud breast. After some moments, with a sigh of resignation, he drew his cloak around him, and settled back. Tirian leaned forward with its thin fingers steepled and its yellow eyes peering intently at the Man's face, as the wanderer began to tell his story.
A/N What do you think so far? Obviously nothing has really happened yet. The scene is set however for our dejected wanderer to tell his tale. You've probably realised who he isn't and perhaps who he is already. From now on he can tell some of the story for himself. Please review! ;-)
* "Spencer the Rover", Trad.