DISCLAIMER: I ONLY OWN BRANDAELEN, THE LORD AND GUARDIAN OF THE ISLE OF HIMLING (the position, rank, and such) AND THE HOUSE EMBLEMS, COLORS AND HEIRLOOMS. THE REST BELONGS TO THE TOLKIEN FAMILY
Brandaelen*, or West Star in the common tongue, or Duungil in Sindarian (the first in Telerin), or even Adûngimlî (in the mode of Adûnaic, also known as Númenoréan), strode, nay, ran, towards the West Gate of Bree. He had a few reasons for this: One, it was raining rather heavily. Two, he wanted to get warm, and three, he was being chased. By wolves. Now, Dúnedain he might be, Duungil (as he came to be called by the Sindar. Otherwise, he went by Brandalelen, his third was used only when his foster-father had found that he had destroyed one of his workshops*.) was still young. Very young by the Dúnedain of the North's standards. His age is around twenty-two, and for most of his life he lived near Lindon, under the watch of Círdan, whom he was fostered by. This is not to say that Brandaelen was untrained in the arts of war. Nay, far from it. He could wield a sword, spear, bow, axe, staff, and just about any other weapon, not to mention the usage of shields, and the riding of horses. But, that still did not prepare him for running into wolves this far west.
So, now he was running from them, having never encountered wolves before, not even having entered combat, save for sparing, once yet. Due to the speed of his run, the wind threw back his cloak, revealing his tabard of deep grey trimmed with sea-blue. Under that was a hauberk of Dwarven-mail, the sleeves falling down to his elbows, over that a jerkin of soft and supple leather, beneath the mail was an aketon of deep grey, and under that his clothing, which like the tabard, was deep grey trimmed in sea-blue*. Upon his forearms are two vambraces that have one grey gem circled by three blue ones, the mark of his house*, and over his shoulders are two pauldrons, made of several articulated lames. Finishing off the arms were two deep grey and sea-blue gauntlets. Covering his legs were his leggings, and over those where greaves, which covered his boots. At his side was an old Númenorean longsword, and behind him, resting upon the back of his waist, was a Númenorean eket, or shortsword.
Now, his foster father knew well the ways of the rangers was cloaks, silence, and scantily armoured, but the Shipwright was well within his reason to arm his foster-son as such, making an Oath* to his parents before they passed away, neigh on twenty years ago, to protect their son as if he was his own, and not to let harm come to him. So, being the wise and caring foster-father he is, sent a helmet of truesilver and steel ahead, along with an Elvish longbow, not to mention about three quivers of arrows, along with some other items that the Shipwright had deemed necessary for his foster-son. Such a sight would he be, out in the Wild dressed up in Elven finery, trying to stay hidden. But, the Dúnadan assured him that he would not be noticible, as long as his cloak was held shut, and his hood remained up when the helm was upon his head.
Leaping over one final log, Brandaelen reached for his sword, and unsheathing it, stopped, and turned to face his persuers. Four wolves stood there, slowly spreading out as if to surround him. "Delia au!*" He shouted in the tongue he most often fell to, Telerian. The wolves stopped for a bit, but continued their movement. Frown forming, and hesitating for a few moments, Brandaelen took a swipe at the closest wolf, giving a deep gash in its side as the Elven blade sliced through fur, skin, and bone. Well, thats one down...I hope.
The other three, seeing this attack upon their comrade, lept at the young Man. Half expecting this, half startled, Brandaelen quickly, swiftly, moved to the side, swinging his blade yet again, this time lobbing of the head of one. Two down, two left. They began to circle him, growling loudly. One lunged, and fell, gaping hole in its chest. The last one, seeing the others more or less dead, growled, and quickly fled.
Not wanting to stay around for long to admire his work, the Dúnedain resumed his run for Bree.
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The old ramshackle Gate looked just as good as the doors to his foster-father's study door, which was made of rich oak and silver, as Brandaelen approached Bree just before sunset, in time to slip in un-accounted for (he hoped) by the gate keeper. Now, lets see, Ada* said that Estel* would be in a inn called the Prancing Pony...strange name. He quietly slipped through the streets, looking about for any sign of the Prancing Pony. And find it he did. Located over the door of a two story building, like the rest of the town made of wood, labeled the Prancing Pony, with, fittingly, a horse reared up upon its hind legs. Crossing, he pushed open the door, and was quite shocked by the tumulet of noise that greeted him. None seemed to pay him heed, unsure why, but he approached the apparent owner of the inn. Could have been the fact that he was scurying about this way and that with orders, and everyone kept shouting his name at him: Butterbur! More ale!; Butterbur! More food!
Approaching as close as he may to the Man, he spoke, louder than normal to be heard above the din of voices. "Excuse me, I'm-" He was interupted by Butterbur. "Half a moment, young sir!" Was the only response he got as he hustled past Brandaelen, arms carying quite a bit of tankards. Sighing, the Dúnedain looked about the room, and spotted a figure, sitting in the corner, feet propped up on another chair, smoke drifting from his hood. Has to be him. Ada said that he smoked something...I think it was called 'pipe-weed'. Said it was made by the Perian*...I think. After a few moments, the figure motioned to him, and he promptly went over, after shuffling his way through the croud as polite as he could.
"Estel?" Asked the Dúnedain once he was sure he was within the range of hearing of the other. The only response was a slight, and curt mayhap, nod. Taking one of the other seats, Brandaelen sat, looking at the other, awe showing in his face, though he quickly covered it up. I never thought it...here I am, sitting with my future King, who has personaly decided to take my training upon himself...I wonder how Ada aranged that. I think he mentioned something about Imladris, and the lord therein, Elrond Half-Elven... His thoughts were interupted by the other. "Duungil? Or would you prefer Brandaelen? Or even...Adûngimlî?" Came the soft, yet firm, voice of Estel from the hood, easily heard over the din of the crowd. Brandaelen gaped at him. "How is it you know all my names...and Brandaelen will do..." A chuckle resounded from the other. "Círdan told me all of your names, in hope to make sure you were the correct one...but, now that I see you have confirmed at least one of the names, I shall take you as such. Tell me, what form of name is Brandaelen. It is not Sindarin." A slight smirk played across the younger Dúnedain's face, though it quickly fled. "It is Telerin, the language of my father."
Estel nodded. "Hm, I should have known as such. Tell me, did your real parents ever give you a name?" A flicker of pain crossed Brandaelen's face at the mention of his mother and father. "...Nay, not that I would remember it anyhow. I was brought up as Branaelen to my father and his folk, Duungil to the Sindar, as for Adûngimlî...he only called me that after an...unlooked for and unneeded accident..." It was now Estel's turn to smirk. "Ah, yes, that workshop accident..." Horror now spread across Brandaelen's face at the mention of the specific acccident which gave cause to his foster-father to use that version of his name. "What? You did not think that Círdan would leave out all the interesting facts about you?" A chuckle. "Worry not, he did not give the details of the event, only the reason why he would call you such, using an acient tongue I though he knew not..." A shrug. "Well, I will question him about that later. For now, I have a gift for you."
Having said that, he reached under the table and displayed a old leather pack, which he set on the table, infront of the younger Man. "It is all there, all accounted for. I would not have your foster-father angry at me for loosing such valuble things." As if remembering something, Estel pulled from behind him, hidden by his form, the unstrung Elven bow. "So, how was the journey from Lindon?" Brandaelen shook visibly, if only slightly. "Twas fine, for the most part...up until I pasted Tyrn Gorthad...I had four wolves follow me from there to only a few leagues from here, where I slew them..." At this, Estel looked troubled. "Wolves? Near the Downs? They should not be that far west. Hmph, we must change plans. We shall leave for Imladris first thing in the morning. I have much to discuss with my own father..."
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More rain. Brandaelen was now begining to hate it. After that stint with the wolves, he was begining to dislike the rain. This was made clear on their short journey from Bree to Imladris. "How much longer until we get there? This rain is starting to bother me..." Quietly, and quite fircely, uttered Brandaelen as they made their second march of the day*. Estel turned to him, a wry smile upon his face. "Yes, it does. But, hopefuly, it will not be affecting it." He spoke this as they approached the Bruinen*. "Come. This way." Not needing to be told twice, the Dúnedain followed his King over the Bruinen, and following a path worn into the hills around the river.
They came into Imladris just after sunset, but still were greeted by the folk of Elrond, ushering them into the Last Homely House east of the Sea, taking from them their cloaks. Estel not got his first good view of all of what the younger was wearing, and took note of the eket upon his back. "Two swords, long and short?" Nodding his head, the other lowered his head slightly. "Yes. Father thought it wise to arm me with both long and shortsword...and, I do like the idea, for they are both good swords."
The next morning, Brandaelen awoke to the light of Anar* outside, and no more rain. Seeing no rain falling raised his mood quite a bit. Pulling aside the covers, he slipped from his sleeping clothes, and donned his own own gear, ignoring the clothes set out for him. It wasn't the fact that he intended to be rude, nay, far from it. He was just use to wearing the clothes provided by his father, and felt more comfortable with the weight of the mail upon his brest. So, he set the other clothes away, and securing his swordbelt about his waist, exiting the room. It was just then that he relized that there was no clouds in the sky, and the ground looked untouched by water. Indeed, the Valley looked in the peak of spring. To say the least, he was puzzled. In his own home, Lindon, the weather was always in effect, but not so here*. Confused, Brandaelen leaned against a wall to try to figure this out. It can't be because the Lord Elrond is Elf...or even Half-Elven...let me think...from what I remember of his blood line, his greatest ancesters were Beren and Luthien, the latter of who was an Elf, daughter of Thingol and Melian the Maia...that might explain it...hmmm....mayhap because he is Goldórin*, at least in part...hmph. I do not think even they have such power. I will question Ada when I write him.
So, having thought, he resumed his walk, going no where really, just wandering about. In doing so, he entered one of the many gardens, and there saw a small figure, perhaps a child. One eyebrow raised quizicaly, the Dúnedain slowly approached. The figure, seemingly to have heard him, glances up at him from the book in his lap. "Oh, hello there. You must be new here with that look that your giving me." Brandaelen quickly removed the look of question and awe from his face. "Don't worry, your not the first one. Though, I though all rangers knew about Hobbits." Embarrased slightly by this, the Dúnedain looked downwards. "Well, I am just newly become one. I am from Lindon to be precise...my name is Brandaelen, foster-son of Círdan the Shipwright...who are you, and from wence to you come?"
A snort. "I am Bilbo Baggins. Surely even in Lindon you must have heard of me. I'm quite sure one of the Wandering Companies would have heard of my exploits, and reported it to you foster-father. As from where I come from, that would be the Shire, to the east of Lindon. I'm suprised you did not pass through it on your way here." The young Dúnedain shook his head. "Nay. My path from Lindon took me past the Emyn Beraid, near two sets of downs, not quite sure their name, then onto part of the old North-South Road, from there I passed to Sarn Ford, then I took cross country to The Greenway, passed the Tyrn Gorthad, and then went to Bree where I met Estel." "Ah, then you did indeed pass through the Shire, though you didn't know it. Those two sets of downs are the Far Downs and the White Downs. That bit of road you took to Sarn Ford, if you followed it north, would have taken you to Michel Delving, one of the larger, closer settlements. But, enough of that. Why have you come to Elrond's House?"
"I am here with Estel, who has taken me under his wing, to train me in the ways of the rangers." Bilbo rose a sceptical eyebrow at this. "Dressed as you are? You would stick out like an Elf-princling in the Shire, if you were to go trapesing about with the Dúnadan dressed like that out in the Wild." Now it was Brandaelen's turn to raise the eyebrow. "You know Estel?" The Perian nodded. "Yes, yes I do. I gave him that name, you know, 'Dúnadan'. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Chieften of the Dúnedain of the North, Isildur's Heir is his rightful name and title, which I'm sure you are full aware of." A quick change of subject. "So, you are the foster-son of Círdan? How did that come about?"
A wave of pain passed across Brandaelen's face. I have to stop mentioning that little fact... "My parents were killed when I was young, only two years of age. They were lost in the Tyrn Gorthad...the 'Downs' I've heard it called by Estel. Before they went, however, as if knowing their fate, they asked Círdan to swear an oath to them to raise me and take care of me, and did so because he viewed me as his child." Silence followed for a bit as Bilbo took this information in. "Well, that is characteristic of the Elves, I gather. The same happened with Aragorn. After his father was killed, his mother brought him here to be raised by Elrond." Brandaelen blinked. "Estel was raised by the Lord Half-Elven?" The Halfling nodded. "Aye, he was." The young man was considering this, when from behind him, he heard: "Brandaelen. I see you are awake...and I see also you have met the local, and only, hobbit, Bilbo Baggins."
Turning, he saw standing there Mithrandir*. "Mithrandir!" Brandaelen gave a curt bow to the Istari*, then rose back up. "Oh, no need to do such things. You do not need to bow to me, I am not your father, or Elrond, or Glorfindel, or any other lord. Brandaelen, you have been summoned by Elrond. He wishes to speak with you. You can talk with Bilbo later, after the meeting." Nodding, the Dúnedain gave a curt bow to the Perian, then turned and walked with Mithrandir, who rose a curious eyebrow towards him. "I assume that your attire was your father's idea? You do look fit to be an Elven prince, as Bilbo said." The other nodded. "Yes. Though, I shall be sure to thank him in my letter I plan to send him. I ran into wolves right after I passed Tyrn Gorthad." The Istari nodded. "Yes, I was told of such." He stopped outside of Elrond's hall. "Ah, here you are. Go in, he is waiting. If you need me afterwards, I shall be in the Hall of Fire." Thus said, Mithrandir turned, and walked into a door across the hall.
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Entering into Elrond's hall, he found the Elven lord sitting in his high chair, studing some sort of parchment, beside it an envelope containing something. Glancing up, he locked his gaze with that of Brandaelen. "Welcome to Imladris, Brandaelen. Please, sit." The Elf lord motioned towards the chair beside his own. Quickly walking the distance from the door to the chair, Brandaelen gave a curt bow to Elrond, then sat. "Círdan sent me a letter with one of the several Wandering Companies of Elves. In it, he described that upon your arrival here, you were to be given something." Picking up the envelope, he handed it to the other. Carefuly opening it, Brandaelen's eyes widened as he saw what was inside. Gently reaching in, he pulled out a ring. The band was demasked in silver, a grey gem and a blue gem side by side set in the center of the band, and writen in Tengwar upon the inside of the band was:
The West Star shineth in these gems,
And he who wares it shall remain under
Eärendil's protection for as long as the West
Endures
"This ring is the heirloom of your family, passed down generation to generation from father to son, in an uninterupted line of thirty generations. That line was broken when your father lost his life, but now it shall be started again. I now call thee Tolheru; 'Island Lord' in the Noldo language. I appoint thee as Lord and Guardian of the Isle of Himling*, like your forebearers before you. I do this in the name of Círdan the Shipwright, Lord of Lindon and the Grey Havens." A look of astonishment upon his face, Brandaelen placed the ring upon his finger, then stood and bowed to Elrond, who smiled. "Now, being a new lord, you will not need to become a ranger, and Aragorn knows this. You may go now, Brandaelen." Bowing once more, Brandaelen left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Almost throwing the doors open, he entered the Hall of Fire, and found both Mithrandir and Bilbo sitting and talking. He swiftly walked over to them, bowing to them both. "Mithrandir, did you know of the news of which the Lord Elrond was to give to me?" The Istari shrugged slightly. Knowing that was probably the only responce he was to be given, Brandaelen continued. "He has appointed me Lord and Guardian of the Isle of Himling, and gave me this ring." Holding up his hand, the gems set on the ring caught the light from the fire, and blazed in a mingled radiance that shone in a briliant bright white. Bilbo gasped at this, and indeed, the effect took Brandaelen by supprise as well. The Istari chuckled slightly. "Ah, yes. I knew about that, but it was not my place to tell you. Indeed, I knew that you would be appointed such even before you left Lindon. But, come, sit, lord, and share with us in our talks."
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The sounds of two horns brought the attention of young Brandaelen from his lessons, and walked out to find the cause there of. He heard the slow, mornful singing of a group of Elves approaching the gates. Rushing towards them, the young boy stopped in his tracks when he saw what lay in the middle of the group of Elves. Two bodies. To be specific, the bodies of his parents. They both looked like they had in life, just more pale. Crying, the boy flung himself through the group, who stood aside for him, and hugged both bodies of his parents, crying heavily as he saw now that it was indeed them, repeating over and over again 'Mama, Papa!'. Círdan, seeing this, and remembering the oath he took, walked over to the boy, and whispering words of consolation in his ears, gently pulled the wailing boy from the bodies, and led him away, into his study.
Brandaelen woke with quite a start, nearly falling from his seated, but slouched, position. Looking about rather franticaly, he found he was still in the Hall of Fire, having fallen asleep during his conversation with Mithrandir and Bilbo, well, more to the fact during one of the many poems and songs sung by the Perian. Beside him, strangly enough, he did indeed find Bilbo, who was looking at him as if he was a parent looking after a sick child. "I'm sorry, but your cries had disturbed me outside in the garden, so I came to see what the matter was...clearly, it was a dream, but of what?" The young lord shuddered at the memory. "It was of the day my parents where brought back to Lindon." The hobbit nodded his head slowly. "Ah, I see. Here, drink this." Reaching beside him, he pulled up a glass of something, handing it to Brandaelen. "It will calm you, and help you go back to sleep." Shaking his head, he stood. "Nay, I can not sleep after such a dream. I shall stay awake for what is left of the night...perhaps I shall study something...or write my letter to my father..." Hesitating for a moment, the hobbit nodded. "As you will. I will see you at breakfast then. Or second breakfast, depending on when you feel like eating."
Walking out into the hall, the Dúnedain sighed, walking towards, and up, the stairs. Entering into his room, he found set upon his bed, new clothing, not unlike those he was wearing now, save that it was bedecked in gold and silver, and there also was a cloak matching. Disrobing, he placed these new clothes on, along with his armor, and strapping his sword belt to his waist, walked over to where the bag of items was set. Opening it, he looked through it. He removed the helmet, and set it upon his head. He pulled out the quivers of arrows, and putting all of the arrows in one quiver, set them aside. He then removed a letter, which he set aside for later reading, and then he pulled out the last thing: a horn, with Tengwar traced into the side, and a bright star engraved in the other, with a bronze covered tip, in a baldric. He put this on, hiding it under his cloak, then sat on the bed, reading the letter.
Dear Brandaelen,
If you are reading this, then you met Estel in Bree, and are possibly in Imladris. In this bag you shall find the heirlooms of the Lords and Guardians of the Isle of Himling. Save for one last one, which has been sent ahead to Lord Elrond, and the quivers are obviously not heirlooms. The helmet was worn by the third Lord and Guardian, whilst the horn was born by the seventh Lord and Guardian. These have passed down generation by generation, and were put into my care before your father went eastwards. If you have reached Imladris, and have spoken to Elrond, congratulations on your acsendance to the thirty-first Lord and Guardian of the Isle of Himling. Be proud of your station, and do not hide it. The horn is the symbol of the station, and is used to strike fear into opponents, and also as a call for aid. Use it wisely, for if winded at the wrong time, it will only bring death. The helmet is very special indeed, and was given to the third Lord and Guardian by the last High King of the Noldor, Gil-Galad himself. Wear it proudly. Good luck in your adventures, my son.
Círdan
Folding the letter closed, Brandaelen smiled slightly, then stood, and now arrayed in his new clothing, walked from his room. Walking back out into the gardens, he saw approaching him a Man, dark of hair, grey eyes, and dressed quiet royaly, though he did so for riding, yet he had no horse. Brandaelen stopped in his path whilst this man walked towards him, unbeknownst it seemed. He was just about to pass him when he stepped out. "Greetings. Newly come to Imladris?" The other man, startled, took a few steps back, resting his hand upon his sword hilt. "Yes...I am. Who be you? Are you an Elf?" A quiet chuckle. "Nay, I be no Elf. I am mortal. I am Brandaelen, Lord and Guardian of the Isle of Himling." The other man looked him over with a raised eyebrow. " A young lord at that. But, nonetheless, now that you have introduced yourself, I shall do the same. I am Boromir, Son of Denethor, Steward's Heir and Captian-General of Gondor." Boromir again looked over the young lord. "For a moment, I thought you were some ancient Elf lord, for you do indeed look it. Helmet, clothing...but not the swords. Those swords are from my distant ancestors the Númenoréans, or I know nothing about them. How come you about them?" Another quiet chuckle. "My father gave them to me ere I departed his lands for this place." "Then from whence you come? Gondor? Wait, nay, that would not be possible if your father was Lord of Himling, for no such place bears that name in Gondor. Pray, who is your father?"
A slight smirk. "That would be Círdan the Shipwright, Lord of the Grey Havens, an Elf, though, he is not the one who posessed the title before me. He was only the one to raise me after...an event I do not wish to speak of. But, onto other matters. Why have you come here?" "I have come to seek the lord Elrond Half-Elven. Might you know where he be?" A nod. "Aye. Last I saw him, he was in his hall, but he might have retired by now, for I last saw him several hours ago." The other man frowned. "Could you lead me there?" A nod. "Aye, follow me." Turning, Brandaelen walked back along the garden path, and into the Last Homely House. He followed the hall for a short way before he came to the door to Elrond's hall. Knocking on it lightly, he waited a few moments before opening it, and glancing in. "Ah, Lord Elrond, you have a guest. I met in out in the Gardens. He is Boromir, Son of Denethor from Gondor." With that, he stood aside, and let Boromir enter, then shut the door behind him.
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Hey all. Im gonna work on this story, and leave my other one be. Here are the explinations for the things I marked:
Brandaelen: It actualy means 'West Lord/High one' but I have interpereted it as such.
Workshop: When he was younger, Brandaelen accidentaly destroyed one of Círdans' workshops. He pushed something, and in the end it all came crashing down around him.
Colors: The reason being that his clothing and such is in that interesting color combination is that grey is a favorite color of the Dúnedain, and the blue is the chosen color for Lindon.
House: His houses' emblem is as such:
*
* * *
Just circled, and more tightly packed. The grey gem represents the Dúnedain, while the other represents the Teleri/Lindon Elves.
Oath: The oath that Círdan swore to his parents was to love, raise, and protect Brandaelen like his own son, and to let no harm come to their only son, and heir.
Translation: 'Delia au!' is the closest I can come to 'Go away!' in Telerin.
Translation: 'Ada' is father in Sindarin.
Translation/Explanation: 'Estel' is Hope in Sindarin, and one of Aragorn's seven or eight names.
Translation/Explanation: 'Perian' is Sindarin for Halflings.
The Journey: They made this journey in about one week, marching from before sunrise, a brief, half hour stop at midday, and then well after sunset.
Translation/Explanation: 'Brunien' is the river Loudwater, which forms the border of Imladris, or Rivendell.
Translation: 'Anar' is the Sun in Sindarin.
Explanation: The reason why the weather has little effect upon Imladris is due to Elrond's Ring of Power.
Translation: Goldórin Telerin for Noldor, the High-Elves.
Explanation: Mithrandir is another one of Gandalf's names.
Explanation: While there is no such lord, I felt that since Himling was an empty little isle, that no one would mind it.
Brandaelen*, or West Star in the common tongue, or Duungil in Sindarian (the first in Telerin), or even Adûngimlî (in the mode of Adûnaic, also known as Númenoréan), strode, nay, ran, towards the West Gate of Bree. He had a few reasons for this: One, it was raining rather heavily. Two, he wanted to get warm, and three, he was being chased. By wolves. Now, Dúnedain he might be, Duungil (as he came to be called by the Sindar. Otherwise, he went by Brandalelen, his third was used only when his foster-father had found that he had destroyed one of his workshops*.) was still young. Very young by the Dúnedain of the North's standards. His age is around twenty-two, and for most of his life he lived near Lindon, under the watch of Círdan, whom he was fostered by. This is not to say that Brandaelen was untrained in the arts of war. Nay, far from it. He could wield a sword, spear, bow, axe, staff, and just about any other weapon, not to mention the usage of shields, and the riding of horses. But, that still did not prepare him for running into wolves this far west.
So, now he was running from them, having never encountered wolves before, not even having entered combat, save for sparing, once yet. Due to the speed of his run, the wind threw back his cloak, revealing his tabard of deep grey trimmed with sea-blue. Under that was a hauberk of Dwarven-mail, the sleeves falling down to his elbows, over that a jerkin of soft and supple leather, beneath the mail was an aketon of deep grey, and under that his clothing, which like the tabard, was deep grey trimmed in sea-blue*. Upon his forearms are two vambraces that have one grey gem circled by three blue ones, the mark of his house*, and over his shoulders are two pauldrons, made of several articulated lames. Finishing off the arms were two deep grey and sea-blue gauntlets. Covering his legs were his leggings, and over those where greaves, which covered his boots. At his side was an old Númenorean longsword, and behind him, resting upon the back of his waist, was a Númenorean eket, or shortsword.
Now, his foster father knew well the ways of the rangers was cloaks, silence, and scantily armoured, but the Shipwright was well within his reason to arm his foster-son as such, making an Oath* to his parents before they passed away, neigh on twenty years ago, to protect their son as if he was his own, and not to let harm come to him. So, being the wise and caring foster-father he is, sent a helmet of truesilver and steel ahead, along with an Elvish longbow, not to mention about three quivers of arrows, along with some other items that the Shipwright had deemed necessary for his foster-son. Such a sight would he be, out in the Wild dressed up in Elven finery, trying to stay hidden. But, the Dúnadan assured him that he would not be noticible, as long as his cloak was held shut, and his hood remained up when the helm was upon his head.
Leaping over one final log, Brandaelen reached for his sword, and unsheathing it, stopped, and turned to face his persuers. Four wolves stood there, slowly spreading out as if to surround him. "Delia au!*" He shouted in the tongue he most often fell to, Telerian. The wolves stopped for a bit, but continued their movement. Frown forming, and hesitating for a few moments, Brandaelen took a swipe at the closest wolf, giving a deep gash in its side as the Elven blade sliced through fur, skin, and bone. Well, thats one down...I hope.
The other three, seeing this attack upon their comrade, lept at the young Man. Half expecting this, half startled, Brandaelen quickly, swiftly, moved to the side, swinging his blade yet again, this time lobbing of the head of one. Two down, two left. They began to circle him, growling loudly. One lunged, and fell, gaping hole in its chest. The last one, seeing the others more or less dead, growled, and quickly fled.
Not wanting to stay around for long to admire his work, the Dúnedain resumed his run for Bree.
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The old ramshackle Gate looked just as good as the doors to his foster-father's study door, which was made of rich oak and silver, as Brandaelen approached Bree just before sunset, in time to slip in un-accounted for (he hoped) by the gate keeper. Now, lets see, Ada* said that Estel* would be in a inn called the Prancing Pony...strange name. He quietly slipped through the streets, looking about for any sign of the Prancing Pony. And find it he did. Located over the door of a two story building, like the rest of the town made of wood, labeled the Prancing Pony, with, fittingly, a horse reared up upon its hind legs. Crossing, he pushed open the door, and was quite shocked by the tumulet of noise that greeted him. None seemed to pay him heed, unsure why, but he approached the apparent owner of the inn. Could have been the fact that he was scurying about this way and that with orders, and everyone kept shouting his name at him: Butterbur! More ale!; Butterbur! More food!
Approaching as close as he may to the Man, he spoke, louder than normal to be heard above the din of voices. "Excuse me, I'm-" He was interupted by Butterbur. "Half a moment, young sir!" Was the only response he got as he hustled past Brandaelen, arms carying quite a bit of tankards. Sighing, the Dúnedain looked about the room, and spotted a figure, sitting in the corner, feet propped up on another chair, smoke drifting from his hood. Has to be him. Ada said that he smoked something...I think it was called 'pipe-weed'. Said it was made by the Perian*...I think. After a few moments, the figure motioned to him, and he promptly went over, after shuffling his way through the croud as polite as he could.
"Estel?" Asked the Dúnedain once he was sure he was within the range of hearing of the other. The only response was a slight, and curt mayhap, nod. Taking one of the other seats, Brandaelen sat, looking at the other, awe showing in his face, though he quickly covered it up. I never thought it...here I am, sitting with my future King, who has personaly decided to take my training upon himself...I wonder how Ada aranged that. I think he mentioned something about Imladris, and the lord therein, Elrond Half-Elven... His thoughts were interupted by the other. "Duungil? Or would you prefer Brandaelen? Or even...Adûngimlî?" Came the soft, yet firm, voice of Estel from the hood, easily heard over the din of the crowd. Brandaelen gaped at him. "How is it you know all my names...and Brandaelen will do..." A chuckle resounded from the other. "Círdan told me all of your names, in hope to make sure you were the correct one...but, now that I see you have confirmed at least one of the names, I shall take you as such. Tell me, what form of name is Brandaelen. It is not Sindarin." A slight smirk played across the younger Dúnedain's face, though it quickly fled. "It is Telerin, the language of my father."
Estel nodded. "Hm, I should have known as such. Tell me, did your real parents ever give you a name?" A flicker of pain crossed Brandaelen's face at the mention of his mother and father. "...Nay, not that I would remember it anyhow. I was brought up as Branaelen to my father and his folk, Duungil to the Sindar, as for Adûngimlî...he only called me that after an...unlooked for and unneeded accident..." It was now Estel's turn to smirk. "Ah, yes, that workshop accident..." Horror now spread across Brandaelen's face at the mention of the specific acccident which gave cause to his foster-father to use that version of his name. "What? You did not think that Círdan would leave out all the interesting facts about you?" A chuckle. "Worry not, he did not give the details of the event, only the reason why he would call you such, using an acient tongue I though he knew not..." A shrug. "Well, I will question him about that later. For now, I have a gift for you."
Having said that, he reached under the table and displayed a old leather pack, which he set on the table, infront of the younger Man. "It is all there, all accounted for. I would not have your foster-father angry at me for loosing such valuble things." As if remembering something, Estel pulled from behind him, hidden by his form, the unstrung Elven bow. "So, how was the journey from Lindon?" Brandaelen shook visibly, if only slightly. "Twas fine, for the most part...up until I pasted Tyrn Gorthad...I had four wolves follow me from there to only a few leagues from here, where I slew them..." At this, Estel looked troubled. "Wolves? Near the Downs? They should not be that far west. Hmph, we must change plans. We shall leave for Imladris first thing in the morning. I have much to discuss with my own father..."
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More rain. Brandaelen was now begining to hate it. After that stint with the wolves, he was begining to dislike the rain. This was made clear on their short journey from Bree to Imladris. "How much longer until we get there? This rain is starting to bother me..." Quietly, and quite fircely, uttered Brandaelen as they made their second march of the day*. Estel turned to him, a wry smile upon his face. "Yes, it does. But, hopefuly, it will not be affecting it." He spoke this as they approached the Bruinen*. "Come. This way." Not needing to be told twice, the Dúnedain followed his King over the Bruinen, and following a path worn into the hills around the river.
They came into Imladris just after sunset, but still were greeted by the folk of Elrond, ushering them into the Last Homely House east of the Sea, taking from them their cloaks. Estel not got his first good view of all of what the younger was wearing, and took note of the eket upon his back. "Two swords, long and short?" Nodding his head, the other lowered his head slightly. "Yes. Father thought it wise to arm me with both long and shortsword...and, I do like the idea, for they are both good swords."
The next morning, Brandaelen awoke to the light of Anar* outside, and no more rain. Seeing no rain falling raised his mood quite a bit. Pulling aside the covers, he slipped from his sleeping clothes, and donned his own own gear, ignoring the clothes set out for him. It wasn't the fact that he intended to be rude, nay, far from it. He was just use to wearing the clothes provided by his father, and felt more comfortable with the weight of the mail upon his brest. So, he set the other clothes away, and securing his swordbelt about his waist, exiting the room. It was just then that he relized that there was no clouds in the sky, and the ground looked untouched by water. Indeed, the Valley looked in the peak of spring. To say the least, he was puzzled. In his own home, Lindon, the weather was always in effect, but not so here*. Confused, Brandaelen leaned against a wall to try to figure this out. It can't be because the Lord Elrond is Elf...or even Half-Elven...let me think...from what I remember of his blood line, his greatest ancesters were Beren and Luthien, the latter of who was an Elf, daughter of Thingol and Melian the Maia...that might explain it...hmmm....mayhap because he is Goldórin*, at least in part...hmph. I do not think even they have such power. I will question Ada when I write him.
So, having thought, he resumed his walk, going no where really, just wandering about. In doing so, he entered one of the many gardens, and there saw a small figure, perhaps a child. One eyebrow raised quizicaly, the Dúnedain slowly approached. The figure, seemingly to have heard him, glances up at him from the book in his lap. "Oh, hello there. You must be new here with that look that your giving me." Brandaelen quickly removed the look of question and awe from his face. "Don't worry, your not the first one. Though, I though all rangers knew about Hobbits." Embarrased slightly by this, the Dúnedain looked downwards. "Well, I am just newly become one. I am from Lindon to be precise...my name is Brandaelen, foster-son of Círdan the Shipwright...who are you, and from wence to you come?"
A snort. "I am Bilbo Baggins. Surely even in Lindon you must have heard of me. I'm quite sure one of the Wandering Companies would have heard of my exploits, and reported it to you foster-father. As from where I come from, that would be the Shire, to the east of Lindon. I'm suprised you did not pass through it on your way here." The young Dúnedain shook his head. "Nay. My path from Lindon took me past the Emyn Beraid, near two sets of downs, not quite sure their name, then onto part of the old North-South Road, from there I passed to Sarn Ford, then I took cross country to The Greenway, passed the Tyrn Gorthad, and then went to Bree where I met Estel." "Ah, then you did indeed pass through the Shire, though you didn't know it. Those two sets of downs are the Far Downs and the White Downs. That bit of road you took to Sarn Ford, if you followed it north, would have taken you to Michel Delving, one of the larger, closer settlements. But, enough of that. Why have you come to Elrond's House?"
"I am here with Estel, who has taken me under his wing, to train me in the ways of the rangers." Bilbo rose a sceptical eyebrow at this. "Dressed as you are? You would stick out like an Elf-princling in the Shire, if you were to go trapesing about with the Dúnadan dressed like that out in the Wild." Now it was Brandaelen's turn to raise the eyebrow. "You know Estel?" The Perian nodded. "Yes, yes I do. I gave him that name, you know, 'Dúnadan'. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Chieften of the Dúnedain of the North, Isildur's Heir is his rightful name and title, which I'm sure you are full aware of." A quick change of subject. "So, you are the foster-son of Círdan? How did that come about?"
A wave of pain passed across Brandaelen's face. I have to stop mentioning that little fact... "My parents were killed when I was young, only two years of age. They were lost in the Tyrn Gorthad...the 'Downs' I've heard it called by Estel. Before they went, however, as if knowing their fate, they asked Círdan to swear an oath to them to raise me and take care of me, and did so because he viewed me as his child." Silence followed for a bit as Bilbo took this information in. "Well, that is characteristic of the Elves, I gather. The same happened with Aragorn. After his father was killed, his mother brought him here to be raised by Elrond." Brandaelen blinked. "Estel was raised by the Lord Half-Elven?" The Halfling nodded. "Aye, he was." The young man was considering this, when from behind him, he heard: "Brandaelen. I see you are awake...and I see also you have met the local, and only, hobbit, Bilbo Baggins."
Turning, he saw standing there Mithrandir*. "Mithrandir!" Brandaelen gave a curt bow to the Istari*, then rose back up. "Oh, no need to do such things. You do not need to bow to me, I am not your father, or Elrond, or Glorfindel, or any other lord. Brandaelen, you have been summoned by Elrond. He wishes to speak with you. You can talk with Bilbo later, after the meeting." Nodding, the Dúnedain gave a curt bow to the Perian, then turned and walked with Mithrandir, who rose a curious eyebrow towards him. "I assume that your attire was your father's idea? You do look fit to be an Elven prince, as Bilbo said." The other nodded. "Yes. Though, I shall be sure to thank him in my letter I plan to send him. I ran into wolves right after I passed Tyrn Gorthad." The Istari nodded. "Yes, I was told of such." He stopped outside of Elrond's hall. "Ah, here you are. Go in, he is waiting. If you need me afterwards, I shall be in the Hall of Fire." Thus said, Mithrandir turned, and walked into a door across the hall.
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Entering into Elrond's hall, he found the Elven lord sitting in his high chair, studing some sort of parchment, beside it an envelope containing something. Glancing up, he locked his gaze with that of Brandaelen. "Welcome to Imladris, Brandaelen. Please, sit." The Elf lord motioned towards the chair beside his own. Quickly walking the distance from the door to the chair, Brandaelen gave a curt bow to Elrond, then sat. "Círdan sent me a letter with one of the several Wandering Companies of Elves. In it, he described that upon your arrival here, you were to be given something." Picking up the envelope, he handed it to the other. Carefuly opening it, Brandaelen's eyes widened as he saw what was inside. Gently reaching in, he pulled out a ring. The band was demasked in silver, a grey gem and a blue gem side by side set in the center of the band, and writen in Tengwar upon the inside of the band was:
The West Star shineth in these gems,
And he who wares it shall remain under
Eärendil's protection for as long as the West
Endures
"This ring is the heirloom of your family, passed down generation to generation from father to son, in an uninterupted line of thirty generations. That line was broken when your father lost his life, but now it shall be started again. I now call thee Tolheru; 'Island Lord' in the Noldo language. I appoint thee as Lord and Guardian of the Isle of Himling*, like your forebearers before you. I do this in the name of Círdan the Shipwright, Lord of Lindon and the Grey Havens." A look of astonishment upon his face, Brandaelen placed the ring upon his finger, then stood and bowed to Elrond, who smiled. "Now, being a new lord, you will not need to become a ranger, and Aragorn knows this. You may go now, Brandaelen." Bowing once more, Brandaelen left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Almost throwing the doors open, he entered the Hall of Fire, and found both Mithrandir and Bilbo sitting and talking. He swiftly walked over to them, bowing to them both. "Mithrandir, did you know of the news of which the Lord Elrond was to give to me?" The Istari shrugged slightly. Knowing that was probably the only responce he was to be given, Brandaelen continued. "He has appointed me Lord and Guardian of the Isle of Himling, and gave me this ring." Holding up his hand, the gems set on the ring caught the light from the fire, and blazed in a mingled radiance that shone in a briliant bright white. Bilbo gasped at this, and indeed, the effect took Brandaelen by supprise as well. The Istari chuckled slightly. "Ah, yes. I knew about that, but it was not my place to tell you. Indeed, I knew that you would be appointed such even before you left Lindon. But, come, sit, lord, and share with us in our talks."
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The sounds of two horns brought the attention of young Brandaelen from his lessons, and walked out to find the cause there of. He heard the slow, mornful singing of a group of Elves approaching the gates. Rushing towards them, the young boy stopped in his tracks when he saw what lay in the middle of the group of Elves. Two bodies. To be specific, the bodies of his parents. They both looked like they had in life, just more pale. Crying, the boy flung himself through the group, who stood aside for him, and hugged both bodies of his parents, crying heavily as he saw now that it was indeed them, repeating over and over again 'Mama, Papa!'. Círdan, seeing this, and remembering the oath he took, walked over to the boy, and whispering words of consolation in his ears, gently pulled the wailing boy from the bodies, and led him away, into his study.
Brandaelen woke with quite a start, nearly falling from his seated, but slouched, position. Looking about rather franticaly, he found he was still in the Hall of Fire, having fallen asleep during his conversation with Mithrandir and Bilbo, well, more to the fact during one of the many poems and songs sung by the Perian. Beside him, strangly enough, he did indeed find Bilbo, who was looking at him as if he was a parent looking after a sick child. "I'm sorry, but your cries had disturbed me outside in the garden, so I came to see what the matter was...clearly, it was a dream, but of what?" The young lord shuddered at the memory. "It was of the day my parents where brought back to Lindon." The hobbit nodded his head slowly. "Ah, I see. Here, drink this." Reaching beside him, he pulled up a glass of something, handing it to Brandaelen. "It will calm you, and help you go back to sleep." Shaking his head, he stood. "Nay, I can not sleep after such a dream. I shall stay awake for what is left of the night...perhaps I shall study something...or write my letter to my father..." Hesitating for a moment, the hobbit nodded. "As you will. I will see you at breakfast then. Or second breakfast, depending on when you feel like eating."
Walking out into the hall, the Dúnedain sighed, walking towards, and up, the stairs. Entering into his room, he found set upon his bed, new clothing, not unlike those he was wearing now, save that it was bedecked in gold and silver, and there also was a cloak matching. Disrobing, he placed these new clothes on, along with his armor, and strapping his sword belt to his waist, walked over to where the bag of items was set. Opening it, he looked through it. He removed the helmet, and set it upon his head. He pulled out the quivers of arrows, and putting all of the arrows in one quiver, set them aside. He then removed a letter, which he set aside for later reading, and then he pulled out the last thing: a horn, with Tengwar traced into the side, and a bright star engraved in the other, with a bronze covered tip, in a baldric. He put this on, hiding it under his cloak, then sat on the bed, reading the letter.
Dear Brandaelen,
If you are reading this, then you met Estel in Bree, and are possibly in Imladris. In this bag you shall find the heirlooms of the Lords and Guardians of the Isle of Himling. Save for one last one, which has been sent ahead to Lord Elrond, and the quivers are obviously not heirlooms. The helmet was worn by the third Lord and Guardian, whilst the horn was born by the seventh Lord and Guardian. These have passed down generation by generation, and were put into my care before your father went eastwards. If you have reached Imladris, and have spoken to Elrond, congratulations on your acsendance to the thirty-first Lord and Guardian of the Isle of Himling. Be proud of your station, and do not hide it. The horn is the symbol of the station, and is used to strike fear into opponents, and also as a call for aid. Use it wisely, for if winded at the wrong time, it will only bring death. The helmet is very special indeed, and was given to the third Lord and Guardian by the last High King of the Noldor, Gil-Galad himself. Wear it proudly. Good luck in your adventures, my son.
Círdan
Folding the letter closed, Brandaelen smiled slightly, then stood, and now arrayed in his new clothing, walked from his room. Walking back out into the gardens, he saw approaching him a Man, dark of hair, grey eyes, and dressed quiet royaly, though he did so for riding, yet he had no horse. Brandaelen stopped in his path whilst this man walked towards him, unbeknownst it seemed. He was just about to pass him when he stepped out. "Greetings. Newly come to Imladris?" The other man, startled, took a few steps back, resting his hand upon his sword hilt. "Yes...I am. Who be you? Are you an Elf?" A quiet chuckle. "Nay, I be no Elf. I am mortal. I am Brandaelen, Lord and Guardian of the Isle of Himling." The other man looked him over with a raised eyebrow. " A young lord at that. But, nonetheless, now that you have introduced yourself, I shall do the same. I am Boromir, Son of Denethor, Steward's Heir and Captian-General of Gondor." Boromir again looked over the young lord. "For a moment, I thought you were some ancient Elf lord, for you do indeed look it. Helmet, clothing...but not the swords. Those swords are from my distant ancestors the Númenoréans, or I know nothing about them. How come you about them?" Another quiet chuckle. "My father gave them to me ere I departed his lands for this place." "Then from whence you come? Gondor? Wait, nay, that would not be possible if your father was Lord of Himling, for no such place bears that name in Gondor. Pray, who is your father?"
A slight smirk. "That would be Círdan the Shipwright, Lord of the Grey Havens, an Elf, though, he is not the one who posessed the title before me. He was only the one to raise me after...an event I do not wish to speak of. But, onto other matters. Why have you come here?" "I have come to seek the lord Elrond Half-Elven. Might you know where he be?" A nod. "Aye. Last I saw him, he was in his hall, but he might have retired by now, for I last saw him several hours ago." The other man frowned. "Could you lead me there?" A nod. "Aye, follow me." Turning, Brandaelen walked back along the garden path, and into the Last Homely House. He followed the hall for a short way before he came to the door to Elrond's hall. Knocking on it lightly, he waited a few moments before opening it, and glancing in. "Ah, Lord Elrond, you have a guest. I met in out in the Gardens. He is Boromir, Son of Denethor from Gondor." With that, he stood aside, and let Boromir enter, then shut the door behind him.
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Hey all. Im gonna work on this story, and leave my other one be. Here are the explinations for the things I marked:
Brandaelen: It actualy means 'West Lord/High one' but I have interpereted it as such.
Workshop: When he was younger, Brandaelen accidentaly destroyed one of Círdans' workshops. He pushed something, and in the end it all came crashing down around him.
Colors: The reason being that his clothing and such is in that interesting color combination is that grey is a favorite color of the Dúnedain, and the blue is the chosen color for Lindon.
House: His houses' emblem is as such:
*
* * *
Just circled, and more tightly packed. The grey gem represents the Dúnedain, while the other represents the Teleri/Lindon Elves.
Oath: The oath that Círdan swore to his parents was to love, raise, and protect Brandaelen like his own son, and to let no harm come to their only son, and heir.
Translation: 'Delia au!' is the closest I can come to 'Go away!' in Telerin.
Translation: 'Ada' is father in Sindarin.
Translation/Explanation: 'Estel' is Hope in Sindarin, and one of Aragorn's seven or eight names.
Translation/Explanation: 'Perian' is Sindarin for Halflings.
The Journey: They made this journey in about one week, marching from before sunrise, a brief, half hour stop at midday, and then well after sunset.
Translation/Explanation: 'Brunien' is the river Loudwater, which forms the border of Imladris, or Rivendell.
Translation: 'Anar' is the Sun in Sindarin.
Explanation: The reason why the weather has little effect upon Imladris is due to Elrond's Ring of Power.
Translation: Goldórin Telerin for Noldor, the High-Elves.
Explanation: Mithrandir is another one of Gandalf's names.
Explanation: While there is no such lord, I felt that since Himling was an empty little isle, that no one would mind it.