All Kings great and small
Posted: Tue Sep 20, 2011 9:19 pm
Hi all, please excuse my indulgence
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It was a bright and sunny day, a soft breeze carried the faint scent of wildflowers over the ruins of Fornost Erain, once the capital of Arnor but now just a memory or half told fable to many, but to the old man who sat on an ancient topped column watching a boy with dark hair chase the butterflies of summer, it was a sacred place.
Once his ancestors had lived here, kept the King's peace, erected the greatest structures east of Numenor, but now the great city was almost covered by the heather of the Northlands. Only the open sky and the wind roamed over the wide boulevards and buildings, the great statues of long ago torn down and burned, the stain of Angmar still on the land and on the city of Kings. Now the only folk who visited the ruins were the Rangers of the North and their kin, camping amonst the ruins of the city they longed to rebuild but dared not to. Banners flew in the breeze, faded and worn, but the great Houses of the Dunedain were there, ragged as they were, and in these days of summer all that could made the trek from their hidden fastness, daring to travel in caravans to this lonely place in the North, and here in kinship they met, and remembered, and hoped.
The sounds of laughter mingled with that of music plied on harps and flutes, songs old and new competed with the squeals of children taught from the time they could walk to mind their sounds, free now in this last place of refuge to be nothing more than children at play. The time would come for the donning of rough cloaks and silver stars, but for today, all who met under the freedom of the blue sky were as one, a people unhomed yet who clung fiercely to every stone, every blade of grass, every toppled fragment of their kingdom. They were the Men of the West, of wave-crested Numenor, and of Arnor, washed over by a sea of grass.
The old man had shed his Ranger garb and was dressed in a long shirt of clean linen; about his waist was worn a knotted leather belt and but a small dagger hung from it. Around his shoulders he wore a light cloak of silver and black, and it was bordered in black with white stars. He held a pipe in his fingers, the bowl blackened from use, and the stem worn in places. His eyes kept watch on the young boy, and his laughter seemed like a lost thing, trying to find its way home. The boy wore a shirt as blue as the sky, and his bare feet crushed soft green grass that covered the once great Road that led up from Bree. He ran up to the old man, panting, his face shining with sweat.
"Grandfather!", he exclaimed, "I cannot catch them!" The Grandfather laughed, handed the boy a flask of cool stream water, and replied,
"I am sure they had their fun with you, making you run as you did!" He stood stiffly and put his hand on the boy's shoulder.
"The butterflies know what it is like to be free. It is not up to us to take that from them. Let them fly as we would wish to." The boy laughed and took his grandfather's hand as they walked over the thick carpet of summer grass, walking deeper into the ruins of the great city of Fornost. The boy craned his neck, his quick eyes squinting in the sunlight as he stared up at the blue sky, and the broken figures that rose like jagged teeth from the earth.
"What are those, Grandfather?", he asked, pointing at the worn and eroded stones, the details of armor and faces now but memory. The old man touched one, his fingers tracing once elegant lines with reverence.
"Statues, my boy, once the likenesses of the great Kings, carved into stone by the men of Westernesse, your kin. Long have they endured, wind and rain and war and hate, but still they stand, if a little worse for wear." He laughed at his small joke as the boy ran ahead, racing in and out of the broken statues, until he stopped suddenly in front of the largest. Taller than the rest, his visage so high that it escaped defilement, yet was broken in so many places that it threatened to crash to the earth, the last of the great Kings to survive. The boy looked up in all, his eyes wide.
"Who is that?" he asked, his voice small and far away, as he stared up into the eyes of the statue.
"Elendil you have found, my grandson, the great High-King of Arnor and Gondor, it is he on whom you gaze. Look at him, and know your kin."
The boy turned and stared at his grandfather, and he thought that behind his eyes he could see the rolling of grey waves, the crashing of the sea, and light of a time now long forgotten.
"I am a king?" he asked.
The old man smiled and replied,
"Surely, if only a little king. Of Elendil's line you are, his house knew many children and from a daughter's daughter came your line, but of the line of Ciryatúr, his helmsman, do we of our House all trace. Great and proud was our family, once, long ago. In the days of the Kings, we lived in houses of stone, and wore the livery of our King, and were counted among the First of those who fled from the wreck of Numenor."
He sat stiffly on a piece of broken marble and brought the boy close.
"Our people are scattered, my boy, and our past is like a worn cloak of a beggar that no longer keeps us warm, but we cannot let it go, for it is all we have left. Like that beggar we wander, and though lesser men may look upon us and judge, they know not of our heritage, or care for that matter."
"When we passed through Bree", said the boy, "the people there, they looked down on us. Why?"
The grandfather chuckled and took out his pipe again.
"Ah, bree-landers! They reckon their wood fence the finest of all Eriador, their gate like the fabled gates of Minas Tirith, and their mud streets like the road of riches. Bah! Do not reckon the stares and taunts of those men, my boy, for they do not know better. They would not believe a word of what I have told you, for the world to them stops short of their noses, and they are the happier for it."
He lit his pipe and tugged on it.
"Let them think what they will, that we are nothing but like beggars, for if they think that, so will those who wish us ill. Know that only here, in the wilderness of our home, do we know ourselves for true. Let bree-men have their walls, for us, this is the world!"
The old man stretched out his arms, and the boy then took in the vista of broken stone and statues that leaned and rolled over the green mounds. In his mind the city grew up, and like a giant that slept it yawned and rose, and the grandeur of Fornost came to him. He went to his grandfather and leaned against him, taking in the smell of pipeweed.
"Are we all Kings then, grandfather?" he asked.
The old man smiled and hugged the boy.
"We of the Dunedain, we are all kings, Arandithen", he said, "all kings great and small."
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It was a bright and sunny day, a soft breeze carried the faint scent of wildflowers over the ruins of Fornost Erain, once the capital of Arnor but now just a memory or half told fable to many, but to the old man who sat on an ancient topped column watching a boy with dark hair chase the butterflies of summer, it was a sacred place.
Once his ancestors had lived here, kept the King's peace, erected the greatest structures east of Numenor, but now the great city was almost covered by the heather of the Northlands. Only the open sky and the wind roamed over the wide boulevards and buildings, the great statues of long ago torn down and burned, the stain of Angmar still on the land and on the city of Kings. Now the only folk who visited the ruins were the Rangers of the North and their kin, camping amonst the ruins of the city they longed to rebuild but dared not to. Banners flew in the breeze, faded and worn, but the great Houses of the Dunedain were there, ragged as they were, and in these days of summer all that could made the trek from their hidden fastness, daring to travel in caravans to this lonely place in the North, and here in kinship they met, and remembered, and hoped.
The sounds of laughter mingled with that of music plied on harps and flutes, songs old and new competed with the squeals of children taught from the time they could walk to mind their sounds, free now in this last place of refuge to be nothing more than children at play. The time would come for the donning of rough cloaks and silver stars, but for today, all who met under the freedom of the blue sky were as one, a people unhomed yet who clung fiercely to every stone, every blade of grass, every toppled fragment of their kingdom. They were the Men of the West, of wave-crested Numenor, and of Arnor, washed over by a sea of grass.
The old man had shed his Ranger garb and was dressed in a long shirt of clean linen; about his waist was worn a knotted leather belt and but a small dagger hung from it. Around his shoulders he wore a light cloak of silver and black, and it was bordered in black with white stars. He held a pipe in his fingers, the bowl blackened from use, and the stem worn in places. His eyes kept watch on the young boy, and his laughter seemed like a lost thing, trying to find its way home. The boy wore a shirt as blue as the sky, and his bare feet crushed soft green grass that covered the once great Road that led up from Bree. He ran up to the old man, panting, his face shining with sweat.
"Grandfather!", he exclaimed, "I cannot catch them!" The Grandfather laughed, handed the boy a flask of cool stream water, and replied,
"I am sure they had their fun with you, making you run as you did!" He stood stiffly and put his hand on the boy's shoulder.
"The butterflies know what it is like to be free. It is not up to us to take that from them. Let them fly as we would wish to." The boy laughed and took his grandfather's hand as they walked over the thick carpet of summer grass, walking deeper into the ruins of the great city of Fornost. The boy craned his neck, his quick eyes squinting in the sunlight as he stared up at the blue sky, and the broken figures that rose like jagged teeth from the earth.
"What are those, Grandfather?", he asked, pointing at the worn and eroded stones, the details of armor and faces now but memory. The old man touched one, his fingers tracing once elegant lines with reverence.
"Statues, my boy, once the likenesses of the great Kings, carved into stone by the men of Westernesse, your kin. Long have they endured, wind and rain and war and hate, but still they stand, if a little worse for wear." He laughed at his small joke as the boy ran ahead, racing in and out of the broken statues, until he stopped suddenly in front of the largest. Taller than the rest, his visage so high that it escaped defilement, yet was broken in so many places that it threatened to crash to the earth, the last of the great Kings to survive. The boy looked up in all, his eyes wide.
"Who is that?" he asked, his voice small and far away, as he stared up into the eyes of the statue.
"Elendil you have found, my grandson, the great High-King of Arnor and Gondor, it is he on whom you gaze. Look at him, and know your kin."
The boy turned and stared at his grandfather, and he thought that behind his eyes he could see the rolling of grey waves, the crashing of the sea, and light of a time now long forgotten.
"I am a king?" he asked.
The old man smiled and replied,
"Surely, if only a little king. Of Elendil's line you are, his house knew many children and from a daughter's daughter came your line, but of the line of Ciryatúr, his helmsman, do we of our House all trace. Great and proud was our family, once, long ago. In the days of the Kings, we lived in houses of stone, and wore the livery of our King, and were counted among the First of those who fled from the wreck of Numenor."
He sat stiffly on a piece of broken marble and brought the boy close.
"Our people are scattered, my boy, and our past is like a worn cloak of a beggar that no longer keeps us warm, but we cannot let it go, for it is all we have left. Like that beggar we wander, and though lesser men may look upon us and judge, they know not of our heritage, or care for that matter."
"When we passed through Bree", said the boy, "the people there, they looked down on us. Why?"
The grandfather chuckled and took out his pipe again.
"Ah, bree-landers! They reckon their wood fence the finest of all Eriador, their gate like the fabled gates of Minas Tirith, and their mud streets like the road of riches. Bah! Do not reckon the stares and taunts of those men, my boy, for they do not know better. They would not believe a word of what I have told you, for the world to them stops short of their noses, and they are the happier for it."
He lit his pipe and tugged on it.
"Let them think what they will, that we are nothing but like beggars, for if they think that, so will those who wish us ill. Know that only here, in the wilderness of our home, do we know ourselves for true. Let bree-men have their walls, for us, this is the world!"
The old man stretched out his arms, and the boy then took in the vista of broken stone and statues that leaned and rolled over the green mounds. In his mind the city grew up, and like a giant that slept it yawned and rose, and the grandeur of Fornost came to him. He went to his grandfather and leaned against him, taking in the smell of pipeweed.
"Are we all Kings then, grandfather?" he asked.
The old man smiled and hugged the boy.
"We of the Dunedain, we are all kings, Arandithen", he said, "all kings great and small."