Post by Admin on Jan 3, 2021 16:35:31 GMT
Author: Linda Hoyland
Rating G
Summary: Mettarë can be a lonely time to a wanderer far from home.
The characters belong to Tolkien. I make no money from this story
It would be but a poor fire, only sufficient for a man to warm his hands by, contained as it was in a brazier, yet this meagre blaze was the first of Minas Tirith’s Mettarë fires. After suffering a debilitating winter cold, the Steward felt unable to ride out to the Pelennor to light the usual bonfire. Instead, a small fire was to be lit in the Court of the Fountain.
Ecthelion coughed and rubbed his hands together against the cold. Thorongil regarded the old man anxiously. “Have you taken your medicine, my lord?” he asked in a low tone.
“Yes, my cold hands trouble me more than my cough. I have left my fur lined gloves in the Merethrond,” the Steward replied. “Have you seen my servant? I need him to go and fetch them.”
“I will go,” said Thorongil. “It will be quicker.”
“Thank you, Thorongil. You are most considerate.”
Thorongil made his way to the Hall of Feasts with swift long strides. The Merethrond was empty, save for a few servants putting the finishing touches to the preparations for the evening’s celebrations. The gloves were easy enough to espy by the fireplace where the old man must have stopped to warm himself earlier after addressing the Citadel Guards.
The Hall was beautifully decorated with blue, white, and silver ribbons and arrangements of exotic hothouse flowers. Something was missing, though. There was not a single sprig of evergreens to be seen.
Thorongil closed his eyes, and was instantly transported back to his childhood days. His usually solemn mother was smiling as she entered their rooms, her arms filled with branches of fir and holly. The fresh aroma of pine filled the chamber. “Come, help me decorate, Estel,” she said. “We will celebrate Mettarë in the manner of my folk. Be careful not to prick yourself on the holly, though.”
“Why do we decorate?” he asked her.
Gilraen held out a sprig of fir. “No matter how cold the weather, or how fierce the storms, these trees flourish and remain evergreen, just like our folk, who endure despite adversity. Ah, you should see the feasting hall in my village! It looked like a forest after we decorated it for Mettarë!”
“Is it as big as the Hall of Fire?” the boy asked.
Gilraen laughed. “Ah no, ion nîn, nought compares with the splendours of Rivendell, but it was home and my parents and the Elders ensured we showed our defiance of the darkness each mid-winter.”
“I should like to meet my grandparents. Can we go and visit them?”
Gilraen’s features darkened and her eyes were filled with sadness. “It is not safe. One day, I hope we will, until then you must be patient. We have everything we could need here, do we not, and we are happy, you and I?”
Even in memory, her wistful smile tore at his heart. He wondered if she still decorated her room now he was far away. Had he done the right thing by travelling to distant lands? Gandalf had told him there was no other way if he were to gain the knowledge he needed to lead his people and win renown. It was hard, though, to be far away from those he loved.
Another vision floated before his eyes, that of a maiden fairer than the stars and as high above him as those celestial bodies.
Thorongil sighed deeply and forced himself back into the present. He snatched up Ecthelion’s gloves and hurried back to the Court of the Fountain.
“Thank you, Thorongil.” The old man smiled as he tucked his hands into the fur lined folds. “You are always so helpful.”
Denethor, who stood at his side, glared. “I could have brought them to you more swiftly, father.”
“You would have sent a servant, my boy.” Ecthelion turned his attention back to Thorongil. “Will you dine with us tonight, Captain?”
Thorongil hesitated. Ecthelion’s invitation was kindly meant, but he would be an outsider at the Steward’s table. Ecthelion’s daughters always welcomed him warmly, but the look on Denethor’s visage was enough to sour the fine wines that would be served. Besides, his mood was melancholy tonight and feasting held little appeal. “I thank you, my lord, but I have other plans,” he said.
“No doubt you wish to celebrate in the manner of your own folk,” said Ecthelion. “Maybe you would join me on the morrow to share a glass of wine to toast the New Year?”
“I should like that, my lord,” said Thorongil.
A herald blew a single blast on a silver trumpet signalling that the ceremony was about to begin.
Ecthelion took his place in front of the brazier. A Guard brought a lighted torch and handed it to the Steward. Ecthelion coughed. He then took a deep breath and said it a loud clear voice “The light overcomes the darkness. The darkness will not triumph. The light will return with the dawning year!” He cast the torch into the brazier and the flames immediately flared up. The bells rang out throughout the city.
Thorongil waited until the Steward and his attendants began to make their way to the Merethrond. Then after wishing Ecthelion New Year blessings, he took his leave. Not certain where he was headed, made his way down to through the circles of the City. He was in a strange restless mood. Maybe he should have accepted Ecthelion’s invitation rather than be alone on Mettarë night, but Denethor made it all too clear that he felt Captain Thorongil should have no place at the Steward’s table.
The streets were crowded tonight as the people either made their way to the Pelennor, either to gather round the bonfires or to visit family or friends within the City.
When he reached the third circle, Thorongil espied a familiar face, Fingon, his sergeant. The man greeted his captain warmly.
“Would you care to share a mug of ale with me to toast the New Year?” Thorongil asked.
“Gladly, I would, if I had the time, Captain,” said Fingon. “I have three days leave, though, and I am going to spend it with my family. It will be good to see my wife and little ones. May you have a joyous Mettarë, Captain!”
Thorongil forced a smile. “A joyous Mettarë to you too, Fingon. Please convey my greetings to your lady.”
Fingon took his leave and Thorongil watched him vanish into the crowd. He realised he was only a short distance from “The Black Horse”, one of his favourite taverns. He went inside and ordered a mug of ale. The tavern was crowded, mostly with soldiers. He guessed they were off duty, but not on leave. Many called out greetings to him, but he did not feel inclined to join them. Instead, he took his drink to a corner by the fireplace and sipped it morosely.
His thoughts were transported back to another time and another tavern, “The Prancing Pony” in Bree where he had sometimes enjoyed a tankard of ale with his kinsman, Halbarad. He closed his eyes and could picture Halbarad sitting opposite, chivvying old Butterbur to hurry and bring their drinks. Rangers tended to be overlooked in Bree. They had last been there on a market day which was almost as crowded as “The Black Horse” was tonight. The Bree folk had glared at the two Rangers, but Aragorn and Halbarad had ignored them and enjoyed Butterbur’s excellent ale when it had finally arrived. Halbarad had been affectionately teasing his kinsman over losing his horse that had slipped his tether and wandered off. Stars! He even missed that wayward horse that could slip any knot.
Thorongil reminded himself that he now had, Rirosson, an excellent and perfectly behaved mount that bore him faithfully. Suddenly resolute, he knew how he wished to spend this Mettarë night. He would ride out and see the bonfires. He swiftly made his way back up to the second circle, where Ecthelion had insisted he stable his horse with the mounts of his household, rather than with the other horses used by the soldiers. Thorongil had accepted the favour mostly for the benefit of his steed. Rirosson was a gift from King Thengel of Rohan. He saddled the chestnut and rode down to the main gate. The lamp lit streets were still filled with people, many of whom recognised him and called out Mettarë greetings, as did the guard who cheerfully waved him through the gate.
Out on the Pelennor, the darkness enveloped him like a cloak. It was a cloudy night and neither moon nor stars were visible. The bonfires flickered and flared a little way ahead and Thorongil could smell the smoke and hear the excited laughter of the children.
Rirosson whinnied as he caught the scent of burning, his eyes showing his instinctive fear of fire.
“Easy, boy,” Thorongil soothed his mount. Maybe it was not such a good idea after all to visit the bonfires. A sudden breeze stirred and whipped Thorongil’s hair across his face. He looked up just as the clouds parted to reveal the Star of Eärendil.
Every night, Thorongil looked for the familiar star, but in the City, its brilliance seemed dimmed and constrained. Out here in the fields, it shone like a beacon, a beacon of hope.
Thorongil dismounted and took hold of the chestnut’s bridle. He stood looking upwards remembering the night when his mother had first pointed out the star to him and told him the story, as later had Master Elrond who added many more details. The star would shine on them too, tonight. It would also shine on Arwen.
Gilraen had told her son when he left Rivendell that she would think of him whenever she beheld the star. No doubt, she was thinking of him now, even as he thought of her.
The Star of Eärendil shone with a comforting gleam and Thorongil remembered his home. One day, he would return there. Until then, he would cherish his memories in his heart.
His heart much lightened, Thorongil rode back to the City.
Rating G
Summary: Mettarë can be a lonely time to a wanderer far from home.
The characters belong to Tolkien. I make no money from this story
It would be but a poor fire, only sufficient for a man to warm his hands by, contained as it was in a brazier, yet this meagre blaze was the first of Minas Tirith’s Mettarë fires. After suffering a debilitating winter cold, the Steward felt unable to ride out to the Pelennor to light the usual bonfire. Instead, a small fire was to be lit in the Court of the Fountain.
Ecthelion coughed and rubbed his hands together against the cold. Thorongil regarded the old man anxiously. “Have you taken your medicine, my lord?” he asked in a low tone.
“Yes, my cold hands trouble me more than my cough. I have left my fur lined gloves in the Merethrond,” the Steward replied. “Have you seen my servant? I need him to go and fetch them.”
“I will go,” said Thorongil. “It will be quicker.”
“Thank you, Thorongil. You are most considerate.”
Thorongil made his way to the Hall of Feasts with swift long strides. The Merethrond was empty, save for a few servants putting the finishing touches to the preparations for the evening’s celebrations. The gloves were easy enough to espy by the fireplace where the old man must have stopped to warm himself earlier after addressing the Citadel Guards.
The Hall was beautifully decorated with blue, white, and silver ribbons and arrangements of exotic hothouse flowers. Something was missing, though. There was not a single sprig of evergreens to be seen.
Thorongil closed his eyes, and was instantly transported back to his childhood days. His usually solemn mother was smiling as she entered their rooms, her arms filled with branches of fir and holly. The fresh aroma of pine filled the chamber. “Come, help me decorate, Estel,” she said. “We will celebrate Mettarë in the manner of my folk. Be careful not to prick yourself on the holly, though.”
“Why do we decorate?” he asked her.
Gilraen held out a sprig of fir. “No matter how cold the weather, or how fierce the storms, these trees flourish and remain evergreen, just like our folk, who endure despite adversity. Ah, you should see the feasting hall in my village! It looked like a forest after we decorated it for Mettarë!”
“Is it as big as the Hall of Fire?” the boy asked.
Gilraen laughed. “Ah no, ion nîn, nought compares with the splendours of Rivendell, but it was home and my parents and the Elders ensured we showed our defiance of the darkness each mid-winter.”
“I should like to meet my grandparents. Can we go and visit them?”
Gilraen’s features darkened and her eyes were filled with sadness. “It is not safe. One day, I hope we will, until then you must be patient. We have everything we could need here, do we not, and we are happy, you and I?”
Even in memory, her wistful smile tore at his heart. He wondered if she still decorated her room now he was far away. Had he done the right thing by travelling to distant lands? Gandalf had told him there was no other way if he were to gain the knowledge he needed to lead his people and win renown. It was hard, though, to be far away from those he loved.
Another vision floated before his eyes, that of a maiden fairer than the stars and as high above him as those celestial bodies.
Thorongil sighed deeply and forced himself back into the present. He snatched up Ecthelion’s gloves and hurried back to the Court of the Fountain.
“Thank you, Thorongil.” The old man smiled as he tucked his hands into the fur lined folds. “You are always so helpful.”
Denethor, who stood at his side, glared. “I could have brought them to you more swiftly, father.”
“You would have sent a servant, my boy.” Ecthelion turned his attention back to Thorongil. “Will you dine with us tonight, Captain?”
Thorongil hesitated. Ecthelion’s invitation was kindly meant, but he would be an outsider at the Steward’s table. Ecthelion’s daughters always welcomed him warmly, but the look on Denethor’s visage was enough to sour the fine wines that would be served. Besides, his mood was melancholy tonight and feasting held little appeal. “I thank you, my lord, but I have other plans,” he said.
“No doubt you wish to celebrate in the manner of your own folk,” said Ecthelion. “Maybe you would join me on the morrow to share a glass of wine to toast the New Year?”
“I should like that, my lord,” said Thorongil.
A herald blew a single blast on a silver trumpet signalling that the ceremony was about to begin.
Ecthelion took his place in front of the brazier. A Guard brought a lighted torch and handed it to the Steward. Ecthelion coughed. He then took a deep breath and said it a loud clear voice “The light overcomes the darkness. The darkness will not triumph. The light will return with the dawning year!” He cast the torch into the brazier and the flames immediately flared up. The bells rang out throughout the city.
Thorongil waited until the Steward and his attendants began to make their way to the Merethrond. Then after wishing Ecthelion New Year blessings, he took his leave. Not certain where he was headed, made his way down to through the circles of the City. He was in a strange restless mood. Maybe he should have accepted Ecthelion’s invitation rather than be alone on Mettarë night, but Denethor made it all too clear that he felt Captain Thorongil should have no place at the Steward’s table.
The streets were crowded tonight as the people either made their way to the Pelennor, either to gather round the bonfires or to visit family or friends within the City.
When he reached the third circle, Thorongil espied a familiar face, Fingon, his sergeant. The man greeted his captain warmly.
“Would you care to share a mug of ale with me to toast the New Year?” Thorongil asked.
“Gladly, I would, if I had the time, Captain,” said Fingon. “I have three days leave, though, and I am going to spend it with my family. It will be good to see my wife and little ones. May you have a joyous Mettarë, Captain!”
Thorongil forced a smile. “A joyous Mettarë to you too, Fingon. Please convey my greetings to your lady.”
Fingon took his leave and Thorongil watched him vanish into the crowd. He realised he was only a short distance from “The Black Horse”, one of his favourite taverns. He went inside and ordered a mug of ale. The tavern was crowded, mostly with soldiers. He guessed they were off duty, but not on leave. Many called out greetings to him, but he did not feel inclined to join them. Instead, he took his drink to a corner by the fireplace and sipped it morosely.
His thoughts were transported back to another time and another tavern, “The Prancing Pony” in Bree where he had sometimes enjoyed a tankard of ale with his kinsman, Halbarad. He closed his eyes and could picture Halbarad sitting opposite, chivvying old Butterbur to hurry and bring their drinks. Rangers tended to be overlooked in Bree. They had last been there on a market day which was almost as crowded as “The Black Horse” was tonight. The Bree folk had glared at the two Rangers, but Aragorn and Halbarad had ignored them and enjoyed Butterbur’s excellent ale when it had finally arrived. Halbarad had been affectionately teasing his kinsman over losing his horse that had slipped his tether and wandered off. Stars! He even missed that wayward horse that could slip any knot.
Thorongil reminded himself that he now had, Rirosson, an excellent and perfectly behaved mount that bore him faithfully. Suddenly resolute, he knew how he wished to spend this Mettarë night. He would ride out and see the bonfires. He swiftly made his way back up to the second circle, where Ecthelion had insisted he stable his horse with the mounts of his household, rather than with the other horses used by the soldiers. Thorongil had accepted the favour mostly for the benefit of his steed. Rirosson was a gift from King Thengel of Rohan. He saddled the chestnut and rode down to the main gate. The lamp lit streets were still filled with people, many of whom recognised him and called out Mettarë greetings, as did the guard who cheerfully waved him through the gate.
Out on the Pelennor, the darkness enveloped him like a cloak. It was a cloudy night and neither moon nor stars were visible. The bonfires flickered and flared a little way ahead and Thorongil could smell the smoke and hear the excited laughter of the children.
Rirosson whinnied as he caught the scent of burning, his eyes showing his instinctive fear of fire.
“Easy, boy,” Thorongil soothed his mount. Maybe it was not such a good idea after all to visit the bonfires. A sudden breeze stirred and whipped Thorongil’s hair across his face. He looked up just as the clouds parted to reveal the Star of Eärendil.
Every night, Thorongil looked for the familiar star, but in the City, its brilliance seemed dimmed and constrained. Out here in the fields, it shone like a beacon, a beacon of hope.
Thorongil dismounted and took hold of the chestnut’s bridle. He stood looking upwards remembering the night when his mother had first pointed out the star to him and told him the story, as later had Master Elrond who added many more details. The star would shine on them too, tonight. It would also shine on Arwen.
Gilraen had told her son when he left Rivendell that she would think of him whenever she beheld the star. No doubt, she was thinking of him now, even as he thought of her.
The Star of Eärendil shone with a comforting gleam and Thorongil remembered his home. One day, he would return there. Until then, he would cherish his memories in his heart.
His heart much lightened, Thorongil rode back to the City.