Turiluve of Rohan, Chapter 1
Author - Turiluve (jim)
Written on - Thursday 28th February 2008 (02:04am)
Turiluve of Rohan
By Jim the James
Chapter 1:
Many of the wise know that there is no such thing as peace, as freedom. The War of the Ring was a brilliant victory, and brought peace to the people for many years, but few generations. Eomer was the King of Rohan, and Elessar was King of Gondor and Arnor. The first generation of the Fourth Age began. Children would ask their fathers what the war was like. None answered. Such proud and fearless men as they were, the sight of their brethren and the blood and decapitations that war brought only saddened their hearts, and the renown they earned was nothing they took gladly. Women without spouses wandered the streets and the fields, coming to the graves or the field where their loved ones died, be it their lovers or children. The Men of the West were many, but were now falling in numbers. Middle-Earth was a shadow of diminished people, while even as they feared greatly them, the Haradrim and Umbarians grew in numbers. Such things were known, but with effort were ignored.
Honour and glory was murder and regret. If you hadn’t killed that orc, he would have killed you and brought sadness to your family, no matter if he himself felt the same pressure. How did men know what it was to be an orc. Not that it mattered; they were all died, corpses in Pelennor or Helm’s Coomb, or fallen into the great pit which was once called Mordor which caused the ground to crumble when Barad-dur was destroyed.
He sat alone, puffing in thought beside his fireplace in his wooden home in Edoras, thinking of all that had come to pass. He winced as he watched Aethac his friend since childhood fall headless under the roaring, crimson smile of the orc that had slain him. Battle after battle, with every orc who fell brought a friend, or a pier, neither of which he couldn’t bear to afford. Soon the fireplace he stared so intently upon and the smoke from his old pipe with Longbottom Leaf burning within it became more a sight of what the homes of peasants were like. The flames rose and orcs came roaring through and killing as they passed helpless villagers faster than swords could be drawn and water could be poured. The orange of flames and the red of blood. The black of smoke. He felt a tear roll into his eyes, such a brave fighter as he was. He closed his eyes, coming to realize he was only daydreaming. The waxing crescent moon looked down at him through his window in the midnight sky, as his only company. The only company he wanted. If a visitor came to the door, which was ever unlikely as he was the one of Edoras who caused others to have Goosebumps as they passed him, he would get the information they brought, and send them on their way, away from him. He hardly spoke unless need be. It was just him and his fireplace, alone, to think of the war that would haunt him for the rest of his days ere his return to Eru.
He couldn’t stay here. He could not stay, trying to live his life as though nothing had happened. There would always be a shadow behind him. He was not welcome as it was in this darkest home in the darkest side of Edoras. He was an unwelcome guest in his own home. But where would he go, he wondered. It mattered not. He would see what other lands were like. Perhaps Eriador had things of interest to him. Or perhaps the East Emnet. He would be among welcoming nomads there. He wanted to smile, but he didn’t have the strength in his mouth to do so. He had been expressionless for so many years, no a smile, not a frown, not a laugh. Just a straight face. Nothing was funny. Soon the darkness was so welcoming he hated to be seen.
He looked up, away from the fireplace that was now nothing more than glowing orange coal and wood. He got to his feet and swung his cloak over his back, and grabbed his spear and used it like a walking stick. He brought some of the bread he had left, and so began to walk to his door. It mattered not to him if there were things he once loved and would have brought with him if he had liked the look upon them. The ring he had spent all his money on for his wife-to-be, and his brother’s old book he would always read regarding the military. They were only reminders of his cowardice. His folly. His dishonour. Old treasures were now nothing more than the ghosts of the things he loved, ever haunting him. He wondered if he should go to find them… if indeed they were still alive. They were likely nomads wandering the very lands he walked now. He would have liked to see them again. But he sighed. It was pointless. Why would he? They were only reminders of his fear those years ago. His Majesty was not pleased at all. He would not be missed. Eriador, he knew, would be a good place to be. Find the old inhabitancies of the Elves, perhaps? The history they left behind among the moss-covered trees and buildings would more than marvel him. It would be something to take his mind off of his deeds, the things he had witnessed, and the things he once loved and now hated. He pulled his cloak over his head, and marched out the door, without ever looking back. He would leave Edoras, and hopefully he would never return. What was his purpose now? What was the point of survival? The Valar knew something he didn’t, he was sure. There was a reason they had let him survive his shame and his battles, holding his sanity firmly. And he would find that reason. Somewhere…