(Archive) - A Boy Called Owen

South Road

The road is cracked and torn by the forces of time and nature, few care, and even fewer desire to keep up the maintainance. The billowing movements of the grasses in the wind remind you of some twisted thought, from some disturbing dream. Far to the northwest spires of smoke from small fires can be seen, thier purpose unknown. To the southeast, the shaby road continues through the unending grasses, which sway in some demented and hypnotic way. Far away to the northeast the very tips of mountains can be seen. To the southeast lays only desolation and grass..

The wind blows, the grasses whisper untold tales...

Contents:

White Pavillion

*Note - log supplied by Thorondur*

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Beneath the stars, the sere grasslands are chill and cold -- a far cry from the heat of the day, itself a pale shadow of the sun\'s anvil awaiting these knights in the debatable and desert lands south -- and two watchmen have cloaked themselves against it.

One, taller and more slender than the other, says, \"I\'m still not fully reconciled to this course of action, Cal.\"

He draws somewhat from the depths of the night, this lad, and wades into a puddle of moonlight. A smudged face, knotted hair, and rainment shorn to ribbons is revealed. But his face bears a light familiar, perhaps, downcast though it turns. A grey gaze flits uneasily about the expanse surrounding, venturing but spare and fleeting glances at the faces before him, and great is the wonderment in those glances.

His voice spills with equal modesty, and it is barely to be heard. But it is soft and lovely, a distant, timid song. \"Little I know of Gondor and its might, sirs, or of this land. But I am called Owen by my uncle, and he is the only one who has called me anything for long years.\" His hands fold before him, fingers playing unceasingly one with another. \"I am looking for one named Arnafel, sirs. I was told he moves south along a road such as this. I was told to get gone from this gate and seek him elsewhere before the guards came down.\"

His lips upturn slightly at this, a lovely visage, but all mirth is chased swiftly from his countenanced in well-practiced withdrawal. He is small and unassuming again.

As the boy\'s words are spoken, a glance passes between the two Men -- and indeed, as the boy comes nearer into sight, so too do their forms become clearer to him, in turn. Both fair, and lordly of mien if not of garment -- for they are clad after the fashion of simple soldiers -- one, \'Cal\', is young.

The other, young or old -- his age is somehow difficult to discern. Fair-faced, too, and even more solemn of stature than his partner, this one -- and it is his voice that comes in answer.

\"The Lord Arnafel will be with us shortly... Owen,\" the grave young lord says, \"Though I deem that this name does not fit you.\"

Young eyes upturn now, widened further with wonderment, and a single step he withdraws, though the boy\'s frame straightens. Some clarity gathers now about his tenor, born rather of eagerness than courage, but faintly there is pride in the music of it. Pride without boldness pride well-veiled.

\"So I have always thought, and he. But little that has been set upon me has fit, and much I would shed. This name perhaps the most, but I think it is not for me to unmake.\"

The other knight -- Calladan Telamarth, properly, though he has not yet been named so before the boy -- arches an eyebrow, a faint sound of surprise escaping his lips. Upon the other\'s thin lips, though, there grows a wry smile. \"Then if it is not for you, lad,\" he says with a laugh, \"neither is it for me. Owen you\'ll be, until we learn better.\"

Turning to his partner, he says, \"Calladan, find the Isilrim. He should be returning momentarily.\" Not waiting for other\'s nod of acquiescence, this tall lord studies the boy shrewdly, keen eyes glittering blue in the starlight.

\"So,\" he wonders, after a weighty pause, \"what seek you of the Lord Arnafel?\"

The boy\'s head inclines slightly. His glance has grown steady, assuming now the fullness of inspection upon the bright face of the Knight before him. He forgets himself, perhaps. Or perhaps remembers. His brow furrows thoughtfully, his words spill steady, a resolve yet making no challenge. A childlike curiosity, almost.

\"Do you name yourself his friend, then?\"

\"I name myself nothing save the name my mother gave me, and that is Thorondur Edrahil,\" the knight replies, yet grave -- but in the starlight, that smile still tugs at the corners of his lips. Bemused, it is. Out across the vast steppes, the sound of some cackling beast echoes down along the wind.

Tilting his head briefly in the direction of the sound, the knight pauses -- then looks back to the boy. \"They\'ll be frightened of us -- but you, you\'re lucky to have stumbled upon us, Owen. Now if I\'m to offer you a fire, I believe you\'ve a question to answer.\"

Downcast again the boy\'s glance, a measured and deliberate gesture this time a gesture of humility rather than awkwardness. His head, too bows, he withdraws a step with outstreaching arm, and for all it\'s natural grace, the display, however well intentioned, is ill-practiced and clumsy.

\"I am not cold enough, Sir, to have grown careless. But your name is known even on the dark paths of dimmed wisdom that have made my journey here.\" He stands again, straightens, smooths his rags. Notable that the lad is trying.

\"I have a message for Arnafel, scribed by the uncle, regarding my care. I beg nothing of him, but my uncle is of another mind. I am his kin, Lord. They tell me I am his kin.\" He glances again at the Knight\'s face, hesitency renewed.

In reply, there is only this: silence.

From the tall knight Thorondur comes no word, but only does he fix his gaze upon the lad, and he bends the full breadth of all the wisdom therein upon this noble straggler -- as if he seeks answers in a look, and more unsettling... as if he thinks to find them.

And without shame, though also without certainty, the boy raises his gaze to meet the knight\'s. A step forward, and again the silvery nightlight kisses his soft features. He makes no sign of movement. Nearly comfortable he seems in this strange exchange, and in this moment less young, less fragile. Whatever chills the night air shake him with, this he will endure.

And finally, the knight speaks his judgement. \"Then it may be you are indeed his kin. I know something of young Isilrims, you see,\" he says with a chuckle, though its meaning is lost in the sigh that follows it. \"Manwe preserve us,\" he whispers to himself, gesturing toward the camp.

\"Go on ahead. I\'ll be behind you in a moment.\"

The boy is released, and he sighs heavily. A rough bow - again, no gesture fitting a young Isilrim, nor any court in Dol Amroth, well well intentioned nontheless - and he turns with eager, quickening step toward the fire. Here is the first betrayal exuberance that the lad has ventured, and ravenously he draws beside the fire, clapping his hands over it as he stoops. He sits still - stone still - and waits.

Long and long the knight\'s moment stretches, solitude gained briefly -- and spent in lengthy silence. Northward and to the west his gaze is directed, past the delta and beyond Dor-en-Ernil, and even unto Dol Amroth though it lie long beyond his vision.

At last, Thorondur turns away, face unreadable -- and walks by measured pace into the circle of the firelight.

Fixed the boy\'s glance deep within the flickering wells of the fire before him, rapt his intent therein. Before him his hands are outstreached, making and remaking their grip one with the other, and beneath layers of dirt are revealed innumerable scrapes and scratches. So to revealed the rumor of hard journey on the boy\'s face, the dancing firelight advancing and withdrawing, betraying the stains of long travel, the marks of some hard passage.

His eyes narrow, flicker open, narrow again, shut. He teeters forward, starts, and resteadies himself with a vigorous shake of the head.

Still without speaking, the knight comes around the fire to sit down a few feet from the boy, directly upon the ground. Hidden, the clinking sound of his light chain-shirt betrays a warrior\'s readiness -- though in this moment he looks more a poet. The fire crackles, and a log pops. Into this quiet does he speak again.

\"You must want it very badly to be true,\" Thorondur says.

The boy does not move, but his gaze narrows upon his wringing hands. They cease their movement, fingers splaying before him for close regard. He glances to his clothes, torn to ribbons, his boots, bare straps of faded leather. Unflinching the boy\'s even expression, steady his soft voice as he retakes his regard of the fire after some long, quiet moments.

\"They say the libraries of Dol Amroth are as wide as the Morthond and as tall as twenty men. They say the minstrels are revered, and so the scholars, and so the makers of cheritable deeds and healers of the sick.\" His glance strays to the knight again. Firelight flickers on the fleeting revelation of chain beneath his tunic. \"And the say the knights are revered most of all, for they are all these things.\"

Calm and still in the firelight, Thorondur Girithlin is like to a statue, a wise and solemn figure seated in the trampled grass, as he considers the boy\'s words. After an immeasurable interlude like this, he nods, slightly -- and not without the faintest of gentle smiles.

\"They say many things, lad. But those of which you have now spoken -- those you can believe. Tell me,\" he wonders, shifting his position to look once more into the fire, \"One thing.\" Taking up a poker, he stirs the fading flames into a livelier blaze once more while he speaks.

\"If you could choose, between a sword and a scroll -- if there was no war in the world, and no evil. No Shadow. Which would you select?\"

Sorondil\'s brow knots. He too lifts a stick and prods the fire absently. Sparks dance before him, illuminating a wondering and lovely face. He looks to Thorondur at some length, head inclining again. \"I have never held a sword, sir.\" He shrugs, retaking his attention to the fire. More sparks. \"I have never wanted to. I don\'t imagine I ever will want to, Shadow or no.\" His brow furrows further, and he nods with some resolve. \"But I am not affraid. Believe me, sir that I am not affraid. Still, I should think the scroll.\"

\"Then I think,\" says the knight, without explanation or elaboration, \"that you are indeed of the Isilrim kin.\" And in it, there is some unspoken approval, though he neither looks to the boy, nor says aught further. Only does Thorondur continue to stir at the ashes beyond the fire itself, for some time at that, before speaking again.

\"You have walked a difficult road to find us. But the road to Dol Amroth will be longer still -- for all of us here, lad.\" In his voice, there is a heavier sorrow there than before. \"But if we love our scrolls and hate our swords, we must take it.\"