A Rider from Rhovannion
It must have been a little after noon when the rider had arrived with the news. I had gone down to the river by the Western road on the outside of the walls of Bree, for some fresh air and to soak my feet in the cool, earthy waters. I was sitting relaxed in the breeze when I saw a large rosy-cheeked face approaching me from over the hill, closest to the West gate. It was Butterbur, proprietor of the Prancing Pony, the very place I had called home for the previous two months. He seemed to be huffing and puffing as he crested the hill, waving his arms to get my attention and flapping a sheet of paper in his hand, blasting to and fro in the winds. I reluctantly got to my feet and started making for him. “This better be worth the breath you spend, Master Butterbur” I recall saying.
At first, I was incredulous. Then, a disgusting sinking feeling churned in the depths of my stomach. A sick, crippling anxiety; a debilitating guilt without even an accusation. I recall tuning the rest of his blabbering diatribe out, as the reality of the situation sunk in. And for the first time since I was a cub, I felt helpless.
I remember he said “Beggin’ your pardon, Master Benjenn, but a rider’s come with a message for you. I weren’t meant to look, and I wish I hadn't but I did, and… well, it’s grave news.”
I took the letter from him.
To my son, Benjenn,
Written at the Hall of the High Meadows
Benjenn,
I will not coat this in soft words.
Your brother Osric is dead.
Three nights past he rode with six of our men after goblins that raided the lower pens and drove off cattle toward the Old Fir Ridge. They found not a straggling band, but a war-host under a great goblin calling himself Snargul. In the clash that followed, Osric hewed many and split Snargul’s shield, but he fell with his axe buried in the creature’s helm.
Before morning, Hármund bore his body home on his own back. Osric lies now in the hall under watchful firelight, his spear laid across his breast. At dawn we raise his mound beside your grandsire at Bear’s Hill. The hearths are cold and the hives are quiet, as is our custom.
Your mother does not weep, but her silence is heavy. Thyra keeps the bees still. Hármund tends to the wounded and speaks little. I write because you are dear and of our blood, though your feet follow new paths.
Come if you are able. If not, speak his name where you stand, and do not forget him. He died as a son of our house should - facing the scourge and giving no ground.
Your father,
Brandulf of the High Meadows
I was shocked, broken, and all in between. Old Barliman tried to offer a word or two, and I knew he meant it from his heart. But I could not see clearly. I barked and snapped and hissed at him like a wild beast. Such shame do I feel now, that I must put this transgression to papyrus. Even if nobody should ever read this but me, it must serve as a reminder to be ever mindful of temper, arrogance and what can become of a man when he submits to the will of his emotions.
Once the poor man had indeed left me to my misery, I slumped beneath an old willow tree that was sitting lazy by the river. Dampness consumed my eyes - try as I might to contain the moisture and not allow any tear to shed.
Then, like a colourful, vibrant vision which seemed and felt more real than reality itself, I was whisked back to my memory of growing up with my now deceased brother, Osric.
*
Hármund and Osric had just finished a sparring match in the meadow just above the old glade. Battered, bruised and exhausted, they stumbled back up the dirt track and towards the lodge. It was a temperate midsummer evening. Flowers of red and pink, orange and turquoise, all came together in a breathtaking symphony of nature, cast against the darkened evergreen background of the forests. Groups of birds made their way dutifully in formation across the sky, and the low humming of bees created a lulled ambience of peace, pleasure and pleasantness.
“There he is, Benjenn Honey-Mouth! Too fine to sweat with your own kin, are you? Come to the yard, little brother, lest your flesh grow soft like churned butter.” Hármund spoke in a grizzled, raspy voice.
He was the oldest of our siblings and a fine warrior, proven in the field. Both tall and broad, with shaggy dirty blonde hair, he was indeed a worthy heir to our clan, and commanded much love and trust from our father, Brandulf.
My sister, Thyra, watched him speak with eyes like a fawn. She held her tongue.
Osric scowled and looked at Hármund. In a growling, gravelly voice he said “Leave him be, Hármund. Words need not bite to be true.”
Hármund looked to turn slightly red. “Hold your tongue, little bear. Honey-Mouth would sooner nose through mouldering parchments and pester that Grey Wanderer for tales - aye, or any traveler who crosses our hearth - than to take up axe or bow or claw with his kin. Would you have him make a mock of our house? Do you know how the other clans whisper of it? No? I thought as much.” His voice had raised to a roaring, venomous shout and he snarled his final words with disdain.
Osric was silent for a few moments, clearly considering his response to this tirade. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke from his chest, laden with measure and authority.
“Enough, Hármund. You speak as though Benjenn were but a lame cub fit only for the coops. He may not maul with the same menace as you, or fly with the same fleetness as me, but, dear brother, he thinks - and he endures. Honey’s made slow, but lasts long.” Osric took a commanding step forward, his eyes steady with his elder brothers.
“I have watched him rise like a barrow wight after taking a knock that would stagger the most hardy. I have watched him grip an axe till the palms of his weary hands bled - Hark! And still he asked for one further bout. That is the making of strength, whether you choose to see it or not.”
Finally Osric’s voice began to reduce, until it was completely calm. A woodland pond undisturbed by a single ripple.
“Mock him if that serves to sooth you, but one day you may be glad of Honey-Mouth at your side. Better a brother who thinks and strives than one who boasts and breaks.” Hármund’s incredulous face had become redder. His facial expression darkened and he clenched his jaw as tight as iron.
“You speak out of line, little bear. Always the two of you. Always you two. You babble on with these words and think patience and honey will rid us of the invaders and earn our clan glory. The rest of us break our backs and spill Beorning blood to keep the bonfires alight and the fences intact!” His manic gaze flicked between me, and Osric. I avoided it as best I could, through salty, tearfilled eyes.
“You’d sooner protect Honey-Mouth's pride than the honour of our clan, wouldn’t you, Osric?” He jabbed a claw-like finger at his chest as he growled. “Let the clans whisper, you say! They will not whisper of me!”
Without waiting a moment for any chance of response, Hármund shifted on his heels and began to stomp away, his boots grinding into the dirt and sand and he strode towards the lodge. “When the frost of Winter comes to bite and the wolves have their snouts pressed against the palisade, we’ll see if the honey keeps then!” He barked over his left shoulder from a distance as he vanished into the darkness of the Lodge common room, slamming the wooden gate-door with violence in his wake.
*
Tears ran down my cheek as I opened my eyes to the familiar Bree-land fields. There I sat, beneath that old lazy willow tree, beside the river. It was always the truth, I knew it. Osric did his best to protect me from a breed of people who did not understand, and despised me for what they could not comprehend.
I thought a great deal many things beneath that tree. Things I wish I had said to my brother. Stories I wished I had told him. Friends I wanted him to meet. Advice, never to be sought or counseled. Merriment, never to be made again. Apologies, for things that would likely have never mattered to him anyway.
Finally, beneath that old, lazy willow tree, I sat and sang in lament. Groaning, muttering, sputtering.
“Sleep, O brother, under stone;
The forest keeps you as her own.”
