“Goodness, there’s a lot of finely clad warriors in Bree this day”, Davus mused to himself. He had walked from the Boar Fountain towards the Prancing Pony and had been stunned by seeing the man sat astride a large white horse. He was bearded and broad, sporting Rohirric armour and a Gondorian cloak; a fine warrior, garbed in what showed his merit. Davus hadn’t seen a man like that since he had made his way up the Greenway.
Walking into the Prancing Pony, he had found it deserted. “Slow business today, fine Sir!” Barliman had uttered, not looking up from the tankard he dried with a dirty rag. Davus had shrugged, turned his nose up, and walked out again into the air. He began to walk toward the West Gate, when he happened upon more warriors.
An elf, armed with the most beautiful and elegant weapon he had ever seen, and another man in thick armour with a shield upon his back. “No wonder the Pony is quiet”, he thought, “one would think war was just over the hillside”. Walking out the West Gate, he climbed the rise and sat beneath the shade of the trees overlooking the stream that ran adjacent to the Greenway.
He thought of wars and conflict he had seen, of warriors and battles, and the songs he had heard glorifying it. He thought of a great many things, including the warrior sightings in Bree, and the peace he felt as he turned his head to the fair-weathered sky. Once again, he pulled out his book and charcoal pen and began to scrawl.
How peace and calm hangs on threads,
It comes from unknown soldiers long now dead.
I ponder sat under the quiet shade,
Of trees, and deeds of those whose names fade,
Away in time, their stories sung,
By squires and skalds of battles won.
But did they truly win their war,
For war still rages evermore.
Is the farmer truly safe in his field?
Is his table at night his final meal?
For none of us are guaranteed the dawn.
The dead barrows a reminder, of oaths once sworn,
Sworn in vain? We may never know,
For even in the noon sun, we see shadow,
It lives and breathes and grows again,
The doom of all, dwarves, elves, and men.
When the farmers cow behind their fences,
And towns and cities build defences.
Surely peace is at an end,
We must look to both family and friends.
For when sleepy towns see warriors clad,
With swords, shields, and leather pads.
Trouble and shadow cannot be far,
It stretches out once more, even that star,
That once stood proud in the north fields,
Those fields now hold ghosts and shattered shields,
Mighty that realm, yet shadow came,
Will Bree, Gondor, and Dale see it again?
For when warriors ride in sleepy towns,
Over hills and through the Downs.
Surely peace and cheer are no more,
Does Middle-Earth once more head for war?
A chill spread down his spine, and he shuddered, still hearing the ghostly voice of the spirit in the barrows in his mind. Sighing, he leaned back once again on the trunk of the tree, and pondered aloud. “War near Dale, war in Gondor, and now even going north it seems to follow. Is there no peace to be found in this world any more?”
