Beorn’s Lament.

More Tolkien Fanfiction! Poetry, again. For some reason, wordpress doesn’t like me posting this, always messes up the stanzas. But anyway. A lament for one of my all-time favourite characters, Beorn!

___________________________________________________________________________

Hear the bear of Wilderland cry

His long lament to the great eye.

His long-lost love, the mighty moon,

Taken from the bear far too soon.

 

Deep in the woods lives the bear-man,

Silent guard of the Wilderland,

Friend to the beast, the bird, the fish,

To live alone’s his only wish.

 

For once he loved a maiden fair,

With Carrock-lilies in her hair.

He saw her dance upon a night,

Her feet were bare, her dress was white.

 

The mighty man-bear, dark and tall,

Waited and listened for her call.

And every night he’d lie and watch,

The dancing maiden from the rock.

 

And then upon the light of day,

The moon princess would fade away,

Leaving nothing in her stead,

Just her fey beauty in his head.

 

One night he braved the moon’s embrace,

He longed to look upon her face.

He came to her dressed like a bear,

The great beast and the maiden fair.

 

She did not flee, for she was true,

The bear-man’s kindness she saw through

His grim visage, a beast of might,

It did not matter on that night.

 

So every eve’ he left his hall,

Climbed the rock and let out a call,

The moon-maid came down from the sky,

They’d dance until the day was nigh.

 

One night when the maid came to dance,

Our dear Beorn had seen his chance,

He asked the moon to be his wife,

To give up her immortal life.

 

A single tear dropped from her eye,

A silent lament without cry.

“My dear Beorn” the maiden said,

“In the sun’s realm I cannot tread.”

 

“I love you so, that much is true,

But all the gods refuse me you.

With mortal man I cannot be,

The night forever calls to me.”

 

That night was a dance of despair,

For the bear and his lady fair.

No more did the moon dance for him,

The changeling with the great bear-skin.

 

Sometimes at night you hear the cry,

A great bear call up to the sky,

A howl of sadness for the love,

Of Beorn and the moon above.

 

Of Mabrand Chapter IV

Of The Siege of Gondor.

A year passed, and war came to the realms of men. Gondor kept both eyes clearly fixed on the dark rising from beyond the Ephel Duath. Forlong himself was eager. He longed for blood, the death screams of orcs and the steel of his blade. His seemed ignorant of his age; blind as he was, he refused to believe he was not the man of his youth. Mabrand, however, was far more anxious. Like his father, he longed for battle, for glory, yet could not help but feel uneasy. Boromir, Captain of the White Tower, had long since left Gondor for the north, leaving their forces without command and without an idol. Mabrand longed for the power Boromir had over the common man, for none other could inspire such courage.

It was an early day in March when the beacons were lit. Spring had begun, and the flowers of the Vale were yet to open. The people saw it as an omen; shadow had come to Gondor, shrouding the very land itself in darkness and misery. A messenger burst through the great doors into Forlong’s hall, bringing with him news and light. “The beacons of Minas Tirith!” the Messenger cried. “The beacons of Minas Tirith have been lit; the Steward calls for aid!”

Forlong looked up from his carven throne, a smirk painting his face. He drew a great breath. “And Lossarnach will answer!”

And so Forlong marched to war. He did not know if he would return to his Vale, yet he no longer cared. War was upon them, and so Lossarnach would answer the call. He assembled his finest men; Mabrand’s men. To take a full force would be suicide; Forlong was a fool when it came to many things, but not when it came to war and the defence of his home.

Mabrand, of course, went with his men and his Father. He refused to stay in Lossarnach when the fate of Gondor rested on Minas Tirith. And so, they marched through the night, across the foothills of Mindolluin to the great Citadel. Forlong and his son rode at the front of the column; bedecked in a huge shirt of grey chainmail and a flowing cloak of grey, Forlong looked every part of his Lordly status. Upon his head sat a simple black helm of steel, and in his hand he held a great spear. Across his back, as it always was in times of war, was the axe of Lossarnach, the ancient steel of its double-bladed head shimmering in the fey moonlight. Flowers and vines were stitched into the leather of its haft with silver thread, and a great spike topped its length. It was the symbol of the lords of Lossarnach, and Mabrand knew that one day it would be his fate to carry it, as his father and his father’s father did before him.

It was sunrise before the Company reached the walls of the Rammas Echor. Here, they met many of the great Lords of Gondor. There was Dervorin of Ringló Vale and his men-at-arms, each one wielding a great tower shield. Archers came from Blackroot Vale, with their lord Duinhir and his sons, all tall and lean like saplings. Golasgil of the Langstrand came with a force of hunters and trappers, all scantily armed saved for his guard, who wore chain armour of the finest steel. From Pinnath Gelin came Hirluin the Fair with a force of hill-men clad in deep woodland green. Last came the Knights of Dol Amroth. Each knight was bedecked in shining plate, and rode under a great banner, a silver ship and a silver swan sailing on a sea of royal blue. The men strode tall and proud like lords, grey of eye and dark of hair. Most mighty was their Lord Imrahil, for he was made in the image of the Kings of old. And so the forces of Gondor had assembled.

It was not long before the force arrived in Minas Tirith. The high midday sun shimmered off the shields of the warriors as they marched through the city’s great gates. Mabrand had been to Gondor’s capital many a time, yet had never been received by a crowd such as this. Hundreds of its people gathered in the courtyard, hanging out of windows, lining the flags and the steps, crying out with joy. Mabrand and his father led the column of men, and the standards of the Vale were lifted high above the heads of his soldiers. Green banners fluttered delicately in the hot wind of spring, the axes and flowers of Lossarnach picked out delicately in gold and silver thread. Shouts began to release from the crowd. “Forlong!” the people cried. “True heart!” “True friend!”

They cried out for his Lord, his father. More importantly, they cried out for salvation, a guardian in this darkest of times. However, there were other utterings, darker utterings. “They have bought too few,” some would say. “Gondor is doomed!”

Forlong turned his head, and nodded to his son. Without a single word, Mabrand took the war-horn from his saddle and let out a single, long, piercing note, ringing through the streets of Minas Tirith. A herald’s call. Salvation had arrived.

The hope the soldier’s brought to the city did not last, for the darkness had spread across the Pelennor like a plague. The gloom was felt most in the soldier’s quarters. Mabrand walked amongst the huddles of busied, grim men, a stoic and grim figure wandering through the dark. His father was ignorant to the men’s needs, preferring to quarter up in the higher levels with the Steward and his fellow lords. Mabrand still wore his armour; a long shirt of chain was covered by leather and plate, his helm, dark steel like his father’s, tucked under one arm. For days he walked like this, restless like countless other denizens of the great citadel, for sleep did not come easy to one so troubled by the dark. The city stayed much in this state until Faramir arrived.

It was the foul screeches that alerted Mabrand upon that morning. He took up his axe and ran to the battlements, eager to see what fell sorcery the darkness had unleashed upon the city. When he reached the battlements, Mabrand was paralysed by fear itself. Winged foes, screeching like death, hideous and black like night, flew about the Pelennor. A group of horseman fled across the plain, horses crying and bucking out of pure fear. Mabrand let out a cry, realising that it was the lord Faramir pursued by these atrocities of nature. A call soon echoed across the battlements, as soldiers stared in amazement. “Mithrandir!” they cried! “The White Rider has come!”

And so he had. Mabrand had never met the great wizard, but the stories were enough. Now, he looked as if the Valar themselves had embodied the man. A figure of white upon a white horse, faster than the wind, flew across the plain, staff raised up at the winged abominations. A shaft of light erupted from his hand, and the servants of Sauron screeched in fear. And so, the white wizard drove away the shadow, buying time for the Lord.

Mabrand was not permitted to attend the great meeting of the Lords that day. Forlong attended, as much for the food as for the war council. Mabrand learned many a thing from his father though. The lord Faramir was to ride back to the Rammas Echor; he was required to protect the outer walls, a last ditch attempt to secure the forts against the servants of evil. The following morning, he left, as swiftly as he arrived. In the armour of his forefathers Faramir looked more kingly than any other man there that day, save Imrahil himself. His bravery and courage gave hope to all.

The hope did not last, for after a day, the walls of the Pelennor were lost to the enemy. A rear guard rode across the plains, the fell arrows of the orcs taking out many brave men. It was now that Imrahil called for a charge. “Imrahil for Faramir!” the lordly prince cried. “For Gondor!”

Every able horseman was spared. Some called it a foolish venture of no return. Forlong was one of them. Mabrand ran down to the stables and leapt upon his bay steed. His father waited by the gates. Forlong waited by the gates as Mabrand led his Axemen out of the gate, speechless to Mabrand’s idiocy. Mabrand ignored him. “For Gondor!” he bellowed, raising his axe far into the air, calling out a speechless war cry. The men responded in turn, and charged out of the gate.

The charge of Imrahil did little to sway the course of battle. Mabrand returned, covered in orc blood and red with fatigue, to his father. Their eyes never met. The Lord Faramir had been recovered, moments away from death. All hope was lost. Gondor was under siege. The war for their lives had begun.

Of Mabrand Chapter II

Of Mabrand’s Youth.

The child proved to be a grievance upon Marileth. The following months were a time of great strife for the Lady and her Lord; it was a relief to all the people of Lossarnach when the child came out of the womb, screaming and wailing. A boy; a new Lord of the Vale. Marileth was left half dead. There were few celebrations that year.

The named the child Mabrand. He was like his father in all but the eyes; they were a deep, piercing green, like that of the ocean. His mother’s eyes. His cries tumbled through the halls of Forlong like a great sigh of relief; both mother and child lived to see the morning light. Yet there was no sense of happiness. The people took to calling the boy Naeron, the sad one, for he did not possess the usual joy of a child. This would never reach the ears of Forlong, for all lamentation was overshadowed by his blind pride.

And so, Mabrand came into this world. He grew quickly, and as he grew the Vale began to prosper once again. Even in youth, Mabrand possessed the stubborn nature of his father.  He was quick to anger, and displayed a surprising grimness usually possessed by those many times his age. His arrogant commands were like roars, constant and demanding, inspiring frustration and even fear in the most stoic of manservants. ‘He will grow to be a warrior!’ they would all cry. ‘Just like his father’. They were not far from wrong.

Mabrand spent much of his youth alone. The palace children did not trust him; their parents warning them about Naeron and his misfortune. Many a day would Mabrand spend staring out from the battlements, awaiting the return of his Father from one errand or another. However, under his grim exterior, Mabrand was nothing but compassionate. He would spend many a day wandering the Vale with his mother, picking flowers from its deep green fields of grass. Mabrand could spot the beauty in the smallest of things; some say it was in his Númenorean blood to find love in the woods and forests and vales of his home.

For a time, all was well in the Vale. One year, when the sun was high in the sky, shimmering over the top of Mindolluin, Marileth desired to visit her kin, in Pelagir. She loved the Vale, for she was its flower, but she longed for the seas of her youth. She longed to taste the salt upon the wings of the wind, and hear the cry of gulls once again.

“I will not be long, my sweet.” Marileth said to the young boy. And he knew she was right. Pelagir was not a long ride away; she would not be gone long. Forlong was away, in Minas Tirith, with his Lord, the Steward. Forlong always promised he would take Mabrand one day, to visit the White Tower. The Steward had sons, too. He wanted to meet them, one day. Mabrand was a strong boy, a happy boy, but nevertheless, a lonely boy.

And so Mabrand waited. Every day, like always, he would stand upon the Battlements, looking out across the Vale, awaiting the arrival of his mother. Alas, she never returned.

It was one day, on the cusp of autumn, when the rider from Pelagir came. Mabrand stood on the battlements when the grey steed cantered over the horizon, the armour of its rider shimmering in the setting sun. He did not bring good news. Marileth, the flower of Lossarnach, had drowned, lost to the deep blue waves of the Sundering Seas.

Mabrand wept for the loss of his mother. He wept for days, hidden from all deep within his chambers. Forlong was more furious, like a storm unleashed upon the Vale.  The temper of Forlong was already that of legend, but none were more fearsome then the Lord of Lossarnach in mourning. The Lord wept for his lost flower, and the Vale wept with him.

Marileth’s death cast a great shadow of Lossarnach and an even greater shadow over the young Lord. It is said that Mabrand never truly recovered from his mother’s death. It made him stronger, fiercer, wiser and warier. More and more would people make comment on his likeness to her; especially his eyes. The sea drifted through his eyes. Marileth’s eyes, and Forlong’s heart.

Forlong did his best to raise the boy. The Lord taught him in the only way he knew; he instructed Mabrand in war, in the axe and in the shield and the horse. Mabrand became strong, stronger than ever, fighting on the crest of his mother’s death. Even still, every evening he would wait, staring into the setting sun of Gondor. Waiting, watching on the battlements for his lost mother.

Of Mabrand, The Axe of Lossarnach.

FANFICTION. Kinda.

A friend encouraged me to write my first fanfiction a while back. Here are some links to each finished chapter. I haven’t written for it in a little while, but plan to start it up again in the Easter Holidays, once I have time to write properly away from my studies.

A tragic tale of war, love and loss concerning the life of a man of Gondor at the end of the Third Age. Mabrand is the heir of Lossarnach, one of the largest Fiefdoms of the Kingdom of Gondor. This tale follows him from his youth in the Vale, through the War of the Ring, and the subsequent military campaigns of Elessar in the early Fourth Age.

You can read the first four chapters here.

I’m also on fanfiction.net, under the alias gregja21.

I will post each chapter as a piece of writing on here too.