An End To Wandering

1346
“I’ve no coin for praise of elves, stranger!” the hobbit innkeeper of Staddle barked over the song.
The flame-haired harper stopped mid-verse. The Tuks and their kin were newcomers to Arthedain, having fled the evil that had come over the mountains and once again, they had little left. Merangrim had hoped to earn them a place among these hobbits with the old songs.
“I’m sorry it displeases. Perhaps the Fall of Gondolin will better suit?” he offered sharply.
“None here care for elves or their tales, Songspinner. You “Tooks” may as well learn that right off.”
“I will remember it.”

~~~~~~~~~

1402
The harper smiled, immensely content despite his rainy turn on guard at the South Gate. Fifty years ago, they had been refugees, penniless and unwanted, but now, looking at the multitude of windows that winked in the rising Breehill, Merangrim was proud of the home they had made for themselves. By cunning and hard work, they had shown their worth to the Breeland Men that held the crossroads.
Though the Tooks now kept the old songs close, shared only among their kin, in all other ways they now had a home they could defend and strong allies to fight beside.

~~~~~~~~~

Year 1, Shire Reckoning (1601 T.A.)

Ilsegrim watched with eager eyes as his father and the other clan leaders approached the Bridge. The King’s Messenger awaited them there, the written grant of lands in his gloved hand.
Although he knew some had wept to leave those who had chosen to stay behind, the youth couldn’t imagine a more exciting adventure than this move. He had listened for so long to his father’s enraptured description of the lush hills and woodlands beyond the river, and the prospect of settling their families away from the conflicts of Men.
They would be travelers no more: the Shire was theirs.

~~~~~~~~~

36
‘No need to build new smials this year,’ Ilsegrim thought bitterly, throwing down his spade. Of the three score families that had come westward to settle the new lands, nearly a third had perished. The ravaging fever overcame farmers in their fields and goodwives in their kitchens; it carried off, in a matter of days, the youngest and oldest of every household, leaving the survivors drained and grieving. They had dug endlessly in its wake, burying hope instead of seed, carving out graves instead of homes.
“What now?” he murmured, kneeling between the mounds of his father and his sons.

~~~~~~~~~

36
“Are you truly ready to abandon what thirty years of love and sweat have made of this good earth?” Ilsegrim asked the laden families readying to cross the Bridge behind him.
“See how the fields flourish, even without our hands upon the plough? This is our land, fair and fertile and sweet! Would you really leave all this to return, beaten, to the doubters? To live under their shadow all your days, though there is nothing better there than you will find here?” Ilsegrim watched as his words and their fears collided.
“This is our home. This is our future.”

~~~~~~~~~

Oh, cierre, min heorte,
‘Ware the road that you tread,
In your flight from green eaves
And the shadows of dread.
Take what aid you may need;
Be wise and not too proud,
And remembrance of friends
Let not bitterness cloud.

Ah, cierre, min heorte,
Love and life are not vain;
Hope that springs as it does
Over ash pours the rain.
Though home be far behind,
And our weary feet ache,
We have grown in our search
For a new home to make.

Cierre, min heorte,
When at last you find rest
And your children sleep safe.
I shall look to the West
From within the green wood
To the haven you’ve made
Past the count of long years
Beyond Death’s solemn shade