Divisions & Secrets

1145 S.R. (two years before the Battle of Brightfields)

They had often fought, as brothers will, over the most trivial of things. But now, Bandobras held something he could not simply cede to his brother.
“I am to be Took and Thain, Bandobras! The ring should be mine!”
“It has no relation to that office, Ferumbras…” Bandobras had tried to explain.
“Then why have Thains always worn it?”
“Happenstance. This is a responsibility, not a prize!” he had said, desperate to end the argument peaceably.
Jealousy had gleamed in Ferumbras’s eyes, and now no song or tale would erase the last stabbing sight Bandobras carried on his northward road…

~~~~~~~~~
1206 S.R.

“You’re a good lad, Gerontius, for all your rebellious ways… You’ve a good mind and a good ear.” The soft words wheezed from the dying hobbit.
The teen wished he could somehow ease the one who had taken him in, but there was no cure for time, not even in the oldest song.
“This is yours now,” Bandobras murmured, dropping a little circle of twined silver and gold upon his palm. "Keep it secret, lest my nephew prove as greedy as his sire. Seek the songs, always, Gerontius, and be sure to find a safe heart to give them to.”

~~~~~~~~~
1218 S.R.

“Hobbits truly are amazing creatures…” Gandalf murmured, watching the young Took disappear into his homeland.
It had been sheer luck that the lad had been traveling that stretch near the Shire’s borders, and that the keen intelligence behind those grey eyes had been coupled with as fearless a soul as he’d ever met.
Gerontius had simply stared up at the Rangers a moment before setting about to assist the Men in their task.
All he had asked for in return was a question and a song, and Gandalf had the sudden certainty they would trade again in years to come.

~~~~~~~~~

Cierre, min heorte,
From pride that doth divide
Brother from brother
And father from childe.
Rash vows lead to exile
And sorrows unseen;
And in place of love’s binding,
Dark wrath comes between.

Oh, cierre, min heorte,
For deep secrets do bind
And slow festering anger
Locks the fairest of mind;
Though there is no return,
No redemption for pride,
The noblest may earn
What the scornful deride.

Ah, Cierre, min heorte,
See the price of swift ire
That would lead Good astray
To find selfish desire.
And against such ill acts,
Faithful and constant heart,
Despite hardship and trial,
Never fails to take part.