IN THE HEART OF A FRIEND

Disclaimer: The characters and settings of Middle-earth, with the exception of a few OC’s, belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.  I just like to play there from time to time and gain no monetary profit from the experience!

Summary: The story begins... 

A/N:  This story is set in the same 'universe' as "The Golden Bell of Greenleaf", but you do not need to read that story to understand this one.  Of course, you can if you would like...  (very small grin)

Prologue: Memories

34 F.A.  (1457 S.R.), North Ithilien

“Will you tell us a story, Grandfather?”  The softly voiced question interrupted the old man’s contemplation of the doings outside, turning him about to consider the sweet, earnest faces of his eldest granddaughter, Mira, and her best friend, Liniel. 

He smiled at the two fondly.  He had been expecting this request for the past few hours, ever since the early spring day’s bright promise of sunshine had drifted into burgeoning clouds, the grumbling thunder with brief flashes of lightning forcing both adults and children into the house.     

The change in weather had come as most inclement weather does…at the most inopportune time.  Several families and friends had gathered at his house to celebrate his birth day and now the approaching storm rendered travel home impossible. All would stay over for a day or so until the rains were spent and the roads passable once more. 

He continued to examine the threatening sky with a practiced eye and smiled wryly – yes…two days, perhaps three.  It should prove to be…entertaining.  He recalled a long-ago conversation with a King of his acquaintance (and he happened to know several), who had clapped him on the shoulder and laughingly remarked, “I predict interesting times ahead for you, my friend.” 

The old man snorted softly.  Interesting.  Indeed! 

A crash and yelp from outside drew his attention to the sight of his sons struggling against the wind to close the huge barn doors.  Everyone was busily scurrying around in preparation for the days and nights to come.  The men had made a run for the barn earlier to tend the animals and secure them against the high winds and rain, while the women set to work preparing food for the evening meal, as well as the next day. 

But the children…ah, the children.  He grinned wickedly at his reflection in the window.  The children had been cooped up inside all afternoon, relegated to playing ‘quiet games’ which, judging from the squeals and bangs and crashes from the back of the house, did not suit their natures at all.  He had listened to the escalating ruckus with growing amusement, wondering just when he would be remembered and pressed into service.  Apparently at their wits’ end, the ladies of the house had finally sent these two to draft ‘Grandfather’ as storyteller for the remainder of the afternoon and probably for the evenings to come. 

A chore which, all things considered, was no chore at all. 

“Gather the others, Mira,” he instructed, chucking his smiling granddaughter under the chin, while he tucked a dark lock of silken hair behind Liniel’s delicately pointed ear.  “We will begin shortly.” 

His smile widened as the two young ladies dashed off to summon the others.  He knew it might take some time for them to return.  There were toys to be picked up and rooms to be reconstructed and motherly sensibilities to be appeased.  The old man chuckled to himself.  Previous noise from the back rooms suggested that might take at least an hour...or two.

He turned his attention again to the large window, staring out at the wind gusting through the trees, mixed now with fitfully spitting drops of rain and sighed, remembering other storms which had impacted the lives of his family.  Just the thoughts caused him to shiver and pull the woolen jacket he wore closer about his shoulders.  It seemed the cold of the passing winter had settled in his bones as even a blazing fire failed to warm him now.  Perhaps it was the rain, he mused, which prompted these memories and clarified in his mind the story he would tell the youngsters once they arrived.

He shrugged.  No matter.  They were, after all, family tales that needed passing on.  It was time they were told.  He remembered telling the same stories to his own children when they had reached the age to understand; now he would tell them to his grandchildren and their friends.  Friends, he thought with a fond smile, whose parents had played parts in the very events which formed the foundation of the tales.     

One by one, the children drifted into the roomy, comfortable front parlor, gathering in front of the fire he had kindled earlier.  Two of the older boys squeezed into the big chair near the hearth while the others huddled together on the floor, whispering excitedly.  The old man took his place in the ancient rocking chair, gazing at the young, expectant faces before him. 

He cleared his throat and all eyes snapped forward, intent on his weathered face.  No one told a better story than Grandfather!

“I know a tale,” he began, as he always did.  Several of the children grinned at each other in anticipation.  “It started long ago, in a forest far away…”

“Were there orcs?” Breda, the youngest asked, shivering slightly and scooting closer to her big sister.  Mira slipped a comforting arm about her shoulders.

“Is there a dragon?” asked Cian, earning a well-placed elbow from his friend beside him.  He elbowed Andurion back and a short tussle ensued as the boys wrestled briefly. 

“Boys!” hissed Mira, “Grandfather is waiting…”

“…on you!” Liniel completed her friend’s sentence pointedly.  The boys snapped to attention, glaring at their respective sisters even as they murmured apologies to their elder.

The old man smiled.  “In ancient Middle-earth, there were usually orcs and an occasional dragon to cause havoc for all, child,” he answered mildly.

“Will there be a battle?” Tathron, who sat slightly behind his younger cousins and friends and was of an age to learn sword play, leaned forward eagerly.

“Where evil dwells, there will always be those who stand against it.”  The boy nodded in satisfaction.  A battle, for certain, then…and probably more than one.

“And is it a true story, Grandfather?” asked Mira, voicing the question she always asked at the beginning of a story. 

The old man gazed at this granddaughter who always sought to know the truth and replied softly, “Yes, dearest, this story is true…from beginning until the very end.”  The children looked at each other wide-eyed…a true story with real battles and monsters!

As the wind-driven rain lashed the windows, the grandfather settled back in his chair, leaning his elbows on the padded arms and clasping his fingers together thoughtfully as he spoke, “It began in the last days of summer, in the midst of a particularly hot, dry year…”