Wandering Days

1060
The elfling had stumbled, breathless and weeping, into Rosella’s garden. Reviving in the shade of the summer pavilion, the child had begun to cry again, until Peredyr had drawn song and slumber from his harp.
The elf king had greeted them at the eave of his wood, seeming relieved, yet somber.
“Beware, my friend,” the king had murmured. “Ill winds are blowing.”
Peredyr Tûk carried back to his clan the sad news of King Thranduil’s loss and his ring of twined gold and silver, for the kindness shown his son.
The king’s words Peredyr held to his heart with dread.

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1120
“The family is waiting, Percyval. You must set off at once.”
“And what of you? Why linger here, Grandfather?”
“I will gather those too stubborn for haste, and we will follow ere Winter claims the pass.”
“But…”
“I am old, min heorte,” Peredyr murmured, leaning his forehead to his grandson’s, “… and lame and proud, besides. I would slow you, and endanger the others. But trust that I have no wish yet to die. Here,” the old hobbit said, placing the twining ring into Percyval’s hand.
“No!”
“Hush! The doubters will follow you now. I’ll meet you in the West.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1125
Past desperate flight and dwindling hope, Percyval finally returned. But among the ruins of home he found only Peredyr’s remains and his trove of song.
“We came too late. I am sorry.”
The hobbit turned to face the elf king.
“I believe you came not at all,” Percyval said bitterly. “To the end, he trusted you, but you abandoned us to the Dark.”
Thranduil bowed his head and retreated, face inscrutable.
High upon the first ridge westward of his ravaged home, Percyval clutched his grandfather’s unstrung harp and sent his voice winging into the dusk, carrying the harper’s last lament.

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1126
“Why do you hide to sing of fair Tinúviel?”
Percyval rose, startled by the stranger’s voice, but could see no one in the gloom.
“You’ve come with every sunset, alone, to sing the elven lays of Ages gone, but you no longer share them with your kin. Why?”
“Who are you?” the hobbit demanded.
“A friend,” came the enigmatic reply, as an old man, robed in weary grey, stepped near and peered down with eyes piercing clear though not unkind.
“I sing them for my grandfather’s sake, but the living need no reminder of our loss,” Percycal said, walking away.

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1132
“I would that others could hear you conjure the old songs, min heorte…”
Lisella pressed a kiss upon his brow and Percyval turned to wrap his arms about her rounded form, cheek loved against the swell of their unborn child.
“Only ill dreams can come of ill memories, even conjured by song,” he said softly.
“No… Rootless in our wandering, I think a taste of home would be welcomed.”
“After all I’ve said against them…” He gazed up into her green eyes, seeing there understanding and hope. “Well, perhaps someday… Perhaps, for him,” he finally said, stroking his coming child.

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1141
“Your heart is glad in song again, harper’s scion…”
Though fifteen years had passed since the singular encounter, Percyval recalled the voice instantly, and he turned to find again the grey traveler standing in the flickering firelight. He had not changed a jot.
“Bitterness serves no heart,” the hobbit replied, smiling.
“Indeed.”
“Have you seen the elf king, master?”
“He is well, though hard pressed, and his kingdom shrinks before the encroaching dark.”
“Then there is no turning back… Is there?”
“No. But the elf king does wish you well, little Tûk,” the stranger answered, compassion clear upon his face.

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1144
“Hello? I come on friendly errand,” the strange hobbit called, approaching the abandoned fire and scattered belongings of their camp. He was a Fallohide at least, and he carried himself with assurance, blade still sheathed, despite the oddity of the situation.
Percyval dropped from the branch he had perched on when the alarm had been raised.
“And what errand is that?” he asked, and the other whirled to face him.
“Well, trade, of course,” the stranger replied, smiling easily. “Carrendoc Oldbuck.”
“Percyval Túk.”
“Túks! We thought you lost entirely!”
“Not quite…” Percyval said, warmed by the other’s gladness and surprise.

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1168
It really was a lovely garden, Percyval thought contentedly. Nothing like the lush vales they had left, but the earth here was rich with the wealth of two rivers, and even this small corner would provide well for his kin.
“Daydreaming, Harper?”
The low rumble of his friend’s voice deepened the smile on Percyval’s face.
“Enjoying the garden… And may I say it quite surpasses yours, my dear Carrendoc.”
“‘Tisn’t fair to compare your imagination with my eyesight,” the other gently teased.
“My nose tells me all I need to know…” Percyval countered, laughing, “… And I’m the lorekeep hereabouts.”

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1172
“I’ll see you in the West.”
Carrendoc turned the words over in his mind, tasting and testing once more what his friend had tried to share, even at the last. Percyval had often spoken of the Farthest West, a paradise reserved for the Elves that yet held out hope for the mortals denied its shores. Though Carrendoc had lived a life turned to more practical things, even he could not deny the light that stirred within his heart when his friend sang of Elves and The Ones Beyond.
Fingers smoothing the new grave, Carrendoc sighed. “In the West, my friend.”

~~~~~~~~~
Cierre, min heorte,
From the danger at hand,
Through the pass to the Wilds,
For to find a new land.
My hope rests in your trek
And I watch for the day
When I take up my load
And come walking your way

Ah, cierre, min heorte,
Evil creeps under bough
And I dare not now leave,
To the truth I must bow.
The wolves circle the lea,
I should long since have gone;
Never more will I see
Your face shine in the dawn.

So, cierre, min heorte,
When the bright day is done,
Turn your eyes to the East
And away from the Sun;
Past the tall peaks of stone
To the valley below
And to dream of your own,
Lost to shadow and woe.