Knight Errant

Chapter One

A figure sat atop a hill in a fair green country. The hill looked to the sea, which was in a heavy swell, causing the black sailed ships to bob and sometimes vanish completely from view.
From here he could also see his home, and the smoke rose even to this secluded spot, reddening his eyes. His eyes were also red from tears.
Below him, in the valley between his hill and the next, lay the sad remnants of the once proud manor of his father, Beregil Gwaer-Adan; now reduced to nought but ashes and dust. He could also see the graves from here, if he had wanted too. A wind gusted, tousling his dark hair, revealing the face of a young man; no more than a boy. A boy with hatred burning in his cold blue eyes.
The young Man had arrived an hour earlier, on foot. If he had had the foresight to ride he would have been here earlier, he could have done something; even if that had been no more than to died fighting like his elder brothers and father had done. He may have been able to save his sister, or his mother.
This thought brought back unpleasant memories. Blood, deep red darkening to black on the soft Blue of their gowns. Their hair, raven and golden mingling on the ground. The dark stench of death sickly sweet. The charred smell of flesh. The hot, boiling feeling as he was sick, the bitter sting of tears.
He had buried his family, so that they would not be picked at by crows or worse. He had found the body of his father, punctured by arrows and cut deeply from many wounds. He was not in armour, but was naked from the waste up; for he had been sleeping. The corsairs always attacked at dawn, without warning. Many of their traitorous bodies surrounded his father, but many more had fled. The sword of Gwaer-Adan; which had come from Westernes long ago at the side of his ancestor, Elgrim the Seafarer, lay sheathed in blood, just out of his father’s grasp.
Now it lay on the lap of his only living son, Teladan; the last of the house of Gwaer-Adan, the Sea-Men; clean and sparkling like stars on a frost laden night. The whet-stone rasped along its length and rainwater dripped steadily from the pommel; wrought to resemble Minas Arnor, Now Minas Tirith; the seat of the King Elessar Telecontar.
Teladan stood and hefted the blade. Though he was tall and strong for his age, he could not wield such a great weapon, yet he managed to get the blade into its sheath and strap the weapon to his back. Over this he slung a long, tapered shield; like the scale of a fish. It had a blue field with a white swan as the crest; the heraldry of the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth; though no Knight had been so strangely attired.
On finding his home destroyed, Teladan had first searched for his parents, then buried them without shedding a tear. He took his father’s sword, which would never have rightfully been his, being as he was, the youngest son. He felt guilty at taking the sword, and wondered if it should have been laid to rest with its master. He took it nonetheless, and was conscious of its great weight, both physical and otherwise. This was the last true relic of his house, the last link in a chain which joined his father, Beregil Gwaer-Adan to Elgrim the Seafarer. Now he, Teladan was a link in that chain, and he feared he would be the last.
He was not surprised at finding his home destroyed, Corsair raids were common in Perlagir aand the Surrounding Regions; and Dol Amroth could only do so much to protect its fiefdoms, Minas Tirith still less. But Teladan was not surprised, because he had foreseen what was to happen. He had had the Dream.

* * *
Standing on the Cliff tops Teladan could see great waves rushing towards him, and the noise of the breakers combined with a deeper rumbling, that of the very earth below him breaking asunder. Smoke billowed from the highest point of Numenor, what he knew to be the temple. The land began to sink, a great darkness came, sweeping closer, finally engulfing him in a bitter, lightless cold.

* * *
The dream was the same everytime, and he always awoke screaming. His mother would come and comfort him, them take him to see his father, who had been woken by his screms. Then they sit, long after; talking of the dream which only and his father of all the household shared. His father said it was a warning against the folly of their ancestors, a punishment. For Beregil, the dream came but once a year, on the same day; and he would oft be seen on that night, pacing the shoreline, trying to stay awake but inevitably failing. For Teladan, the dream came at odd intervals, and always preceded some terrible or important event.
In his eighth year, The Dream came to him, but it was different, for out of the darknes came a tall warrior in Rangers garb, baring an ancient blade, broken at the hilt. The ranger lifted his hood, and Teladan saw his crown, the blade reforged before his very eyes. The next day, a messenger arrived stating that The Line of Eendil was rewnewed. Gondor had a King once again. On other times the dream had fortolled less happy events, the failure of crops; a horse breaking its leg, his eldest brother wounded on the Pelennor fields during the siege of Minas Tirith. The worst thing about the dreams was that they did not give information; they merely warned. Teladan did not have the gift of Forsight, he was cursed to knowing only that something will happen, but not when, or how or why. He waas powerless to prevent it; which made the death of those he loved harder to bear.
The dream had come upon him whilst he was on his wanderings. He was heading up the vale of Morthond to see his old friend and teacher, the ranger Malthor and had stopped for the night. On waking he knew he must return home as soon as possible; and so force-marched for two days, arriving just after dawn of the third. But he was too late. And so the afternoon sun found Teladan, last of the house of Gwaer-Adan, sitting on the hill overlooking his father’s land; honing his father’s sword his eyes out to sea, watching the ships.
Dreaming of revenge.