I confess I do not know how to write down the many things that
happened to me this day. Right now I am seated by my own bedside with a
single candle glowing softly. The weather cleared, but the wind turned
southeast and blows terribly chill. The streets of Bree are deserted
this night: it is as if all the world knows of my sorrow.
I
suppose the best thing for me to do is simply recount everything here,
just as it happened. Late last night, despite the driving rain and
howling winds, Leecher Cartwell of Combe visited me at my room in the
Comb and Wattle. He had brought me a poultice to help close the wound on
my leg. I thanked him heartily, and he left me to my sleep.
I
slept much longer than I had intended, not waking until well past noon,
but I felt quite myself again. My leg remained stiff and is still sore
to the touch, nonetheless I immediately prepared to leave. I purchased a
fine breakfast (or lunch, rather) from the innkeeper (the hard cider at
the Comb and Wattle is an exceptionally fine brew!) and started for
home. It is not a long trek by any measure, but I found it difficult
anyway. Finally, I reached the Boar Fountain and saw my home just
beyond.
Father greeted me as he always does, and soon
we were deep in talk over meat and ale at the table. I will spare you
the trivial things of which we spoke -- the latest edicts from Mayor
Tenderlarch, the banishment of criminals -- they are all so very
insignificant compared with what happened when I told father of my last
moments with Jagger Jack.
"And then the villain said to
me, 'You will never win this war, Gondorian!' What a fool, that cannot
tell a Bree-lander from... father?"
Father's face had suddenly fallen ash-white and his hands fell to his sides.
"Are you not well? What in Middle-earth is wrong?" I asked him.
"How could
he know? What else did he say to you? Anything else?" I had never seen him so visibly upset about anything.
"No, nothing. He perished a moment later," I answered. He was silent for a long while.
"It was nothing but the ravings of a lunatic and a fool, you should pay it no heed," I said.
"Yes. Yes, you are right, of course."
"Father," I hesitated. "What does this mean? Is there something you are not telling me?"
He
opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. He
looked at me and, for the first time in my life, I saw tears welling in
his eyes.
"I wish to the heavens you had not asked me
that question, boy. I have taught you never to lie, and I will not be
proven a man of no honor, to fail in following my own teachings."
Slowly,
he raised himself from his chair, turned his back to me, and walked to
the nearby cupboard. From far back in its darkest corner, he brought
forth a small strongbox wrought of steel and blackened iron. He placed
this on the table between us, then reached for his belt. He always
carried all of the important keys to the town on his belt, but from
among the mass on its large, heavy ring he drew a small key of artisanal
design. The lock of the strongbox clacked loudly when he turned it, as
if it had never been opened before. Then, father reached in, holding
something I could not see in the palm of his hand. He looked at me
slowly, his voice cracked with pain.
"You... are not my
son," he said at last. I was speechless. He held out his hand. On it,
there lay a small golden coin, or perhaps it was a medallion. It was
engraved using Dwarven Cirth with the single word: WYNE.
"I
wanted to tell you for many years, but it never seemed the right time.
Now, I think, fate has conspired to force this moment on me at last." He
sighed heavily, and sank back into his chair. "I can only hope you are
not angry with me."
I did not answer at once, but it
was not for uncertainty: I was merely overwhelmed at what had just been
revealed to me. "No, father, and so I will always call you, for you have
been my father whether by blood or by chance," I said. He smiled, but
did not look directly at me yet. "Still, I would know what you know of
me and ... my past."
Father breathed deeply, then told me this tale.
"First
of all, you should know that I've always loved you, Piers. Always. You
know I've always told you your mother died in childbirth, and that was
true. But poor Lucy did not die in
your birth -- it was your
sister's, who passed from illness before her first winter had gone. And
so I was left alone for the most miserable two years of my life.
"But,
twenty-one years ago I was still a younger man and, even as you have
always known me, I was a regular member of the Watch. One night, not
much unlike this one, what with the wind and the rain blowing so, I was
on assignment watching the Great East Road south of town. I fancied I
heard a commotion out ahead of me, though it was hard to be sure in the
gale. I rode forward some ways, for what seemed like hours, always
fearing to stumble upon some brigand raiding party and find myself at
their mercy, but I met no one.
"Suddenly, I saw a
tumbled mass of carts and waggons, just off the Road. It was very dark,
but I'd say it was roughly a furlong east of the Yellow Tree, somewhere
south of the marshes. Anyway, there was nothing in sight save the
remains of what must have been a sizable caravan heading westward, most
likely toward Bree itself.
"Naturally, I began to
search among the wreckage for any indication of what fate had befallen
the travelers. What I found was you, underneath an overturned
horsecart."
"There was nothing to show where I had come from or why I was left behind?" I asked.
"No. Nothing. Nothing save that gold piece there in front of you, which I found trod into the mud nearby."
"But
the brigand I slew in the Chetwood -- he called me a Gondorian. Was
there some clue in the lost caravan to show it was from Gondor?" I
asked. "And how would the brigand know such information in the first
place?"
"As to how this Jack knew anything about you, I
have no idea. Nor had I ever heard of him before you told me how you
defeated him. The thought would seem incredible that some nameless
highway robber would be tracking an orphaned foreigner in the Bree-land
for twenty years. But then you also mentioned those dark-skinned Men
that were with him. Who knows what land they came from or what lord they
serve?
"Certainly I noticed the waggons and carts in
the caravan were far more opulent than anything you would see in this
part of the world, so I quickly decided they must have been from a
larger kingdom. Dale was the first place to come to my mind, although
Gondor is certainly a possibility. It is a terribly long ways off and
the paths between the stone-land and Bree-land have not been safe for
many long years. Nor have I ever heard of such a large emissary to have
passed through Bree in my lifetime. I focused instead on that medallion
there. I figured it was my best chance of learning what had happened to
those folk."
"Of course I took it straight to the
Scholar's Stair Archives to ask them what it might mean, but they could
tell me nothing. Well, except that the writing used the Dwarf-runes that
were common among that folk, but we get enough Dwarves trafficking
through Bree to know their writings well enough, even if we can't always
read them aright."
"Well, whatever I am or am not, I
am certainly no Dwarf!" In spite of the gravity of the situation, I
could not help but find myself grimly amused by all of this intrigue.
Father chuckled softly.
"No, but I really have no idea what you
are, although
your friend in the Chetwood seemed to know something we do not, that
much is clear. In any case, since there was nothing else for it, I took
you in and raised you myself. I felt you were brought into my life at
just the right time and I always tried to bring you up as my own son. I
somehow knew this day might come. And, while it may seem to have come
too quickly, perhaps that is not so." He looked at me.
"You
are a strong man, Piers. Much stronger than I ever was, even when I was
your age. As I look at you now, with the eyes of a fellow man and not
as a father, I can see you could be a great soldier. But I am no Elf,
with orbs of crystal to see the future as the old tales tell it -- I am
just an old Watchman."
We were silent for a while.
"I
... expect you'll be wanting to learn more about yourself. Your
heritage. Whether your... real family ... might still be found?" He
asked, sounding as though he both knew the answer and wished to not hear
it.
"I'm not sure," I said, but a great desire to
travel the world had often gnawed at me, and now it flamed up with a
furious intensity. Even as I spoke the words, I knew that father had
already guessed my heart.
"Perhaps you should sleep on it," was what he said aloud. "No doubt things will seem very different in the morning."
"Yes, father," I said reflexively, and stood to head to my room.
"You know," he said, stopping me, "you don't
have to
call me that if you don't feel it is right. There is no denying I'm not
really your father, and I have withheld the truth from you all these
years."
I shook my head. "No. I call you that because
that is what you are to me. Even if I was really the son of the lord of
Gondor, no man could never wish for a kinder, wiser, or more honorable
father than you."
"Reckon that's taking it a bit far,"
he said, clearly touched but trying not to show it, "Still, it's not
right, is it? I don't even know you true name."
"My name," I said, "is Piersyn Wyne."
Today I visited every corner of the market square trying to get an idea
of the types of supplies I might need for my journey to the Blue
Mountains. I picked up some traveling rations, some light tools, and
several other necessities, so I am off to a good start. The problem I
keep running into is money: no one who joins the Watch does so in order
to get rich, I can tell you, so I am not sure if I will be able to fund
my little trip. I don't have much skill as a hunter, either, so food is
going to be a key consideration.
