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Branack’s words were grave and cast a shadow on the Bree-lander’s heart, sending images of fearsome beasts and misshapen monsters racing before his eyes. Once again, he was faced with the realisation that what he was about to embark on was not merely a long journey, but a mission, a quest of the greatest importance. There might not be any coming back and, even if he did, would it still be the same man that returned?
Already, he could feel the small bits of knowledge gathered on his journey changing his perception of the world. The vastness of Rohan’s plains, Baranor’s stories of castles and knights and wars, the dignified splendour of Eorl’s Hall and, of course, Gweluon the Elf and his dire warnings all hinted at things that he had never considered. It was as if he had been stumbling in the dark for too long, his eyes had grown used to the gloom, but now a light had been cast, purging the shadows of ignorance.
What had been small and familiar suddenly turned out to be vast and unknown, causing Cole to question his own place in the world. Even if he decided to abandon this quest and slink away in the night like a thief and a coward, what then? Could he truly go back to Bree, pretending that all of this had never happened? Could he go back to being a simple watchman, who spent his days patrolling the road to Archet and the nights by the fire in the Prancing Pony? Aye, the radiance of knowledge seemed blinding to him, the threat of the unknown preyed on his fears, like an unseen predator at the edge of the light. He could almost hear his mother’s voice at the back of his mind: “Coleman! Cole! Daft boy, are you daydreaming again? You’re farmer’s son, not a southron hero!”, it seemed to say.
He looked among his companions, his eyes passing each of them in turn as he silently sipped on his ale, burdened by his thoughts. Baranor was a grown man, full of strength and wisdom and handy with a blade, judging from his tales. The Dwarf was likewise a formidable presence, there was something in the way he talked and how he held himself that reminded Cole of Eorl’s dignity. It was not the haughtiness of royalty or the confidence of a warlord, however, but a…hardness of sorts. No wonder the legends held that the Dwarves were fashioned from stones in the deep, ancient places of the world. Cole could almost see the granite peeking out from underneath Branack’s steady, focused eyes.
Then came the master smith, one of Eorl’s own, which meant his skill was renowned throughout the kingdom. He was not a mere craftsman, but an artisan and the swords he forged were wielded by captains, champions and lords. Lastly, there was fair-haired Éolan, who was probably a brave warrior herself. Why else would a woman be mad enough to dress in arms and leave her home and hearth for such a quest? Any decent lass in Bree would scoff at the notion!
That left Coleman Cutleaf, the stray who had neither skill at arms nor any useful knowledge to impart. He knew how to shear a sheep, how to clean a barn and how to help drunken Will stumble back to his home when the weather turned foul. How could Eorl and Gweluon rely on him, let alone expect him to be of any use?
The ominous rumbling of thunder in the distance suited his mood, which had now lost the vigour and excitement present in it a short while ago. He looked at his ale, noticing that the second tankard was running low as well. Another man might think it a good idea to drown such fears in the haze of ale and wine, but Cole found that the only thing he desired was a warm, soft bed and a good night’s sleep.
Already, he could feel the small bits of knowledge gathered on his journey changing his perception of the world. The vastness of Rohan’s plains, Baranor’s stories of castles and knights and wars, the dignified splendour of Eorl’s Hall and, of course, Gweluon the Elf and his dire warnings all hinted at things that he had never considered. It was as if he had been stumbling in the dark for too long, his eyes had grown used to the gloom, but now a light had been cast, purging the shadows of ignorance.
What had been small and familiar suddenly turned out to be vast and unknown, causing Cole to question his own place in the world. Even if he decided to abandon this quest and slink away in the night like a thief and a coward, what then? Could he truly go back to Bree, pretending that all of this had never happened? Could he go back to being a simple watchman, who spent his days patrolling the road to Archet and the nights by the fire in the Prancing Pony? Aye, the radiance of knowledge seemed blinding to him, the threat of the unknown preyed on his fears, like an unseen predator at the edge of the light. He could almost hear his mother’s voice at the back of his mind: “Coleman! Cole! Daft boy, are you daydreaming again? You’re farmer’s son, not a southron hero!”, it seemed to say.
He looked among his companions, his eyes passing each of them in turn as he silently sipped on his ale, burdened by his thoughts. Baranor was a grown man, full of strength and wisdom and handy with a blade, judging from his tales. The Dwarf was likewise a formidable presence, there was something in the way he talked and how he held himself that reminded Cole of Eorl’s dignity. It was not the haughtiness of royalty or the confidence of a warlord, however, but a…hardness of sorts. No wonder the legends held that the Dwarves were fashioned from stones in the deep, ancient places of the world. Cole could almost see the granite peeking out from underneath Branack’s steady, focused eyes.
Then came the master smith, one of Eorl’s own, which meant his skill was renowned throughout the kingdom. He was not a mere craftsman, but an artisan and the swords he forged were wielded by captains, champions and lords. Lastly, there was fair-haired Éolan, who was probably a brave warrior herself. Why else would a woman be mad enough to dress in arms and leave her home and hearth for such a quest? Any decent lass in Bree would scoff at the notion!
That left Coleman Cutleaf, the stray who had neither skill at arms nor any useful knowledge to impart. He knew how to shear a sheep, how to clean a barn and how to help drunken Will stumble back to his home when the weather turned foul. How could Eorl and Gweluon rely on him, let alone expect him to be of any use?
The ominous rumbling of thunder in the distance suited his mood, which had now lost the vigour and excitement present in it a short while ago. He looked at his ale, noticing that the second tankard was running low as well. Another man might think it a good idea to drown such fears in the haze of ale and wine, but Cole found that the only thing he desired was a warm, soft bed and a good night’s sleep.
