I begin this journal here, in Aughaire, in southern Angmar, far from the fields of Rohan. It is a long tale how this son of the Eastfold arrived in these western lands, and in the absence of a scop to sing my tale I shall instead write it in hopes that one day it may be sung in mead halls in my far-off home.
I am Igarthel Swiftrider, son of Éogar Horsecaller, son of Theogar Talespinner, son of Thengel the Old, proud son of Rohan and Captain of Outriders for Erkenbrand, Lord of the Westfold. How did I come to be in this foreign place, when home is the Eastfold, it's valleys and plains, the swift rivers cutting and towering mountains? It is a long tale, one which requires knowledge of where I came from to appreciate.
I was born thirty-three winters past, during the hay-making time, to horse-raisers. Eogar Horsecaller was my father, his father was Theogar Talespinner, whose father was Thengel the Old, first man of the House of Thengel. My father and kin raised horses for the Éored of Éomund, under whose banner Theogar rode, and later Éomer, Marshals of the Mark. The horses we raised were fierce, bold, swift, and above all loyal; they were praised beyond all other steeds, beloved by outriders and cherished by warriors. It was a great honour to have outfitted the Éorlingas so.
There are many tales told of my father's father, few of which he did not first give voice to, and fewer still which can be believed as fact. Theogar Talespinner did ride in the Éored of Éomund, and that he did fight at the battle against the Goblins who had crossed Emyn Muil where the Marshal lost his life. Less certain are his stories of his capture and rescue. At Emyn Muil, he claimed, his horse was cut down, Éomund and his men were butchered, and the goblins took him and three others prisoner. Twenty days they spent in their thrall, the others tortured unto their deaths, and he soon to follow. He was certain of his fate until - he claimed - a silver horn's cry split the night and a host of Elves rode in, slaying the goblins and rescuing him from where he lay chained and bleeding. They took him, then, to their homeland, fed and clothed him, cared for his wounds. He was unable to speak their tongue - of course - but gleaned enough to recognize the name Valleygard as that of their homeland.
He claimed to have spent a spring and summer there, in their secluded hall north of the Limlight, and fell in love with a maiden of theirs. He could not stay, of course, but wished to give some token of himself as rememberence, and so he took to hunting the deer, bears, and wolves of that place, returning laden with food for his hosts and rich pelts to warm them during the coming winters. The finest skins, though, he kept for himself. Not out of greed or jealousy, but to fashion for this maiden of his - whose name he claimed was Meloriel, as though he were Leofwine from the songs! - a set of travelling clothes both sturdy and supple, so that she might one day visit his homestead. On the day of his leaving, he presented his Meloriel with those clothes, but at the last realized that she, as one of the eternal folk, would be burdened by his mortality, and wished her happiness and safety in her valley home instead.
How much of that tale is true, I do not know, but what is true is that, three seasons after the Battles of the Mering Stream, he returned to Thengelstead, clad in fine furs and healthier than any had seen him in living memory. He settled himself and returned to the raising of horses, never again going north of the Snowbourn, but - and this I remember from my childhood before he died - every midsummer he would ride to the Entwash and lay a sprig of Simbelmynë into it's waters. He became angry when I asked, and never offered an explanation.
When he died, I was eight winters old, and my father, uncles, brothers, and I took him to the Entwash, sending his body along that river instead of interring it with his brothers, as was Theogar's final wish.
My father then took control of the House of Thengel, as the oldest son, and we raised horses for many a long, fine summer. It was on my second tenth summer that I declared my intent to join the Éored of Theoden-King and ride against the Dunlendingas in the west. My father nearly forbade it, but when my cousin Enewyn, who is here with me as I write, begged him, he relented to us. We left Thengelstead, with dreams of glory, full on the meat of the tales Theogar would tell of heroes and elf maidens.
We rode with Erkenbrand for ten winters, I as captain of his outriders and Enewyn - even though she is a woman - as my herald and aid. She was not, of course, a member of the Éored proper, but the first man who had suggested she did not belong among warriors had his opinion quickly corrected by her. Each winter, we took our leave from Erkenbrand and returned to Thengelstead, joining the Yule-feast our families raised for those who lived near the farm.
It has been a year now since I last saw Thengelstead. We arrived early in the morning, three days before the feast. We had hoped to see the farm sitting quietly in it's vale, the out buildings wreathed in fragrant smoke, and our fathers directing the labourers, putting horses through their paces. Instead what we saw was slaughter, the horses butchered, our families laying in heaps, the buildings ash. Goblins had come from east of the Mering, burning and slaughtering before a sally by Éomer routed them and sent them home to their dark pits. We buried our kin, the whole of the House of Thengel the old, between the mouth of the Entwash and the Aldburg. It is a bitter draught we swallowed, Enewyn and I, on that day, knowing that we were the final two descendants of Thengel still living.
We rode west, to Erkenbrand, and explained what had happened. His reaction was not what we had expected. It was westward he sent us, not east to Éomer's host so that we could punish the goblins in raids. He told us that it was of the utmost importance, that we would be serving a far greater purpose by heading to the west, and that our actions would save others from suffering the pains we bore. So it was that Enewyn and I made west, for Bree, with a small band of outriders.
We were ambushed in one of the forest that dot the western lands, and captured. My men died where they stood, and my horse, Windfót, bolted when I was dragged from her saddle. Enewyn was captured as well, and we were dragged to a fortress in the Chetwood. It was there we met Aragorn, a Ranger who we had been instructed to aid, and with his help we escaped to the village of Archet. From there, we struck east, to Bree, where more aid was needed. It was there, after several long months, that we met Avalong, leader of a group calling themselves the Sworn Wanderers.
