Tales of the Past
Part I: Lessons by a Troublesome Tutor
As a wee boy I wanted nothing other than to see the far reaches of the world, though my father forbade me, and my mother, in a more gentle way, said I should not, because of the dangers that lurked within the wide, open world. Instead of such exciting adventures, my father sat down with me each day, to teach me how to read and write, boasting that a man's mind and wit determine fate, and not one's skill with a weapon.
My hearth and home lay within Aldburg, and I was confined to the city's replete, never seeing much of the outside world, despite my constant nagging on wanting to see the Golden Hall of Meduseld in Edoras. But no, my father told me, first you must learn.
"Father, you've already told me all this yesterday, and last week, and the week before that!" He smirked at me, a piercing stare combined with a questioning wrinkle of his nose. "What was this land we live upon known as?" "Calenardhon." I answered in a bored tone, a sigh escaping my lips when I looked away. "And how did it become what it is today?" Boredly, I replied in a montone voice; "The Éothéod, ruled by King Eorl, answered the call for aid sent out by Steward Cirion of Gondor. Eorl and his riders saved Gondor's forces upon the Fields of Celebrant, and were asked by Cirion to watch over Calenardhon. Cirion made it into a gift to Eorl. When he did, Eorl and Cirion took an Oath, which later became known as the Oath of Eorl, and was sworn between new rulers ever since. The Éothéod renamed themselves to Eorlingas. but became known as the Rohirrim in Sindarin and Calenardhon became Rohan, the Riddermark." He nodded once. "Very good. Now, onto the next subject.."
And so an hour or two went by nearly each day, and I wondered whether each sixteen-year old, Rohirric boy heard their fathers rant on about history each day. I doubt it. But it was worth it to sit through those lectures because after that came sword practice!
I stood in the yard behind the house, wearing my leather hauberk, and holding two wooden swords within my hands. This was sure to be exciting I thought to myself, but alas, if only I had known that my father would be as cryptic about swordfighting, as he was about history. "Listen; a blade's edge is only as sharp as the mind of the one who wields it. Dull your mind, and you will dull your blade." My father only used one sword, but it wasn't something to be used with two hands, but I wanted to try two at the same time, despite his wishes. And so it commenced. He began shouting out directions, 'left', 'right', 'front', 'low', 'right again' and so on, indicating the directions his blows would come from. I don't know how my father learned to fight, but I always thought he was good at it. He had black hair, like I did, which I found weird, because the fathers of all the other boys and girls were blonde, or had red hair, but hair as black as my father had; none.. While I fended off his blows, a bunch of other children my age ran down the road, past our yard. They were playing again, and didn't ask me to come, like always.. it happened often. They ran by, and shouted at me, "Half-blood!" And the like, how I wasn't one of them, but I had grown up here, same as them. I turned my head and lowered my two wooden swords when I heard them call out such things to me, and at that moment I felt the stinging pain of my father's wooden sword hitting me on the head. I dropped both my swords onto the ground to rub my head while looking at him. He smiled down at me and spoke, "Dead."
