Rohan. A land of rolling hills, proud kings, and fast horses. A land of tradition, and honor.
The children laughed and played in the courtyard, their merry voices echoing across series of log structures that comprised the little village. At first glance, you would not think anything of it: children playing, as children anywhere might do. But look closer. They are young, the youngest perhaps only 3, while the oldest could be 7 or 8. One of the older boys, a swarthy fellow with brown locks, and dark handsome eyes, knocks a smaller boy to the ground. There is a general cheer from the children.
“Frèalàf! Frèalàf! Frèalàf! Down with the Wulf!”
The smaller boy, rolls over and lifts himself to a knee, spitting out dirt, mixed with a little blood. His thick, curly hair, which was surely blond under normal circumstances, was splotched with dirt and mud. Combined with filth that now covered his face, you could even believe that he could earn the moniker of ‘Wulf’. However, he stood up waved his arm. His bright, even dreamy blue-green eyes had become piercing. He yelled, “Enough! No more Wulf! I’m done with that game!”
The big boy taunted, “Ah, what’s the matter Bregoàn? Can’t handle the might of the Rohirrim?! Oh go on. You don’t belong out here anyway. Go back to your Ma.”
“You ... You wouldn’t even know...” He fought the tears, and tried to keep his voice in control – the way a young Rohirrim ought to, he knew. He failed. “You don’t even know the story, besides what I told you!” He burst out.
The boy just laughed and turned away back to the rest of the children, “Fine! Don’t go to your Ma. Go to your books, ‘Scholar’. It matters not to me.”
The smaller boy, whose name was in fact Bregoàn, had had enough. He ran off, neither to his books nor his mother, though he did in fact love both. But right now, he wanted to be alone. Alone out in the plains, with nothing but the sky and the animals. Nothing that would accuse him of being different, or strange. The way it ought to be.
