A ballad centered on an accidental kinslaying in Rhudaur long ago, taught to me by my uncle. It exists also in a lesser Bree-landish version, though they have long since forgotten both this ballad’s art and particulars such as the palantír and the elder brother’s name, Rhudaur being of little significance to them save for the most learned—thus many versions of the ballad in their tradition omit the royal descent of its characters. That said, the dialogue present is surely the work of the minstrel’s art, as is the history shaped by a singer’s considerations—it is dubious to me that Prince Ingold would indeed have received no word of his brother, nor never have gone home himself for twenty years, though this kinslaying is indeed briefly reported in the chronicles of Rhudaur some years after the direct line of Eärendur had failed. I surmise that perhaps that story element has origins more ancient, for it does resemble certain songs out of Gondor, themselves modelled on ancient lays of Westernesse.
THE BROTHERS OF RHUDAUR
To Rhudaur’s forest went the prince
to hunt the royal wood,
when an outlandish knight he spied
that dared his lands intrude.
“Who goeth, who goeth, who goeth within
these woods that should be mine?
Art thou a foe from Cardolan
or man of Arthedain?”
The stranger then did turn to him,
and in a rage he cried:
“I be not from outlandish lands,
and in these woods may bide—
I walk these paths with urgent word
and shall not tarried be,
’Tis many a man I’ve slain before,
so pass or I’ll slay thee.”
“I cannot pass,” the prince did say,
“nor shall thy words fear me,
for I’m the master of these woods,
and harried thou must be.”
They drew their blades and fought therewith,
till one was hurt full sore:
the stranger who trespassed the wood
the prince’s sword did gore.
“What art, what art, what art thou hight,
thou who now liest in pain?
For my father dear hath always said
to know whom thou hast slain.
He is the king who ruleth these lands,
whose sires once sailed the Sea,
and of the ways of Westernesse
he taught me courtesy.”
“This thing thou claimest,” the stranger cried,
“this thing it never could be,
for I’m the prince of Rhudaur-land
whose sires once sailed the Sea.
My name is Ingold, royal heir,
who Cardolan did fight—
for twenty years I warred with them,
and Rhudaur proved its might.
“Go tell the king the war is won,
the palantír is ours—
at Amon Sûl, I slew the prince
who sought to have its powers.”
The blood that poured from Ingold’s wound
the prince then tried to stay,
but deathly was his bitter blade—
the blood stopped not that day.
“I had a brother,” said the prince,
“who fought in foreign land,
and had I known ’twere thee returned,
love would have stayed my hand.”
“Weep not, weep not, my brother dear,
for thou hast brought me rest,
and know I now the man the king
his crown will soon bequest.”
The prince’s tunic Ingold clutched
till red it turned with blood—
then by his brother’s hand he died,
cut down in Rhudaur’s wood.
“O Heaven, O Heaven,” the prince did cry,
“What doom now troubleth me?
What joys are left now in this world
full marred by treachery?”
He set his sword upon the ground,
the blade up to the sky,
and he as Túrin long ago
on his own sword did die.
When Rhudaur’s king his sons did see,
the brothers to his hall,
he bitterly did weep and moan
the grief that Men befalls.
