[Child of the 7th Age]

Child came trudging along the road, with a pack slung haphazardly over one arm and a harp, his only possession he really valued, gently nestled in the other. One more hill and a bend in the road, and the White Horse should come into view.

Now a man in the prime of his strength, he'd turned his back on Rohan some fifteen years before and swore that he'd never return. In that space of time, he'd traipsed from one end of Arda to the other, meeting people and seeing places that others could only dream of. He'd walked the streets of Minas Tirth and the ancient bowers of Fangorn, spoken with strange folk who called themselves 'kuduk', and even been a guest at Lord Elrond's table where he'd learned much about Elven music. Of late, he'd travelled south and east, as far away as Rhun and Harad. Here, he'd learned the art of staying silent, keeping his opinions to himself if he wanted to survive to see another day.

Wherever he went, his harp and flute earned him enough of a living that he could survive. He had actually done more than simply survive. For he had a small bag of gold and siver tucked away neatly in the top of his boot. Perhaps, he'd find a little place to call his own and settle down on the outskirts of town. Maybe open a school where the young lads of Edoras could learn the tales of their heroic ancestors and memorize a few letters and numbers.

Yet, if he was truly honest with himself, that was only part of the reason he'd chosen to return. Even as a youngster, he'd been able to sense when something important was going to happen in his small world that would shake up all the established ways.

His recent travels had been no different. Wherever he'd gone, Bard had sensed the shadow extending its tenacious grip on the land and, even more, over the minds of those who dwelled there. What was behind it, or why it had come, he had no idea. But something had whispered in his ear that Rohan itself might be endangered. Perhaps it was time for him to set aside his angry words and return home to see if he couldn't help in some way.

These last words brought a wry smile to his lips. How his childhood companions would have chuckled! It was clear to Child that skill in arms would soon be needed to defend the cause of goodness. Yet he was the least likely person in all of Arda to be of any use as a soldier. His one leg was shorter than the other, which caused him to walk with a decided limp. He had no trouble getting around on foot, but his gait was extremely awkward. Even more, Child had seen the look of pity in his father's face when he'd tried to match his brothers with a sword or dagger. It was not an experience he cared to relive.

Most of all, there was the inner wound that still rankled. His own family had been members of the lesser nobility, descended from a long line of warriors. When all his brothers came of age, their father had presented them with one of the magnificent stallions of Rohan. Perhaps not as long-lived or fleet-footed as the mearas that were reserved for the King's family, but wonderful steeds who could easily pull on a man's heartstrings.

Despite Child's extraordinarily gentle way with horses and the fact that he could manage a mount as well as his peers, there'd been no gift for him. For what man beside a warrior would need a horse so swift and strong? Sometimes at night, on distant shores, he'd dreamed of the horses he'd left behind in Rohan. Strangely enough, images of these steeds crept into his mind even more frequently than the beautiful young women whom he'd also left behind. Child had a nagging feeling that, until he managed to find some freedom from the pull of that lost dream, he'd never be able to appreciate any woman, no matter how lovely or kind.

With these jumbled thoughts plaguing at his mind, he soon found himself on the doorstep of the White Horse, wondering if he'd made a big mistake in even coming.

[ June 16, 2003: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]