Post by Éadríc on Feb 14, 2013 21:52:42 GMT
Thriving and free of care were the lands of Ingwinaríce when Tírmund son of Tungolmód was king. He was to his folk a good friend, being wise and full learned in lore and arts of all kinds. So beloved was he by all men and beasts, that far and wide men called him Táta, though he would to his heirs be known as Tírmund Follostar. For as he counted his winters, his mind would wander more and more to the night sky. Upon green Regencol, the high hill north of his hall, a stone tower he had reared, whither he would withdraw on many an eve to watch the starlit heaven and mark tokens of the Ése. And every morning before dawn he would greet in the sky Éarendel the Bright, who as men knew had once been a mortal among his own forefathers.
Daga and Dealla were his eldest sons, borne by Ymme his queen. Like their mother and father they were fair to behold and good of heart. But a kind father though he was, the king became more and more lost in thought and upward gaze, and he trusted much of the care of his children to others. By this the two brothers grew willful and restless, and already when they were very young they would slip from their guardians and find for themselves adventure in the wild lands beyond the dwellings of their folk.
And so it happened that one night when they were children still the two sons of Tírmund snuck away to set out on a journey they had long devised. For Ðéostordan they made, the great old beech forest west beyond the Evenwolds, to hunt and fell as they may a boar of great might as was said to roam there. But those woods lay many days away on horseback, while the brothers had chosen to fare on foot to better hide their tracks. Indeed the young princes were much skilled already in stealth and had been so careful in their dealings, that neither the king nor the rangers or anyone in all the lands knew whither they had gone.
Treacherous was the weather and unforgiving upon the wolds that Daga and Dealla crossed, so that when after many days they reached the far woods they were very weary, having spent most of their provisions already, knowing not what to expect in sullen Ðéostordan. For a long while they roamed among the strong trunks and roots of numberless trees, seeking tracks worthy of pursuit, as they would not brook the felling of anything less than a king of boars. At last they caught a trail of promise and this followed deep into the dark and old forest, caring more for glory than good sense. The tales of the beasts of Ðéostordan had not been fanciful, for when they caught that boar in sight, they were taken aback by its size and splendour.
But the sons of Tírmund knew no bounds and would not face their father without proof of their strength and courage, and so they beset the wild beast: the spear that Daga threw found its mark and a great cry was sent through the wide forest. Yet it was not enough, and as Dealla sought his moment the boar leaped away and hid himself from their keen eyes, while the wind cloaked any sound they might heed. Then suddenly with full might the beast stormed from a thicket and smote Daga, wounding him terribly in his leg, before vanishing from bowshot, never to return.
Dealla rushed to his brother’s aid and found him harshly crippled, bawling in anguish. The bleeding he ended and a splint he fashioned as best he could, though neither he nor Daga himself knew many secrets of healing. But the sun was westering and time was costly, and thus Dealla took it upon himself to bear his brother back home. They fared on grimly, as sounds strange and threatening grew in the gloom beyond them, to their greater worry. Shunning the many hills of the woodland to ease their tread they shifted their path until they became unsure of which direction they had come at all. Neither could they turn to the sun for counsel, for a thick mist had begun to sweep along the tall and shadowy trees. The sons of Tírmund were utterly lost in dank and mighty Ðéostordan. They pressed on aimlessly, till weary and filled with despair they sat down against a broad bole and huddled together, awaiting doom.
It was then that Daga could faintly hear a noble sound from afar, though he did not trust his wits as he withered. But when Dealla hearkened too it became plain that yonder was the soft neighing of horses. So sweet and near singing it was, that the brothers did not fear mounted outlaws, and gathered all their strength yet in them to find the place whence it came. Between two hills they trudged with great pain till they came upon a glade so fair and clear in light, it was like a blessed bower amid the mist, they could not believe their eyes. And in its lush green grass stood two snow white horses, gallant and kingly, shining with a soft light. The brothers stepped into the glade and set themselves down on the soft ground as the two horses, bearing neither bridle nor saddle, drew near and lay beside them. And with their warmth they nestled the young brothers, who felt their care leave their mind and body and soon fell asleep.
When they awoke in the soft grass they felt quickened, as if they had rested for days or more, without a sign of their ordeal but what lingered in their memory. Most of all they were astonished to find that the wound in Daga’s leg had been healed fully, without leaving so much as a scar. Gone had the mist and gently did the sun shine straight into the glade. And to their great joy the brothers found the two white horses were still with them, grazing peacefully. It is said that they were able to speak with them, though if so, they would forever henceforth keep the words a secret. But known it is that Daga and Dealla befriended the horses and named them Hwíting and Blanca and rode them back to their father the king from that fair glade that was thereafter known as Fenglarest, the repose of princes.
When Tírmund King received his sons, his anger over their offense quickly gave way to thankfulness for their health and wonder over their horses. What tokens he sought among the stars his sons had found within the bounds of Middle-Earth, though he would yet withdraw to his tower on Regencol many times. After his death his sons Daga and Dealla became Brother-Kings of the Folk of Ing, riding to battles on their twin white steeds, who would sire all their noble horses. And it is believed that Hwíting and Blanca did not die of old age, but one day departed again for Ðéostordan, and that they were and are ever deathless.
