Not one stone stands atop another, and a man might ride past, or even over, these ruins and never suspect that a city once stood here. Framsburg was once a mighty city, perhaps the rival of Edoras, possessed of cobbled streets and squares, homes and places of craft and trade, stables and farms, and perhaps even walls and towers for defense; but most of it must have been made of timber, as most of the dwellings of the Eorlingas are, and there is nothing left of any of it but the bare bones, a roadway here, a stone-cast court there, a shattered foundation of what might once have been a barn, a piece of twisted metal that likely saw the forging of swords and spear-points in a time long past.
I have been here for much of a month, as autumn has come on, colder than most winters I have known, in this bitter northern land. I keep a camp amongst a set of walls that stand almost as high as Kestrel's knee, for what shelter they afford, and one day in five I venture forth to gather food and firewood. The other days are spent digging, sifting, and rummaging. It is plain that many hands before mine have turned over these stones, seeking what treasures might be gleaned, though perhaps none as thoroughly as mine. The long years lie weary over these clean-picked bones, and the wind kicks up dust amongst them, while the grasses laugh and heed not the stones, growing where they will, hiding the last memory of the Éothéod.
After a couple of weeks of searching, I came upon one poor, dented remnant, wedged beneath a particularly heavy stone that had fallen from a wall; and the sight of its brassy shine set my heart afire for a moment. But it was no lantern, nor a part of a broken one. Simply a disc, of a size that could fit easily in a closed palm, of brass or some similar metal. One hoop, and the broken remnant of another, spoke of when it hung on a chain, perhaps around the neck of a fair lady of noble blood. One side was blank; upon the other had been engraved the shape of a rearing horse, so like to that which flapped on pennants and banners at every Mead Hall in the Mark that I gaped in astonishment. But when my heart calmed and I looked closer, the shape was simpler, more crude, at best a distant ancestor of those proud horses whose profile dances in the breezes of my homeland. Besmirched by tarnish that I could not clean off, and bent by the impact of the stone that had hidden it from all hands before mine, the pendant seemed like nothing more than a sad trinket. I set it deep inside Kestrel's saddlebags, thinking that with it I could prove that I had journeyed far and searched hard, but also sure it would prove a disappointment were it not accompanied by a lantern.
At times, my efforts are delayed while I stop, perhaps with my hands buried deep in a pile of fallen stones, and stare in wonder at my surroundings. Humble as these ruins are, I recall that on this very field, perhaps on these very stones in my hands, Eorl the Young once stood, and his cousins. Mighty men and women, fell of deed, strong of arm, bearing spears and shields bloody with the light of night's awakening. Steeds amongst whom even Kestrel might be proud to stand, including Felaróf, the distant ancestor whose blood may grant Kestrel his wisdom and nobility, the pride of our people, once took shelter in these very fields, ate this grass, thundered like the coming of joy and pain and wrath and freedom across these very lands. I might have to sit and wait until I could breathe again for some time before I could go back to my patient digging, unearthing, once more, nothing but the ends of worms and an oozy smell.
But as much as I am awestruck, I cannot forget that there is no lantern here, nor anything to help me think where else to find it. There are no signs of where the remaining Éothéod went; no inscribed runes, no moldy scrolls, no trail of footprints along a dusty road, no monument like that to Eorl that I am told stands in a secret place in the Mark.
There is no more purpose to staying. Every stone within a league has been turned over, I think. I must go on and continue my search elsewhere. I have made up my mind to venture down the east bank of the Great River, in the shadow of Mirkwood, seeking the hall of the Woodmen that I learned of in the summer, in hopes they may have more wisdom to share.
I will pass, once more, through the land of the Beornings, and I hope I do not have to pay tolls again. Grimbeorn, son of the legend Beorn, leads many doughty men and women who patrol these lands, keeping goblins and wargs within their filthy warrens, making the roads and the river crossings safe; but all who pass must pay a toll, and I have nothing of value to them but coin. The Thane gave me a full purse which seemed a king's ransom, but they took nearly half its worth, and if I must pay again as I pass south, I will be hard pressed should I have need of any more. I should not begrudge the tolls, since, were they not there to make the way safe, I would have been in grave and probably fatal peril since I had left the shelter of the Woodmen's settlements. Still, it has been not even a season since I paid, so I hope I may pass again without a second.
What if the Woodmen of this hall can tell me nothing more of the lantern than those I have already met? What then? Are there other roads the Éothéod might have crossed, or must I admit defeat? Which would be worse: to have to return with naught but failure in my hands, or to continue on another road, leaving my home and family behind that much longer?
