A Father's Tale I
Of My Firstborn

Hail friends, and well met. I am Meadred, the son of Meadryth. This is the tale of a father and his son. I am a proud man hailing of Grimslade in the Westfold of the Maerc, that is where my home and wife is. I love my wife with all my heart, and I could not have asked for a better woman to wed to. 
   And though I love her I do not spend all my time with her, for I am Rider of the Maerc and my duties lie with my King and Erkenbrand, chief of the Hornburg. But I am old now and I fear that the day which my arm can no longer swing a sword comes nigh, it cannot be aided. The Maerc needs able men, not men who's use has faded with their youth. They need men like Meadwine, my son, my firstborn. But where my boy is I cannot say.

When Meadwine first came into this world he was small and weak. Hopeless when his mother was not at his side. However, she laboured long and hard for him while he was a baby, and it felt as though each winter grew colder as the years passed as I waited for him to come of age. I was not ever at his side, nor my wife's and for this she forgives me, I am sure. When chance permitted I spoke with Meadwine, I told him tales of my battles and of the Hornburg, and of the old Kings of the Maerc who have long passed and been buried before the gates of Edoras, and his eyes lit with curiosity as he sat and listened. He wished to be like his father, this I could tell and wished that it would be. 

One day Meadwine asked me a difficult question. I cannot remember his words as they were, but it goes along these lines. "How does a man become valiant, Father? For I wish to be a valiant man when I come of age" he asked me, he was only ten winters then. I hesitated for a while and looked upon my son in wonder and said to him, "Meadwine, my boy. Valiance is not solely wrought by a man's deed upon the battlefield, you will find that greater valiance is wrought of the deeds that you do without the field of war." He did not understand my words, I perceived this by the look on his face, but he nodded nonetheless and I said no more of the matter and hoped that he would not forget these words. 
    By that age Meadwine had already began to wield a sword wrought of wood. It was heavy for him and when he asked me for a lighter sword, to which I said, "Nay, you shall not receive it. Only through hardship and labour can a man grow strong, and they do not grow strong by protest. Learn to wield what you have, for it is seldom when a soldier is given leave to wield a lighter burden." And then there was a spark of determination in his eyes, he continued to train his sword arm as he grew older. To my delight these words stayed with him, and he sought  for heavier burdens to lift so that he may grow stronger.

And strong he grew. When he came of age he was a strong and handsome young man. The kind that could wed any lass of his wish from the Maerc to Gondor. In those days he became special, as I say, for his hair turned pale as he aged. Nay, not grayed as an oldman's, but white.
    Then I took my son to the Hornburg where he could fulfill his wish and fight alongside his father among those who would fearlessly follow Erkenbrand into battle. With open arms was he welcomed among the men, but he became friends with very few of them. He was stubborn of who he called friend, he ever has been. I would often hear from my wife that he fought with some other lad in the Grimslade and that it was my duty to discipline him, but this was not so easy a task when his tongue often proved to be sharp. "He is more like you than I had ever imagined he would be, Meadred." My wife said to me, and perhaps I was gladdened by these words; even when the deeds of my son were considered wrong. When we walked upon the wall of the Hornburg for the first time he halted upon the wall and gazed onto the dike, his face was stern and he said to me. "Father. Here is where I shall make you proud of me, and I shall show you the valiance that you long told me of." To those words my tongue was still. I needed no words, for I was already proud of him and all that he has done. He brought great joy into my life, that boy.

He became a mighty soldier and fearsome upon the battlefield, I fought at his side. And though he is strong there is aught that he holds which may prove fatal some day: He often grows clumsy when he is overdetermined, forsaking patience for brutality. Yet it has not done much ill to him that I know of and I hope that it never shall. 

I miss my boy Meadwine. I would that he shall return home, but I know not whither his path has led him and I know not what has caused this. Yet his path is wrought of his own deeds and I shall not speak against his will now that he is a man. Thus one thing remains, aught that I wish to know, for I still worry for my firstborn. Whither are you, Meadwine?

Quirks

I shall speak no word of Meadwine's tale since he disappeared out of the Maerc to you. For such is for other folk to learn themselves. But he is not an only child. He was raised among several other siblings, but was ever loved more than all others, for he was Meadred's firstborn and Meadred was most proud of him. 

Long labours have turned him into a strong man of which one would have little doubt that he should earn great renown upon the fields of battle and there is very little that he fears. He understands what is needed of him, he understands that his duties may cost him his life some day and it is a risk that he welcomes and challenges with open arms. He has little ties to other folk, save for his own family, but there are some who manage to gain his friendship and loyalty. Such are the men that he would often be seen in the presence of, those who are strong, loyal, and worthy soldiers. For Meadwine ever has enjoyed a good fight, be it of good nature or against a foe who seeks to slay him.

He is stubborn and difficult to deal with. He is not one who likes to be gainsaid on his will. But even as a hardy warrior he is a man of noble deeds and words. Kind and bold. Yet there is much to him that cannot be perceived, for he is guilty of concealing himself well, and seldom has any one questioned him of this and what might he have said to those who did? I cannot say, but perhaps you learn so yourself one day, should you be fortunate enough to trade words with him. 

He is a soldier, he knows this. And he ever shall remain a soldier. Battle calls his name as the Spring calls the Summer and he answers to the call like a mother when her children cry. Swift and relentless. There is a fierce ire within him, and any who have seen him upon a real battlefield would know of it and how merciless he can become when his blood runs hot with the feel of battle; when war is victory or death. And he is tamed, he is no leader but a follower who may prove to be loyal or unpredictable. For he would not follow someone who he finds unfit to lead, nor would he follow someone who is of lesser prowess than he. His service among his folk lasted for a great many long years, having taken part in many skirmishes among the men of Rohan and their allies for nearly twenty years since his coming of age. 

Chronicle

Out of Character

All drawings on this page were done by me, the player of Meadwine. However, they were edited by a friend.