Scout of the Third House by Himring  

Those were tough times I had of it, up north,

scouting out orc holes amid rock and ice,

the fumes the Ered Engrin belched forth,

constant danger, lack of rest—not nice,

but what got to me was going it alone,

for months never seeing a friendly face,

until I shed tears, cold to the bone

with more than wind chill—yes, a sorry case—

but, oh, when I turned home south again,

how warm a welcome, such praise and gifts,

I received from my own Lord Malach then,

that, remembering, my heart still lifts,

and more—the Elven King himself, of high fame,

poured mulled wine for me, spoke my name!

Chapter End Notes

A poem with fourteen lines for the March challenge at tolkienshortfanworks

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Imrach was very old, his hair like ivory, but you could still see he had been strong once. His family loved him well and took care of his needs, but did not listen to the tales he had to tell. They set him to mind the small children, instead, who were too young to hear about the past. Imrach did not seem to object, but Hador could not understand—such a wealth of experience, but nobody else seemed to be as fascinated as he was.

Hador’s father would have preferred it if Hador had not been interested either. And, certainly, the disapproval of Hador’s father and his friends had something to do with the opinions of the rest of their people. Hador’s grandfather and his great-grandfather had not seen eye-to-eye about Elves, the War, and probably a number of other things. Imrach remembered the time when Great-grandfather Malach had served at the court of the High-King of the Elves, the last one alive among them to do so.

Hador went through his routine daily tasks quickly. Here, this wooden bucket needed repairing. That could be taken along so that Father would have no reason to reproach him with idleness. And he could help Imrach keep an eye on the toddlers, too. Although Imrach loved the children, Hador thought that the duty of watching over them was beginning to tire him.

‘Have you come to listen to more stories, Hador?’ Imrach asked with a smile.

‘You were beginning to tell me about your adventures as a scout,’ said Hador, settling on a stool at his feet.

‘Ah yes,’ said Imrach.

But for a while he said nothing, his eyes dreamy and far away.

Hador was a little disappointed, but far too polite to push. Meanwhile, he had to rescue the cat from the attention of Imrach’s great-niece before the cat could scratch her in self-defence. Then he went to work on his leaky bucket.

Suddenly, above Hador’s head, Imrach began to chant softly:

Those were tough times I had of it, up north,
scouting out orc holes amid rock and ice,
the fumes the Ered Engrin belched forth,
constant danger, lack of rest—not nice,
but what got to me was going it alone,
for months never seeing a friendly face,
until I shed tears, cold to the bone
with more than wind chill—yes, a sorry case—
but, oh, when I turned home south again,
how warm a welcome, such praise and gifts,
I received from my own Lord Malach then,
that, remembering, my heart still lifts,
and more—the Elven King himself, of high fame,
poured mulled wine for me, spoke my name!

Hador sat there with his mouth open.

‘The High King Fingolfin himself served wine to you!’

‘Only the once. It was a great honour, Hador.’

Hador’s father was of the opinion that the Elves thought too highly of themselves, but Hador felt it was a great honour, too.

‘I wonder whether Fingolfin remembers me,’ said Imrach. ‘He might. Elves are like that, Hador. At least, some are.’

Imrach died the following year. But when Hador at last, against his father’s wishes, travelled to Barad Eithel to see the Elves for himself, he found that Fingolfin indeed remembered Imrach and had a store of tales about his great-grandfather, too.

Chapter End Notes

The name "Imrach" is a rejected name variant for "Imlach" (name of the father of Amlach) that I have adopted for my hitherto unnamed scout.

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