‘Ware the Fearless Man, they say in Gondalor. An old wives’ tale in the land where poetry flourishes, but song remains soundless. There is but one song that matters. Only the Fearless Man sings in Gondalor, and where he sings, people disappear.
Each time the description differs; dripping in diamonds, clad in rags. By the riverside, creased walnut skin reflected shining in morning sunlight, shuffling along with a cane and propelled only by baritone lungs. On the plains, a tall fellow, leading but never riding his faithful horse companion. Wandering the forest paths at dusk – a woman, murmuring the words sorrowfully in a voice barely heard, hands clasped behind her back, a pale thick braid over one leather-clad shoulder. In the mountains, a wizened fellow, so skinny he fades into the few stands of pine, with a horn at his hip.
All of these are true.
No one speaks the lyrics, other than those who hear and heed the call. Gondalor, they say, calls forth its heroes. The song does not speak to all.
Most, who prefer a quiet life, are relieved when its call never comes.
And mourn for those who hear the song, for those compelled to follow, who disappear without warning and in the night. Because Gondalor is not kind to its heroes…if they return at all.
***
This is what happens when someone walks by your door singing at 0730, you get a half-heard unknown song stuck in your head (hi, Ray, thanks for all the earworms!), and you’re thinking about your writing prompt from AC Young.
Wrong book, brain! I do not need new characters yammering at me right now! Sariah, Tobb, Gren, and Elia will have to wait!
And in the meantime, the garden filled with lampshades prompt went to Cedar Sanderson.
