Prologue: The Days Were Like A Fire, The Years, A Winter Wind

Prologue to "The Green-Roofed Tower," An Original Unpublished Work

Suns and stone

Makers many but Makers one
Kings aplenty and kingdoms come
But no path in them for home
He who wanders wanders ‘lone

What faith and fate does lead you
If foot does come to rock
What place prepared receives you
If you listened when it talked

Or when it came and knocked

(On page near dedications)

“The days were like a fire,

the years, a winter wind.

In those days, the Jökultunn, were on Álthren—the mighty ones, called Jökung, the giant-kings of old. They rose up in greed and hate and fury from the frozen sea. With the horrible power, the fire in their hands, the frost in their mouths, they waged war on the mountains and the kingdoms of men.

Earth, sky, and stars were rend before them and in great wrath they wrought terror and shadow. Thus, they reached out to make themselves like unto the Elaia and Gathaia, the Makers and Unmakers of yore, the walking lights of the sky. They took even them into their hands.

None could stand before the Jökung. The skies were shut up, and they did not give their light.

In those days, Óren, even Órenduin, king of man, returned, having gained wisdom at the dragon’s price. Yet the ancient paths called to him, and by lantern light he walked them, and all who sought him could not find him.

The darkness deepened and the people cried out, for hope had come and gone away. Years passed without answer, neither from wild nor heavens.

Without warning, Órenduin returned once more, with no mind to seat at his throne. He bore tales of the Forgotten Land, and in his hand, a spear, none it’s equal. He spake in riddle and mystery, but his people were joyed to hear his voice. He carried the old fire from before the yonder throne, even from the tree of Aënd, and with it, he marched against the Jökultunn without wavering. By the words of his mouth, he took from the Jökung their will and wisdom, and slew them until they fled once more into the earth and sea. None has heard nor seen of them since that day.

The skies opened once more, and light and life returned to the heavens of man.

Thus, when man and woman saw it alike, the peoples of Álthren crowned him a second and third time. Órenduin founded the three nations of the North and the peoples rejoiced over his wisdom. They together named Óren, Órenduin Álthren-Shedräen, and his name became great in the land.

Yet when his eyes grew tired and grey, he stepped down from his throne and divested his wisdom, will, and power, one to each of his kingdoms, according to the dragon’s price. At that time, Óren, son of Bóhlin, crossed the Feln River at night and without warning. Whispers and rumor followed. But by a secret command and a midnight message, the bridge called Odenorn was made at his crossing, with the message,

‘Come ye any by the way of Óren

Leave all and find what I have found

Turn left nor right, each the path that is for him

Quit not flight til’ feet light on longed ground’

Órenduin took the spear with him, that only the wise might find it. Few have forsaken all to walk the path of Óren, and among them many return empty handed. Some fewer have never returned, including Óren, son of Bóhlin. Desolate is the tomb of the king, yet all the peoples mourned.

Thus concludes the book of the deeds of King Órenduin.

Forth recorded is the line of Bóhlin and all his genealogies.”

Daénlen rested his heavy eyes from his searching. Candle flame flickered on the book-crammed shelves. He stared at the little yellow light until it left a bright spot when he blinked. What did he even hope to find, he wondered. He had just read the interesting part. He was still looking for more—in the genealogies? He scoffed to himself. The saying of modern scholars floated around his grey head.

A fool for life in legend looks.

He rubbed his wrinkled face and his long bedraggled hair and breathed an exaggerated sigh. It fell into the silence around him. He was alone. He turned himself back to the stiff, dusty tome until the candle-lit spot faded from his old eyes.

Daénlen did not know what he was looking for, yet he did not skip a single word. Strange man—he drank deep the genealogies on the time-stained pages. Name after name, and deed after deed, the birth and death of every heir and honored ancestor—he scoured the repetition in search of meaning. Many times he wondered why, and many times he read on. Something compelled him despite his weariness. Sometimes he was rewarded, sometimes he did not feel as though he was.

“—Brāgo begat Bréthil at twenty rhythms of the sky. This same Bréthil is he who wrought Castle Isthël of crystal. Bréthil begat Ímrand at forty-three rhythms of the sky. Ímrand begat Andír at eighteen rhythms of the sky—”

The old man took another deep breath and stroked his scraggly beard. He looked around the Lorekeep shelves and again pondered quitting for the night. He had already read a whole page and a half of genealogies. He felt his eyelids growing heavier. He wiped his hand upward over his whole face and yawned. He shook his head. Perhaps he could make it through one more page before his eyes shut on their own. Daénlen wrestled his mind and body and won. He turned back to the book before him.

“—Andír begat Lánren at twenty-one rhythms of the sky. This same Lánren is he who defended Fort Hohver when under siege by armor and horses, the Knighthood of Gath. Lánren begat Ónden at twenty-seven rhythms of the sky. Ónden begat a child in his thirty-third rhythm, but is rumored to have sent it down the Feln River in a small wooden boat—”

“What?!” Daénlen shouted, his hand quickly covering his mouth for him.

His eyes were wide awake now. He looked both ways. No one else was down here. The man read it aloud again slowly.

“—is rumored to have sent it down the Feln River in a small wooden boat—”

Daénlen’s mouth dropped and his hands slapped to his head. He turned away from the table in a half-pace but then turned back and sat hurriedly, reading the page more closely.

“—in a small wooden boat. The child was never found and is thought to have died—”

The old man’s chair rocked as he slumped into it. He steadied himself. His eyes darted, thinking of implications. He placed his palm on his chest. All had become so slow and silent, but his heart was so fast. He took a deep breath.

“Hohhh—Okay—"

He rubbed his blurry eyes and found where he left off with his shaking finger.

“Ónden begat Dennai at fifty-five rhythms of the sky. This Dennai is he who had Órenduin’s statue wrought for the—”

The old man walked from the table once more. He could no longer focus—those prior words, they were too big for him. The light of the candle shone on his ragged brown robe and his wringing hands. He looked up, still muttering confusion, then at once, he returned to the table, closing the book. He stared at the gold and blue cover before suddenly taking up his candle, turning, and leaving swiftly out of the door.

This is the prologue to an unpublished work called “The Green-Roofed Tower.” It is the first of a trilogy. I have been writing it for five years while in school and to this date I have 75,000 words written. I am no longer in school, and now I can write more. (No AI was or will be used in the making of this work)

If you would like to hear more, let me know in the comments and I will consider giving more peeks and lore in the future. Either way, expect more in the future.

Thank you for reading.

-Stuart