[Envinyatar]

His fingers traced the fallen men, strewn on the field about the King.

‘Devorin, it was, who captained the troops sent to aid Gondor in this war. Three hundred men from Ringló Vale were under his command. They came east, to Minas Tirith, to stand with their allies against the foes of Men. Farmers and fishermen, hunters and traders. Husbands and fathers and sons.’

‘They stood and fought on the Pellenor, and many of them fell. But Devorin rallied them, and they retreated to the defense of the city. And when Aragorn called for the troops to advance across the river to the Morannon, they added their small strength to the knights from Dol Amroth, following Prince Imrahil. They stood with them as the hosts of Mordor issued from the Black Gate and Orcs streamed down from the hills to the sides of the rampart, surrounding the two great hills round which Aragorn had ringed his troops.’

‘The fighting was fierce and bloody; the din of battle and the screams of the dying and injured overpowering. More of them fell, as did Devorin. Until only five remained, and none of them unscathed by weapons of the enemy.’

‘They made their way home, once the fighting was done, and Aragorn was assured his Kingship. To the outskirts of Ethring, they returned. Only to find their own homes burned, their families slain. A roving band of Orcs had swept through this area, destroying land, life, and dwelling as they passed under cover of darkness.’

Derufin’s voice faltered and grew quiet. ‘Three of them stayed, to rebuild their lives there. The two others left, one to the arms of the wide sea, and the other to a life of rootless wandering.’

He rolled the boy’s drawing up, and placed it in his outstretched hand, catching his gaze with darkened grey eyes. ‘And that is their small story, young Master. Though I have no skill to draw the picture of it for you.’