The Lear Library

This was largely influenced by a brief dalliance in the Lord of the Rings Online MMORPG. Seeing as I knew little of Tolkien’s well-established lore, I concentrated on interplay between characters that I created myself. I wanted to create a slightly more detailed picture of the lives of small people in Middle Earth, people who would never have very much impact in the grand war of the Ring.

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She’d been crying when her father had found her. She’d slumped across the man’s big work-desk, a jeweller’s loupe in one hand and a roughly-hewn opal the size of a penny in her other.
“Come now, Rosie,” he’d said in what he liked to think of as his ‘no-nonsense’ voice, a voice that fit him about as well as a six-year-old stepping into his father’s shoes. He was a balding and thin man, hunched over in a crabbed posture almost constantly due to his years at a desk. He had a large, aquiline nose with large nostrils that flared dramatically when he was thinking hard, and his voice was usually light and jovial. His ‘no-nonsense’ voice was deep and booming in his skinny pigeon-chest.

Roseline, a little over eighteen and already feeling ashamed for having been crying in the first place, and even more ashamed for having been caught, held out the loupe and stone to her father. She’d called her father “Da” ever since she’d been old enough to form syllables, and her mother was “Mam.” But in truth they were Uhtrecht and Masie Thorne. Roseline had always had difficulties imagining her father as one of the men of Rohan, though his hair… such as was left… used to be blonde. According to family legend he’d come from that area and fallen for Masie, a simple farmer’s girl who used to live in Staddle. Though frankly, Roseline couldn’t imagine her frail-looking father on a horse at all and she always felt that her Da was poking gentle fun at her whenever he retold the tale. There was no denying his heritage, though, and there was a large sword with a dull, heavy blade hanging over the fireplace of their home, crossing over the long wooden haft of a hunting spear. Neither of which had been touched for years, save Mam’s dusting.

Uhtrecht took the loupe and the opal and drew up a chair to the light filtering through the window, scrutinising the stone.
“Well now,” he began, still in his reverberating false voice “I don’t see any oath or insult printed against you or your good family name, dear Rosie…” Rosie Thorne was another of her Da’s ‘little jokes’ that was, perhaps, taken a little too far. “What has this poor stone ever done to you to elicit such a response?”
Roseline didn’t respond at first, wiping her eyes on a grubby handkerchief, and her father did one of the things that he did best. He was quiet, and he was patient. He folded his long-fingered, bony hands into a curled spider at his lap, his eyes buried behind wispy silver eyebrows and sunk deep into his face. They gleamed slightly as he tilted his head on its side somewhat.
Eventually, Roseline cleared her throat and spoke up.
“It’s for Mam’s birthday.” she began. “I was going to make her a ring with it.” And her father nodded approvingly.

Her father was always one for dispensing what he called “Homespun Wisdom” and creating traditions. And one tradition that had come from long ago in his and his wife’s life when they’d had little money had been the giving of gifts that had been made by their own hand. Until recently, for Roseline that had meant a concentrated afternoon with a chunk of slate and several differently-coloured chalks and ochres, or even paper and charcoal. Lately, she’d had to become more and more… refined in her gifts. And when her father had started teaching her his trade, it had almost become a test of her skill, to see how far along she’d come in the intervening time between birthdays.

Roseline gestured to the opal. “But look at it! It’s got a huge fault running right through the middle!” And Uhtrecht nodded, because he’d seen the flaw going straight through the centre of the stone.
“And you want something perfect.” He said, and it wasn’t a question. Roseline nodded, and her father smiled. “Then I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a great many birthdays before you find a stone like that. If there even is one.” He waved a gnarled hand. “Life isn’t perfect, my girl, and neither is anything else walking on this green turf.” He was now, Roseline realised, in a declamatory state of mind. His agile hands became mobile, and his wrinkled face creased and bent into the most incredible lines and curves. “This is one of the secrets of our craft, Rosie, and one I take great delight in. Every single stone comes to us out of the raw earth, as well you know.”

And she did indeed know that well. Her father, now that he was older, had found it more and more difficult to achieve the work necessary to dig the raw stones from the earth. And so he’d sent Roseline, saying that she was from good stock; A robust farmer and a strong and noble Rohirrim… and again, she couldn’t help but feel as if she was being made fun of a little there… and so swinging a pickaxe should be no trouble. It had made her strong, as much as her mother’s teaching had made her clever, and her father’s instruction had made her meticulous.

“And that is why there are jewellers, lass. We take the stones from the earth and polish them, and we shape them, and we make them more than what they were.” He smiled, his lips stretching like pliant rubber. “We hide the flaws and we make them shine. Much like man is born flawed, and is refined through life by lessons and civilisation. If we learn well and are attentive, we can glitter.” He chuckled, and then dropped the opal back into Roseline’s hand, closing her fingers over it.
“You see, lass. You work at that stone and set it in… What are you going to set it in?” He asked, suddenly.
“Brass,” Roseline admitted and her father grimaced.
“That’ll never do. Here, now.” He opened up a long wooden box and produced a lump of stone, lines of glitter lacing through it. “That’s got some good silver in it. You make something appropriate out of that.”
Roseline smiled, and she smiled so brightly it was reflected in her father’s face and he found himself smiling right back.
“Thanks, Da.” A simple sentence, but heartfelt.

Unfortunately, Masie Thorne’s birthday would soon be far from the family’s mind. Fortunately, they would at least all live to see another year of birthdays.

***

Masie Thorne was, as always, the practical one.
As a child, Roseline had learned her numbers and letters from her mother. There wasn’t much of an institutionalised education system, after all, and her assistance with home life left the young girl little time to travel to Bree and back every day to begin with. So, she’d stayed at home with her Mam and gravely absorbed the information that A was for Apple and B was for Ball. Her mother had taught her to cook, as well. Starting small and gradually working her way up. She was taught what was often referred to as “women’s work,” with no trace of irony from Mam. After all, she was well aware that her husband’s jewellery trade earned the bulk of the family’s money and so she was happy to organise the household and look after young Rosie.

As a result, Masie became The Serious Parent, and Utrecht was The Fun Parent. It was hardly fair, but that was the way of things in a child’s mind. Still, Roseline loved her mother dearly, just as much as her father.

It was on the birthday that Roseline had been creating the silver ring with the opal set in it, and the little trinket was inscribed with a simple message of love and familial fondness on the inside. Rosie had placed it in a little wooden box she’d bought from the woodsman’s son, Roderick. He’d blushed and smiled and half-fallen over himself to wrap the entire ensemble up in coloured paper. And because Masie had taught Rose about things other than cooking and letters, Roseline understood why. She smiled as kindly as she could and took the box, leaving behind some silver and well-wishes to Roderick’s father.

They’d sat in their small home, and Utrecht had fashioned a gift of his own for his dear wife, who was plump and jovial by nature – even if Roseline had seen her in a stern light when she was younger. Since she’d passed fifteen, she’d allowed to be more of an equal and they’d got on a whole lot better.
Masie unwrapped the long box of lacquered wood that Utrecht had placed his present in and opened it. She breathed in as she took a slender chain that glistened in the dimming daylight, a hand held over her mouth.
Roseline examined the chain with an almost professional interest. It wasn’t silver but platinum, and the links were so small and fine it was a wonder to her that Utrecht’s gnarled hands had been able to create such a delicate piece.
Next to the chain, she felt her own ring was a poor and crude thing, but Masie greeted it with equal, if not perhaps greater, enthusiasm. Masie was larger and had aged better than Utrecht, and she practically picked Rosie up into a bear hug, squeezing the air from her lungs. Utrecht laughed uproariously and Rosie shouted, and that was perhaps why they missed the sounds outside.
But when they’d quietened, they could hear shouts and panic, and the sound of flames.

Rosie frowned and went to the window, looking out. Her eyes widened in surprise and she said in horror “The prison’s on fire!”
“Come away from the window, Rose,” Macie said briskly. “We’ll go out the back and draw water from the well, help to put out the -”
The door burst open, and a man with a swarthy, unshaven face brandished a knife. The trio stood in shock for a moment, but then Utrecht moved, placing his frail form between his wife and daughter, and the man with the knife.
“You’re that jeweller, right?” The man said gruffly, and Roseline couldn’t quite place his accent. She’d never heard anything quite like it before in her rather sheltered life.
“That’s right,” Utrecht responded in a grave, but uncowed voice. “But I don’t keep anything here. It’s all at my workshop in Bree, so you can turn around and walk out of here, young man.”

Unfortunately, the man had seen the platinum chain now hanging around Masie’s throat, and he pointed with his knife.
“I’ll have that, to start.” He said and moved towards Masie, sweeping Utrecht out of the way. The old man fell awkwardly and cried out, his ankle twisted beneath him.
Rosie’s eyes narrowed a little and, when the man reached out to take the chain, her hands moved of their own accord. She punched the man in the jaw and sent him staggering back, then reached blindly for a weapon.

Her hands fell on the chipped and ancient mining pick kept near the door for when she went out to find her Da his precious stones. It felt good and solid in her calloused fingers and she lifted it threateningly. The blade of the prospecting tool looked old and dull, but it would puncture the man right enough. Still, he didn’t seem perturbed.
Masie retreated into the kitchen, fretting, as he smirked. “Now now, girlie… we was going to take just the jewels,” he said with a leer, and Roseline knew he was lying. “But I reckon we’ll take a feisty girl too.”

Goiiioioioioi-oi-oi-oinnnng!

The man slumped beneath Masie’s cast-iron frying pan. In her other hand, she was holding a spiked mallet used for tenderising tough meat. She had a smile of satisfaction on her face.
But then there were more men at the door and Roseline had to jump over Utrecht’s prone form, swinging the pickaxe in a horizontal arc, driving them back. She kept swinging, and one of the men reached out suddenly, grasping the wooden haft and pulling it away with surprising strength. For a second, Roseline was stunned. She turned and ran back to the fireplace, grasping the ancient, heavy long sword.
She was only young, and the sword was solid and old, but her youth of swinging that pickaxe had left her with enough brawn to heft the old relic.
The hunting spear tumbled down onto the hearth, but she didn’t notice. She turned, holding the sword aloft and drew a breath into her lungs as the bandits began to move into the house. She shouted a challenge and charged, plunging the blade before her in an undisciplined, two-handed grip.

The sword bit home, punching under the first bandit’s sternum and ripping through soft flesh. It protruded from his back and he gave a choking gasp. Roseline cried again and kept moving forwards, using the dying man to push back his comrades. Then she planted a boot in his chest and pulled the blade free to let him collapse on the step in front of the house.

She gave another cry and swung the sword in front of her. She was in a good position, blocking the doorway. She couldn’t be outflanked that way, and so the bandits tried to press her inwards with bodily force, rushing her.
Utrecht was there, though, leaning on the old hunting spear to walk before he plunged it past his daughter and into a bandit’s side. His face was an expression of controlled, measured fury. The spear lashed out, twisted through meat, then pulled out again in clean, quick thrusts while his daughter snarled and swiped viciously at the oncoming group. Before the two of them, a handful of men fell… enough to make the bandits reconsider the value of the jewellery inside next to their own hides.

They fled, leaving Roseline panting and weary. She didn’t know how long she’d been standing in the doorway. It was only a matter of minutes, but it had felt like an hour, and her shoulders and arms ached. Her clothes… her best clothes, that she’d put on for the birthday celebrations… were splattered with blood, and she could even taste iron on her lips.
She sagged a little, the point of the old, notched sword cutting into the house’s floorboards and sticking there, dripping red. She leaned against it and panted softly.
Utrecht’s old, gnarled hand rested on her shoulder, and she stared with awe and fear at the bodies lying on the floor of their parlour.