**This story is one Felaion rarely speaks about, and If he does, usually he tells a lie. This is the most truthfull acount to date, but whether you know his story or not is another matter. It is unlikely he will have told you, so if you know this, it will be from sombody else.**
24th April 3018
Account of the life of Felaion the Cowardly, formerly of Gondor, according to his most truthfull account to date.
In the waning years of the Third Age of Middle Earth a first, and only, child was born in Pelennor. Child of Curubor and Nimriel of Gondor, peasant farmers working a small acre of land deep inside the bread-basket of Gondor. Felaion they named him, son of the shores. He came into age as a worker, of the lower class, working hard with father, mother, cousin and farmhand alike to scrape a sustenance from the land. Even so, it was never a low life, indeed it was fulfilling, as hard work and a cheerful community of small farms had shaped it into a pleasant and simple life for him, and the rest of his family.
Life went on, much as it had done for a past age and Felaion became a young man. All, unfortunatly was not how it seemed, and war was ever growing on the horizon. The Shadow had already left Mirkwood, and taken up new refuge in it's old tower, now rebuilt in Lands to the East. War was coming, and the hammerstroke was rising to fall first and hardest onto the Kingdom of Gondor. Raids were becoming ever more frequent on her eastern and southern borders. Her armies were no more, and thus was the reason that Felaion and his aging father Curubor were drafted into the army, shortly after he came of age.
As the new conscripts marched in arms, but little training to join their comrades in defence of Gondor's borders, fear began to grip Felaions heart. Fear of battle, fear of pain, unending fear of death. It was thus, with the power of the Shadow already gripping the young man, that he was plunged into battle. Pain and Death. Burning and Screaming. Felaions fear took him, and he fled, dropping arms ran blindly towards the supply camps, his only primative reaction to fly from danger.
Curubor plunged into battle. It was not the first time, and although his sword was rusty, his arm had not forgot it's strength. Battle frove his age from him, he felt young and free again, as he pushed deeper into enemy lines. He turned, letting out a battle cry, and beckoning to his comrades to follow him. "To death and destruction, for glory and honour, for Gondor!" His eye caught sight of a fleeing youth, darting through the buildings of the farm where the battle was being fought. Weapons and armour he had cast aside, fleeing the battle in blinded fear. Age fell once again upon Curubor as he came to realise.
Felaion was running away.
Ducking below a tree's branches, and making a dash down the path, no longer encombered by weapon or armour, hands clamped tightly over his ears, but the screams of battle went on, inside his head. Past soldier and captain he fled, whom paid him little heed, he came out above a small rise in the path, outside the farmhouse itself, and was instantly confronted by a man wearing Gondorian armour.
"Felaion, Stop."
"Just get out of my way father!"
"I'm afraid I can't do that"
"Just, leave me alone!"
"Grow a backbone boy! You will not desert Gondor!"
"I don't care, she can burn!"
"Never! Ever! Say that to me again! You will fight today! Living or dying in glory and honour!"
It was then, Felaion attempted to push his father aside. A missed footing, and his father fell against the flagstones, his head cracking against the step of the farmhouse. Curubor quivered once, and lay still. It was unfortunate, that a soldier who knew them both by name saw this, and giving up a cry, headed quickly for them. Felaion had no time to stay, he simply ran, and cutting a warhorse loose from it's bindings nearby, fled, back across Pelennor and to the White City.
Five long years in the city, Living with nothing, on nothing. Scrounging, begging, stealing, swindling were his new practices, and he found he was a born adept at these skills. It kept him alive in the city, until the day he was caught stealing an apple from the market. Through poor luck, or fate it happened to be the soldier who saw his father's demise. Through him, charges were brought to bear; theft, dishonesty, burgerly, trespassing, conspiracy, desertion, murder and worse. Enough to have him hanged. Several times over. However, pity was shown to this broken man, exile was to be his punishment. Upon pain of death, should he return.
Cast from the city, he wandered the world, surviving off rocks and dirt. Stealing and begging when he could, a penniless existance. Uncared for, unloved, he finally found himself wandering into the small town of Archet. Here, he settled down, in the mud, near the Inn. A day passed, and the starving wreck had lost all hope of moving on, all desire to live. Until, as fate woould have it, a man approached his alley. A man of Gondor, who leaning against the wall had a quick puff on his pipe, and ignored the plea from the man for help. However, he revealed himself, Lathos, and tossed a silver coin to the ragged figure, slumped against the wall.
"Get up. Yes, you'll do"
"Do... wh-at...?"
"Don't argue, stand up, get moving"
"Wh-a..."
"Get yourself upstairs, quickly, the quartermaster will kit you out"
"Wh..."
"You've just been enlisted for the defence of Archet, now get moving!"
"I... Can't..."
"Look, let's put it this way, either you fight, and get a warm meal, and somwhere to stay for the night, or you stay here and starve. Got it?"
"Alright..."
And it was thus, that as Felaion raised his head, a flicker of hope was kindled inside him. He did not realise it at the time, but he would live on, for the time being...
I can note, that it was of no coincidence, that his first sight as a more hopeful man, in fear of the battle of Archet, still to come and every battle there after, was of the East.
Appearance of Felaion at the end of this tale
Felaion of Gondor is a bedraggled wreck of a man. His hair is tangled, and unwashed, his face muddy and his expression tired. His eyes are deep in their sockets, and bloodshot with Exhaustion.
His clothes are torn and ragged, cut, muddy and lifeless. All colour they once had was gone, although you'r sure they could have once been green.
He is thin, and boney, his arms thinned by starvation, and his stance is that of a man many times his age, and weary with hunger.