Post by Dolen on Feb 12, 2009 12:49:30 GMT -5
Alden was born to Alfgar, Son of Freothogar and Burchwen, daughter of Burhred on their horse ranch just outside the town of Snowbourn. He was second born of 6 children with one older brother, one younger brother and three sisters. His father's father had procured the land they lived on through dubious means and built the ranch with his two brothers. Alden was raised there as his father was, the majority of his life filled with a seemingly endless amount of physical toil. It seemed to him, growing up, that for every one job completed, two more needed doing. Thankfully he was gifted with his father's work ethic which would never allow for any sort of laziness.
Burchwen did what she could to ensure their children lived an easy life, preferring to do chores herself rather than place the load on her children. Instead, she struggled to get them involved with literature. They were given the choice of washing dishes in the evenings, or sitting in the den and reading. Finding books in the Mark was a difficult task and Alfgar hated the idea of losing yourself in some fool's scribbling, but for the love he held for his wife he paid whatever cost necessary to add another book to her library. As a result they had a fair amount of books, many more than most of their neighbors at a count of twenty. For all the contempt Alfgar may have held for the written word, the smiles on his children's faces as his wife read to them in the evenings warmed his heart.
Alden's father was an expert horseman as well as breeder and held great respect in the lands around the settlement of Snowbourn. He appreciated a simple life and prized competition, frequently winning tourneys in a wide range of disciplines related to horses, usually races. His contribution to life at home was a strong push for each of his children to be involved in competitive sport as well. Aldred, Alden's older brother, showed great promise as a rider and was extremely well suited to gentling horses. The family's first taste of tragedy came when Aldred had snuck out for a ride on his father's grey. The stallion, while extremely quick and well trained, was entirely unsuitable for a child. Before too long in the saddle the grey refused to leap a fallen tree, bucked the young rider from it's back and galloped across the property, trailing the boy by his foot, twisted in a stirrup. By the time they could catch the horse the ten year old was a bloodied, unnaturally twisted mass. He 'lived' for another two weeks in a deep sleep, drawing rasping breaths and never again opening his eyes.
After his older brother's death, the duties of the eldest child passed to Alden and his workload seemed to double. Although he was only eight at the time, he had to help with the heaviest labor and learn the way things were to be done around the ranch. He no longer had time for carefree games after his chores, instead accompanying his father on trips that seemed equally boring to the boy, though he would soon learn to love them. Hunting, bartering for stock, riding great distances to spend a day or two in the company of other horsemen - his days were filled with lessons of discipline and perseverance. Life went smoothly for the child for several years, his frustration with the labor gradually shifting to a calm acceptance, even a sense of pride.
The family went through more than it's share of hardships in the few years following. Alden's youngest sister Ymma contracted a horribly crippling disease at the age of five which tortured her for months until it proved too much to bear. Horses were frequently injured or born lame, feed and meat was becoming much more expensive, metals and woods for construction and farriery grew scarce. The ranch soon fell into disrepair and time passed without much change, leaving Alden in the role of parent to his siblings as his mother and father withdrew inward and tempers flared. His mother would bury herself in books whenever possible, even to the point of neglecting her family and household tasks. His father grew bitter and often failed to return home for family meals, opting to remain in the wild for days at a time.
By the age of seventeen Alden was fully able to handle to the affairs of the ranch himself, everything from arranging which horses were to be bred to the price they would pay for grain. The mundane tasks of ranch maintenance were a staple by then, but the stories and poems his mother had read to him still echoed in the back of his mind, particularly when he would reign in atop a hill with a view of the sprawling plains to the East, or the mountains to the South and West. He often wondered what it would be like to ride those trails and never look back, putting one foot in front of the other to who knows what end. Of course, those musings never took hold, for what else could anyone want besides a warm fire, their own ranch and a good stock?
At nineteen he received the first push that would urge him away from his family life. While out with riders from the nearby properties he ended up at the town of Snowbourn's tavern - at least what passed as a tavern. The place looked a good deal like his family's stables and smelled little better. It had one thing that his family's ranch did not - Eoeldreda. She was a gorgeous lass, several years his junior with a tide of wavy golden hair that broke over her narrow shoulders. The most crystalline blue eyes and a walk to catch any man's eye. She was born to a local brewer and was raised in town, so she knew it's ways well. She also knew men well too and after only a few weeks of frequenting the tavern, she had danced circles around Alden's simple heart and left him dazed and staring after her.
The following weeks of awkward flirting and failed displays of manhood did not discourage the boy, nor did the sight of the girl turning her back on him to warm another man's lap crush his spirit; it only made him long for that feeling for true. Only then had it occurred to him the happiness his parents share and all that they'd accomplished, and he wanted that for himself.
For the next two years he searched, riding farther out from his family's lands to attend rallies and tourneys in search of an ever more ethereal vision. Women there were, and plenty. Strong women for the most part, true to their heritage. Fine riders, elegant dancers and beauties that made his heart seem to forget it's task, but none that he knew would snare him for any significant amount of time.
While Alden was away at a race far in the Eastfold his father was gravely injured by an arrow fired by an unknown archer. He was able to keep his saddle and ride back to the ranch well enough to be tended and kept conscious, though no one could tell whether the wound would fester or not. Alden was not due to return home for several weeks and instead of waiting for what could be their fathers death, his eldest sister Aedwen rode out to find him and bring him news in order to hasten his return. He arrived home on schedule having never seen any trace of his sister. Luckily he was met by a worried family, though healthy. His father had recovered from the injury almost completely, or at least well enough to ride again and put strain on his muscles, though any physical activity or long day in the saddle would cause intense pain and would likely re-open the wound.
Alfgar shed any notion of caution when he learned that not only was his daughter not with the returning Alden, but that she had not made it to where he had been racing in the first place. He rode back out with his two remaining sons to search the trail she surely would have ridden. After several days of searching, the small party came across precisely the sight they feared to find. A small distance from the road to the south, barely concealed by some thin bushes was young Aedwen, hands and feet bound by coarse rope tight enough to break the skin. She was stripped of all clothing, her fair skin showing the marks of what was not a short ordeal, practically covered in open slashes and bruises. Her mouth was gagged by what appeared to be a torn scrap of cloth and her eyes were closed, dried tears making light trails down her otherwise dirty face. Her narrow throat was opened where she had been bled like livestock, her life blood staining the soil all around where she lay. Alden saw the sight at the same time as his brother and father and immediately felt a sinking feeling, as if something had torn his insides down through his body. The sight of such brutality and vileness inflicted upon the sister he'd grown with and played beside for nearly 18 years struck his mind blank. He was barely aware of his brother retching beside him, or his father rushing to the corpse - he simply stared in amazement for several moments before emptying his own stomach into the nearby soil.
The three gave Aedwen a funeral on the open plains, leaving a simple marker and a small token of themselves with the grave. Never a man to show weakness, Alfgar expressed his sorrow by giving the boys their first lesson in man-tracking. The trail of whomever it was that had done the terrible deed led North-West, toward Snowbourn down the rough trail that was the North-South road. After four days of travel, passing their ranch, they finally caught the group they'd determined to be the ones leaving the tracks. They had a horse drawn cart and appeared to be traders, four large men huddled around a campfire, making a good deal of noise as they enjoyed their meals.
Alfgar was calm and collected when he raised his bow, as he had always been when hunting wild game. "This is a man's justice," he said under his breath to his sons as he drew the fletching back to his cheek, "Steady boys. For your sister." He commanded his sons both to draw their own bows. Alden was terrified, but committed not to fail his father. The image of his murdered sister lingered in the back of his mind as he tried to steady himself. There was a moment of stillness after the arrow left his bow, following his father's. It was just like hunting beasts, as his father had explained, everything but the startled cry from each one of the men as the arrows split through their ribs. Two went down immediately from the first volley, only the young Alfred's arrow missing it's mark and taking a man in the stomach. Before Alden's trembling hands could nock another arrow his father had drawn and released two more shafts into the remaining men. The entire act felt cold to the boy; the executions, the looting of their wagon, searching the dead men, and the burning of the entire site afterwords. The three rode home in silence.
Life for the family was not quite the same after that. Tensions eased between the parents after their third child's death, evenings were spent together once again, his father rarely left for any great amount of time as he once had, and the entire property felt a bit less bright. A few months passed with Alden's dreams constantly reminding him of the horrors frozen in the back of his mind - the sight of his dead sister, the sound of his arrow digging into human flesh and bone, the look of surprise and fear frozen on the faces of the nameless merchants. Finally, unable to stand walking past his sister's old bed any longer, he gathered his belongings and left a note for his parents, indicating that he would be going South and did not intend to return.
Alden found Gondor to be much unlike the Westfold. As towns grew larger in size, the people grew more and more dishonest. He was cheated of his coin in more than one tavern before he learned not to take anyone's word for what it was. It was an odd experience at first, being so alienated in the midst of a way of life that he had never known. He eventually made his way to Minas Tirith, finding the great city to be exactly what he'd expected from the tales he'd heard of it. The people were less civil, but better than the sort he'd met on the main roads coming in. He took up the only real work that he was suited for to pay for bread and drink, mostly manual labor, helping with some homesteads near to the city. The work was heavy and the people were difficult, but he quickly grew to like it. Everyone was different here, and if one person vexed you or you'd crossed another you never had to see them again and probably wouldn't, much unlike the small community he'd grown up in.
After a year of making only a few acquaintances and wandering from inn to inn, settling in no particular place, he learned of a horse race being held in a town near the gates of Minas Tirith and to the south. He hadn't raced since he left Rohan and he missed it dearly. The horse he'd brought south with him was his very own race horse, bred for speed. Ædelfæd was an elegant mare with long legs and a massive stride who'd won many races for him so far already, he was confident in his skills and his mount against the other novice city folk and their ill looking horses.
The race was packed compared to Alden's recollection of what a race should be, the events drawing a much larger crowd here where they did not happen almost daily. It also occurred to him that living in the shadow of great evil must take it's toll on the spirits of these people. The black mountains were a terrible sight to have looming on the horizon, and in his time living in these lands he'd never quite conquered the uneasiness he'd felt whenever looking to the East. The horses did not mind, however; his or his competitions. He got a brief look at the other horses when riding to his place on the track, the competition would be closer than he originally thought.
The race started as he had expected, Ædelfæd taking a position in the middle of the field of fifteen. The familiar rush was welcome to the young man, the feeling of booting a trained horse straight into a full gallop, the wind in his hair, the pounding of frantic hooves on packed soil. He could not help but smile as he hunched down low on the mare's back, keeping her at a quick but conservative pace. By the time they were half way through the final stretch of the track it was just him and one other riding a sleek black, the rest were at least four lengths back. Even with every bit of speed he could muster, it was not enough - it had been too long since her last race. Alden and his mount finished half a pace behind the rider on his black.
The loss was not bitter in the least, in fact Alden was glad to meet someone that could pose some challenge in these lands. The other rider's name was Ferodor and he was actually a soldier in Gondor's army, on leave from his duties in the city of Osgiliath. The two became fast friends, each sharing their knowledge of horses and the lands. Ferodor's younger sister also provided the lonesome Rohirrim an additional source of motivation to visit. The Gondoran soldier was eventually called back to the front before long and without much thought, Alden accompanied him.
Given his experience with horses and skill at stalking prey, Alden was given the position of a scout for his friend's unit, often sent to keep watch ahead of the troop or to its flanks. He often saw the rangers of Ithilien, or rather was allowed to see them, but he was never extended an invitation to join their ranks, nor did he seek one. He saw enough action as it was as an advanced scout. His service extended seven years with varying and increasing levels of danger until finally scraping a bit too close to a gruesome death for his liking. He stated his desire to leave to the captain of his company and was denied. Pressing his arguments only earned him a harsh penance and an assignment in a much more dangerous region to the south. Alden accepted the duty and left that very night, abandoning his post. He was not aware of it, but leaving his watch that night allowed a group of orcs to pass into the camp unnoticed. They fell upon Alden's previous unit with all of the benefits of surprise on their side. The battle was brutal and short, the group of orcs was only large enough to probe the camp's defenses, but the toll of human lives was many times greater than it would have been with warning.
Following the outrageous failure, blame was placed entirely on the missing watchman and when he could not be found for questioning, a small unit of soldiers was sent to find where he might have gone. One returned with a broken shoulder and leg to inform his captain that the man they sought had indeed been found and was intentionally fleeing. Not only did he resist the command to return, he had killed the two other soldiers with him and nearly him as well. A warrant was placed on the young man's head, offering a sizable bounty for him, dead or alive. Given that skirmishes with orcs were growing more intense and regular, few really noticed the crime or the bounty, more concerned with their own battles. Of course, the idea of turning your back on your fellow soldiers and going so far as to murder them was unthinkable in these times with the growing darkness in the East, so the story did get around.
The years of combat, hardly dealing with anyone but soldiers and bloodthirsty orcs had hardened Alden, but the knowledge of his crimes and regret for killing two people he had once called friends planted a seed of self-loathing inside the now grown man. He struggled with his identity as he travelled North away from his sins and away from the growing shadow. There was a nagging guilt burning in his gut, a sort of instinctual reaction that there was something left untended - a campfire unwatched, a knife unsharpened, an unstrung bow. Several times on the trip North he turned back to stare at the bridges he'd burned, every time turning back North with that many more insults hurled at himself.
There were many nights he tried to open his veins and pay for his crimes, but he never had the strength to make the cuts deep enough. He spiraled downward, hating himself, then hating himself for hating himself. The self-loathing turned into outward contempt and mistrust for those he met on the trail, treating travelers with open hostility and suspicion. The more he fought and stole on the way North the less regard he had for himself, and thus the less regard he had for all others. If he was lost enough to murder a friend, what was a coin purse or a meal from some nameless traveller?
Shortly after forcing himself on a lass he'd found working a field alone, he met an individual who would turn his life back towards an honest path. A wandering elf joined him at his campfire one evening, entirely unannounced and seeming unconcerned with the glaring woodsman. Alden lashed out at the elf and was swiftly disarmed and roughly sat down. The strange elf did not seem concerned or even offended, instead he simply broke into song, forming amusing rhymes about the foolishness of man and playing mocking tunes on his lute. The scene was so ridiculous that Alden could not help but grin - the nonchalant elf continuing his performance, circling the camp fire in dance and song. It had been long since Alden had had anyone to speak with, long since he had allowed himself to laugh. He did not give the elf his true name when asked, intending to keep that a secret, so he was given a mockery of a name in elvish that he did not understand, and that his elvish friend did not explain for many weeks. It always began with "Dolen" and always ended in a different phrase in elvish, that was all he could reason out. The surnames, his friend later explained, all resembled some sort of slight at the man - 'tiny bow', 'ratty pants', and so on, while the former title referred to how the elf found him, crouched far off the trail hoping to keep himself hidden from what the world would see.
They moved North together, sharing tales of their lives and slowly earning each other's respect. The presence and influence of the elf was a guiding factor, and probably a saving grace, for the bitter man. The friendship did not make him friendly by any means, but he now could refrain from robbing or assaulting travelers just for the sake of doing so. His friend came and went, and finally went once and for all when Alden settled in the woods around the city of Bree. Presently he lingers in the region, keeping an eye out for his friend should he ever appear again, though he does not hold out hope and is entirely content with his life as is.
Burchwen did what she could to ensure their children lived an easy life, preferring to do chores herself rather than place the load on her children. Instead, she struggled to get them involved with literature. They were given the choice of washing dishes in the evenings, or sitting in the den and reading. Finding books in the Mark was a difficult task and Alfgar hated the idea of losing yourself in some fool's scribbling, but for the love he held for his wife he paid whatever cost necessary to add another book to her library. As a result they had a fair amount of books, many more than most of their neighbors at a count of twenty. For all the contempt Alfgar may have held for the written word, the smiles on his children's faces as his wife read to them in the evenings warmed his heart.
Alden's father was an expert horseman as well as breeder and held great respect in the lands around the settlement of Snowbourn. He appreciated a simple life and prized competition, frequently winning tourneys in a wide range of disciplines related to horses, usually races. His contribution to life at home was a strong push for each of his children to be involved in competitive sport as well. Aldred, Alden's older brother, showed great promise as a rider and was extremely well suited to gentling horses. The family's first taste of tragedy came when Aldred had snuck out for a ride on his father's grey. The stallion, while extremely quick and well trained, was entirely unsuitable for a child. Before too long in the saddle the grey refused to leap a fallen tree, bucked the young rider from it's back and galloped across the property, trailing the boy by his foot, twisted in a stirrup. By the time they could catch the horse the ten year old was a bloodied, unnaturally twisted mass. He 'lived' for another two weeks in a deep sleep, drawing rasping breaths and never again opening his eyes.
After his older brother's death, the duties of the eldest child passed to Alden and his workload seemed to double. Although he was only eight at the time, he had to help with the heaviest labor and learn the way things were to be done around the ranch. He no longer had time for carefree games after his chores, instead accompanying his father on trips that seemed equally boring to the boy, though he would soon learn to love them. Hunting, bartering for stock, riding great distances to spend a day or two in the company of other horsemen - his days were filled with lessons of discipline and perseverance. Life went smoothly for the child for several years, his frustration with the labor gradually shifting to a calm acceptance, even a sense of pride.
The family went through more than it's share of hardships in the few years following. Alden's youngest sister Ymma contracted a horribly crippling disease at the age of five which tortured her for months until it proved too much to bear. Horses were frequently injured or born lame, feed and meat was becoming much more expensive, metals and woods for construction and farriery grew scarce. The ranch soon fell into disrepair and time passed without much change, leaving Alden in the role of parent to his siblings as his mother and father withdrew inward and tempers flared. His mother would bury herself in books whenever possible, even to the point of neglecting her family and household tasks. His father grew bitter and often failed to return home for family meals, opting to remain in the wild for days at a time.
By the age of seventeen Alden was fully able to handle to the affairs of the ranch himself, everything from arranging which horses were to be bred to the price they would pay for grain. The mundane tasks of ranch maintenance were a staple by then, but the stories and poems his mother had read to him still echoed in the back of his mind, particularly when he would reign in atop a hill with a view of the sprawling plains to the East, or the mountains to the South and West. He often wondered what it would be like to ride those trails and never look back, putting one foot in front of the other to who knows what end. Of course, those musings never took hold, for what else could anyone want besides a warm fire, their own ranch and a good stock?
At nineteen he received the first push that would urge him away from his family life. While out with riders from the nearby properties he ended up at the town of Snowbourn's tavern - at least what passed as a tavern. The place looked a good deal like his family's stables and smelled little better. It had one thing that his family's ranch did not - Eoeldreda. She was a gorgeous lass, several years his junior with a tide of wavy golden hair that broke over her narrow shoulders. The most crystalline blue eyes and a walk to catch any man's eye. She was born to a local brewer and was raised in town, so she knew it's ways well. She also knew men well too and after only a few weeks of frequenting the tavern, she had danced circles around Alden's simple heart and left him dazed and staring after her.
The following weeks of awkward flirting and failed displays of manhood did not discourage the boy, nor did the sight of the girl turning her back on him to warm another man's lap crush his spirit; it only made him long for that feeling for true. Only then had it occurred to him the happiness his parents share and all that they'd accomplished, and he wanted that for himself.
For the next two years he searched, riding farther out from his family's lands to attend rallies and tourneys in search of an ever more ethereal vision. Women there were, and plenty. Strong women for the most part, true to their heritage. Fine riders, elegant dancers and beauties that made his heart seem to forget it's task, but none that he knew would snare him for any significant amount of time.
While Alden was away at a race far in the Eastfold his father was gravely injured by an arrow fired by an unknown archer. He was able to keep his saddle and ride back to the ranch well enough to be tended and kept conscious, though no one could tell whether the wound would fester or not. Alden was not due to return home for several weeks and instead of waiting for what could be their fathers death, his eldest sister Aedwen rode out to find him and bring him news in order to hasten his return. He arrived home on schedule having never seen any trace of his sister. Luckily he was met by a worried family, though healthy. His father had recovered from the injury almost completely, or at least well enough to ride again and put strain on his muscles, though any physical activity or long day in the saddle would cause intense pain and would likely re-open the wound.
Alfgar shed any notion of caution when he learned that not only was his daughter not with the returning Alden, but that she had not made it to where he had been racing in the first place. He rode back out with his two remaining sons to search the trail she surely would have ridden. After several days of searching, the small party came across precisely the sight they feared to find. A small distance from the road to the south, barely concealed by some thin bushes was young Aedwen, hands and feet bound by coarse rope tight enough to break the skin. She was stripped of all clothing, her fair skin showing the marks of what was not a short ordeal, practically covered in open slashes and bruises. Her mouth was gagged by what appeared to be a torn scrap of cloth and her eyes were closed, dried tears making light trails down her otherwise dirty face. Her narrow throat was opened where she had been bled like livestock, her life blood staining the soil all around where she lay. Alden saw the sight at the same time as his brother and father and immediately felt a sinking feeling, as if something had torn his insides down through his body. The sight of such brutality and vileness inflicted upon the sister he'd grown with and played beside for nearly 18 years struck his mind blank. He was barely aware of his brother retching beside him, or his father rushing to the corpse - he simply stared in amazement for several moments before emptying his own stomach into the nearby soil.
The three gave Aedwen a funeral on the open plains, leaving a simple marker and a small token of themselves with the grave. Never a man to show weakness, Alfgar expressed his sorrow by giving the boys their first lesson in man-tracking. The trail of whomever it was that had done the terrible deed led North-West, toward Snowbourn down the rough trail that was the North-South road. After four days of travel, passing their ranch, they finally caught the group they'd determined to be the ones leaving the tracks. They had a horse drawn cart and appeared to be traders, four large men huddled around a campfire, making a good deal of noise as they enjoyed their meals.
Alfgar was calm and collected when he raised his bow, as he had always been when hunting wild game. "This is a man's justice," he said under his breath to his sons as he drew the fletching back to his cheek, "Steady boys. For your sister." He commanded his sons both to draw their own bows. Alden was terrified, but committed not to fail his father. The image of his murdered sister lingered in the back of his mind as he tried to steady himself. There was a moment of stillness after the arrow left his bow, following his father's. It was just like hunting beasts, as his father had explained, everything but the startled cry from each one of the men as the arrows split through their ribs. Two went down immediately from the first volley, only the young Alfred's arrow missing it's mark and taking a man in the stomach. Before Alden's trembling hands could nock another arrow his father had drawn and released two more shafts into the remaining men. The entire act felt cold to the boy; the executions, the looting of their wagon, searching the dead men, and the burning of the entire site afterwords. The three rode home in silence.
Life for the family was not quite the same after that. Tensions eased between the parents after their third child's death, evenings were spent together once again, his father rarely left for any great amount of time as he once had, and the entire property felt a bit less bright. A few months passed with Alden's dreams constantly reminding him of the horrors frozen in the back of his mind - the sight of his dead sister, the sound of his arrow digging into human flesh and bone, the look of surprise and fear frozen on the faces of the nameless merchants. Finally, unable to stand walking past his sister's old bed any longer, he gathered his belongings and left a note for his parents, indicating that he would be going South and did not intend to return.
Alden found Gondor to be much unlike the Westfold. As towns grew larger in size, the people grew more and more dishonest. He was cheated of his coin in more than one tavern before he learned not to take anyone's word for what it was. It was an odd experience at first, being so alienated in the midst of a way of life that he had never known. He eventually made his way to Minas Tirith, finding the great city to be exactly what he'd expected from the tales he'd heard of it. The people were less civil, but better than the sort he'd met on the main roads coming in. He took up the only real work that he was suited for to pay for bread and drink, mostly manual labor, helping with some homesteads near to the city. The work was heavy and the people were difficult, but he quickly grew to like it. Everyone was different here, and if one person vexed you or you'd crossed another you never had to see them again and probably wouldn't, much unlike the small community he'd grown up in.
After a year of making only a few acquaintances and wandering from inn to inn, settling in no particular place, he learned of a horse race being held in a town near the gates of Minas Tirith and to the south. He hadn't raced since he left Rohan and he missed it dearly. The horse he'd brought south with him was his very own race horse, bred for speed. Ædelfæd was an elegant mare with long legs and a massive stride who'd won many races for him so far already, he was confident in his skills and his mount against the other novice city folk and their ill looking horses.
The race was packed compared to Alden's recollection of what a race should be, the events drawing a much larger crowd here where they did not happen almost daily. It also occurred to him that living in the shadow of great evil must take it's toll on the spirits of these people. The black mountains were a terrible sight to have looming on the horizon, and in his time living in these lands he'd never quite conquered the uneasiness he'd felt whenever looking to the East. The horses did not mind, however; his or his competitions. He got a brief look at the other horses when riding to his place on the track, the competition would be closer than he originally thought.
The race started as he had expected, Ædelfæd taking a position in the middle of the field of fifteen. The familiar rush was welcome to the young man, the feeling of booting a trained horse straight into a full gallop, the wind in his hair, the pounding of frantic hooves on packed soil. He could not help but smile as he hunched down low on the mare's back, keeping her at a quick but conservative pace. By the time they were half way through the final stretch of the track it was just him and one other riding a sleek black, the rest were at least four lengths back. Even with every bit of speed he could muster, it was not enough - it had been too long since her last race. Alden and his mount finished half a pace behind the rider on his black.
The loss was not bitter in the least, in fact Alden was glad to meet someone that could pose some challenge in these lands. The other rider's name was Ferodor and he was actually a soldier in Gondor's army, on leave from his duties in the city of Osgiliath. The two became fast friends, each sharing their knowledge of horses and the lands. Ferodor's younger sister also provided the lonesome Rohirrim an additional source of motivation to visit. The Gondoran soldier was eventually called back to the front before long and without much thought, Alden accompanied him.
Given his experience with horses and skill at stalking prey, Alden was given the position of a scout for his friend's unit, often sent to keep watch ahead of the troop or to its flanks. He often saw the rangers of Ithilien, or rather was allowed to see them, but he was never extended an invitation to join their ranks, nor did he seek one. He saw enough action as it was as an advanced scout. His service extended seven years with varying and increasing levels of danger until finally scraping a bit too close to a gruesome death for his liking. He stated his desire to leave to the captain of his company and was denied. Pressing his arguments only earned him a harsh penance and an assignment in a much more dangerous region to the south. Alden accepted the duty and left that very night, abandoning his post. He was not aware of it, but leaving his watch that night allowed a group of orcs to pass into the camp unnoticed. They fell upon Alden's previous unit with all of the benefits of surprise on their side. The battle was brutal and short, the group of orcs was only large enough to probe the camp's defenses, but the toll of human lives was many times greater than it would have been with warning.
Following the outrageous failure, blame was placed entirely on the missing watchman and when he could not be found for questioning, a small unit of soldiers was sent to find where he might have gone. One returned with a broken shoulder and leg to inform his captain that the man they sought had indeed been found and was intentionally fleeing. Not only did he resist the command to return, he had killed the two other soldiers with him and nearly him as well. A warrant was placed on the young man's head, offering a sizable bounty for him, dead or alive. Given that skirmishes with orcs were growing more intense and regular, few really noticed the crime or the bounty, more concerned with their own battles. Of course, the idea of turning your back on your fellow soldiers and going so far as to murder them was unthinkable in these times with the growing darkness in the East, so the story did get around.
The years of combat, hardly dealing with anyone but soldiers and bloodthirsty orcs had hardened Alden, but the knowledge of his crimes and regret for killing two people he had once called friends planted a seed of self-loathing inside the now grown man. He struggled with his identity as he travelled North away from his sins and away from the growing shadow. There was a nagging guilt burning in his gut, a sort of instinctual reaction that there was something left untended - a campfire unwatched, a knife unsharpened, an unstrung bow. Several times on the trip North he turned back to stare at the bridges he'd burned, every time turning back North with that many more insults hurled at himself.
There were many nights he tried to open his veins and pay for his crimes, but he never had the strength to make the cuts deep enough. He spiraled downward, hating himself, then hating himself for hating himself. The self-loathing turned into outward contempt and mistrust for those he met on the trail, treating travelers with open hostility and suspicion. The more he fought and stole on the way North the less regard he had for himself, and thus the less regard he had for all others. If he was lost enough to murder a friend, what was a coin purse or a meal from some nameless traveller?
Shortly after forcing himself on a lass he'd found working a field alone, he met an individual who would turn his life back towards an honest path. A wandering elf joined him at his campfire one evening, entirely unannounced and seeming unconcerned with the glaring woodsman. Alden lashed out at the elf and was swiftly disarmed and roughly sat down. The strange elf did not seem concerned or even offended, instead he simply broke into song, forming amusing rhymes about the foolishness of man and playing mocking tunes on his lute. The scene was so ridiculous that Alden could not help but grin - the nonchalant elf continuing his performance, circling the camp fire in dance and song. It had been long since Alden had had anyone to speak with, long since he had allowed himself to laugh. He did not give the elf his true name when asked, intending to keep that a secret, so he was given a mockery of a name in elvish that he did not understand, and that his elvish friend did not explain for many weeks. It always began with "Dolen" and always ended in a different phrase in elvish, that was all he could reason out. The surnames, his friend later explained, all resembled some sort of slight at the man - 'tiny bow', 'ratty pants', and so on, while the former title referred to how the elf found him, crouched far off the trail hoping to keep himself hidden from what the world would see.
They moved North together, sharing tales of their lives and slowly earning each other's respect. The presence and influence of the elf was a guiding factor, and probably a saving grace, for the bitter man. The friendship did not make him friendly by any means, but he now could refrain from robbing or assaulting travelers just for the sake of doing so. His friend came and went, and finally went once and for all when Alden settled in the woods around the city of Bree. Presently he lingers in the region, keeping an eye out for his friend should he ever appear again, though he does not hold out hope and is entirely content with his life as is.