[I figure Dale is as good of a time as any for Mathdor to be getting hints about his connection to the Wayfarers, so consider this my bit about his ancestor.]
Mathdor had forgotten how small the farmstead was. The house was little more than a cottage, a scattering of other buildings, and a few fields—and yet, everything was kept meticulously well, even though Dale weather was notoriously unpredictable. It was all frozen now, of course, and covered in a thin layer of snow, but even despite that Mathdor could see that the stone walls were straight and uncrumbling.
There was no gate, only a gap between the walls. He slid from the back of his horse as soon as they had crossed in and led the mount over to shelter by the side of the house. He had just dropped the reigns from his hand when a voice hailed him from the door.
“So you’re back.”
Mathdor raised his eyes reluctantly. “I couldn’t stay away forever, Da.”
His father made a soft, sceptical sort of humming noise under his breath as their eyes met. He looked nearly the same as he had the last time Mathdor had seen him—sturdy, straight-backed, his rough and greying hair tied back out of his face. The lines around his eyes and mouth were as tight as ever.
“Hm,” he said quietly, “aye, perhaps not, but you were having a damn good try, weren’t you?” When Mathdor didn’t answer right away, he rolled his shoulders and beckoned with one calloused hand. “You’d best come in.”
Inside was warm, dry, and impossibly familiar. Mathdor settled slowly in one of the chairs by the table, resting his elbows on the surface and leaning forward in the manner of an almost-forgotten habit. As his listened to the gentle sounds of his father making tea behind him, he let his gaze roam around the room, taking in the rug and the crackling fireplace and the old hunting bow still hanging in its shadowy corner.
A large, steaming mug was set before him a minute later; Mathdor took it gratefully between both hands, letting the warmth seep into his fingers, and watched in silence as his father sat down, too. There was a very pregnant pause.
“Three years, Mathdor,” the other man remarked calmly, watching him over the top of his own mug, “and don’t think I haven’t been counting.”
Mathdor raised an eyebrow slightly. “Have you?”
His father stretched out his legs, nodding. “Aye, but I know you. I knew you’d turn up again.”
“I’m not convinced that’s reassuring,” Mathdor said drily.
“Wasn’t meant to be,” his father replied easily. He set his mug back down and leaned forward over the table, grey eyes looking straight into Mathdor’s. “Now,” he said seriously, “I want explanations.”
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They talked for hours. Mathdor hardly noticed the time passing, because for a normally reticent man, he suddenly found himself willing, even eager, to detail most—if not all—of what had happened to him since he’d left three years ago. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken this much—certainly not to Gwen who, while still the most important person in his life, had the same streak of scepticism running through her that Mathdor did.
But Brannor Ward was different. There were few things that surprised him anymore, despite his impression of earthy, root-deep practicality, and he could listen, without comment and without judgment.
And so Mathdor told him: first about Hreidar’s band, of their thefts and whispers and interceptions; of the man from the South, with his honeyed words and his steadfast promises, and his handful of Dwarven-gold; of the plot gone wrong, and Brand, of the two days behind bars, and of the bargain Mathdor was given little choice but to agree to.
After that, he detailed his travels—the pursuit of a cold trail from Esgaroth to Mirkwood, and how he’d given up at the end; he talked about his time in Rohan, the first place he might have called home since Dale if things had gone right; and then his journey north again, until he was so unexpectedly stopped in his tracks in Bree-town.
Explaining about the Wayfarers took longer, but Mathdor went on, and he thought he saw a glimmer of approval, even admiration, in his father’s eyes as the other man brought him a second mug of tea to stop the words becoming hoarse.
Brannor interspersed the narrative with only occasional comments or questions, and by the time Mathdor was done, he had a very thoughtful expression on his face. In the silence that followed, he leaned back again and stared across, tapping the fingers of one hand on the tabletop. Mathdor looked back, suddenly apprehensive.
“There’s a story,” said his father slowly, “that I never told you. Mostly because I never thought you’d be interested,” he added with slight roll of his eyes. “Family history always did put you to sleep.”
Mathdor grinned a little. “One of my many failings.”
“Not as many as you think,” Brannor said, cutting him off with a pointed look. “But after hearing all that… aye, you might just be interested now.”
“Oh?” Mathdor was frowning now, wondering what these cryptic hints count possibly entail. Alright now, Da, what are you so pleased about that you know that I don’t know? “Go on, then.”
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“They say there was a man in our line, centuries back—an odd man. No one knows where he came from, but everyone knew he was running when he came to the shores of the Lake. From enemies, family, plague, war—that was the mystery of it. He was alone when he came, and never spoke about what he’d left behind.
“His name was Vidarr, and it wasn’t long before rumours started to spread about where he’d come from, and why. Most often, it’s said he was cursed, because at one time he’d refused to give up his sister to be the wife of an Easterling prince. They took his sister anyway, and the prince put a curse on him, so that he’d be running for the rest of his life, and always looking back over his shoulder.
“But for whatever reason, he stayed by the Lake. There was a village there, where he stopped, and he lived on the outskirts for weeks, then months, until it was like he’d always been there. But still he never talked about anything that had happened to him before.
“Maybe the curse caught up to him; maybe the prince who put it on him got tired of it; but whatever the reason, things started happening again one day. He came home to find the village burned and its people along with it. His own house was the same, except that he found a man inside—one of the Easterlings who’d stayed for a bit of plunder, maybe hoping there was something he’d missed.
“The Easterling was hardly more than a boy, but he didn’t hesitate about going for his knife. The tale says that Vidarr did the same, and disarmed him within a few seconds, but when the time came, he didn’t kill him. He apologised, lowered his blade, and turned away.
“It was then that the boy, thinking he had a chance now, reached for his knife and went after him again, but Vidarr threw up his arm in time, and ran. But he carried a scar for the rest of his life on that arm, because even mercy has a price.”
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Mathdor was very quiet as his father finished speaking. “And what happened to him, this Vidarr fellow?” he asked slowly.
“Who knows? Family history says he came back to Dale at one point, fathered a number of children—some say four, some say just one—but no one really knows what he got up to in the years in between.”
“Why are you telling me this now?”
Brannor looked at him steadily for a long moment. “Because some things should be remembered,” he said quietly, “even if it’s nothing more than a choice.”