#fengel had a pretty good son for being a total tool himself

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Tolkien Family Week, Day 6: Ancestors (aka Théoden’s father returns from exile)

Day 6 of @tolkienfamilyweek and we’re back to Rohan again! The inspiration for my ancestors post is from the Appendix A description of the kings of the Mark, where we get a few short sentences about how Fengel (Théoden’s grandfather) was a jerk who was always beefing with both his marshals and his own family, and Thengel (Théoden’s dad) moved to Gondor to serve their steward as soon as he became an adult. When Fengel died, Thengel returned to Rohan “unwillingly” but eventually became a good king. That’s basically all it says. So I spent a little time thinking about Thengel and how that might have all gone down.

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Thengel wasn’t sure exactly when he had stopped thinking of himself as a Rohirrim. He couldn’t trace it to a single, specific event. Not when he had fled from the rule of his feckless, greedy father. Not when he had caught his first awed glimpse of the majesty of Minas Tirith. Not when he established himself as a capable soldier, or when his years in Gondor had begun to outnumber those in Rohan. Instead, it happened gradually and almost beneath his notice. Somehow without realizing it, he simply became a Gondorian, speaking their language, married to one of their women, and in service to their steward.

In truth, he was happy to put Rohan behind him. With the distance of time, the land of his birth had faded in his mind to a bunch of bleak plains and harsh mountains populated by rustic herdsmen and farmers. There was nothing in Rohan that could compare to the marble and stone wonders of the White City, to Gondor’s vast libraries and lore halls, or to the sophisticated influence of the prosperous tradesmen, artisans and travelers who streamed in and out of Minas Tirith. And above all, Gondor was not tainted for Thengel by fear and painful memories. It offered him an opportunity to live freely, out from under Fengel’s pernicious thumb. 

But Thengel could never truly escape his father, and Fengel now once again threatened to upend his hard won happiness. Many years and many miles had insulated him from his father’s ridicule, his contempt, and his vicious temper, but they couldn’t insulate him from Fengel’s death. And so Thengel, heir in exile, found himself one day expected to give up his good life in Minas Tirith to return to Edoras and rule a land that no longer had any claim on his heart. 

He had already twice refused the summons, determined to stay in Minas Tirith and continue on the path he had laid for himself. But the third summons was delivered not to him, but to Turgon, steward of Gondor. His refusal was no longer a private matter, and Turgon promptly summoned Thengel to appear before him. 

They met in the great hall, with Turgon seated in the black stone chair of the stewards. Thengel had taken counsel with Turgon many times before, almost always in the comfort of a small office or at a table with food and drink. He did not doubt that this choice of location, with the empty throne of Gondor just over Turgon’s right shoulder, was meant to convey Turgon’s feelings just as clearly as his words. To break a line of kings was a matter of the utmost seriousness.

They debated for nearly an hour, but Thengel knew early that he had lost the argument. Duty, honor and self-sacrifice were sacred to Turgon, and he would never agree that those obligations should be yielded simply for personal contentment. He was firm, though not unkind, in his insistence that Thengel return to Rohan, however unwillingly, and fulfill his commitment to his people, who had already suffered so much at Fengel’s hands. 

When they parted at last, Thengel bowed deeply before the steward. “It will always be painful to me that I could not stay here to help you face the evil that has now declared itself openly in Mordor again. You are beset on all sides by dangers. Ithilien will soon be lost. To leave now feels like abandoning you at your time of greatest need.”

Turgon raised Thengel back up and put a strong hand on his shoulder. “If I am beset on all sides, then let there be at least one direction in which I can look and find a friend. If you cannot recover your love of Rohan, at least restore the dignity and pride of its people. It does not help Gondor for its closest ally to be weakened and diminished. Renew its strength, and teach Théoden how to maintain it so that your efforts will outlive you. The time will come when we will need each other again, and a Rohan that is alive in its glory will be to the benefit of all of Middle Earth.”

Thengel sent word of his acceptance to Edoras and began his preparations to leave Minas Tirith, perhaps never to return. He decided to ride out in a small company, leaving Morwen and the children to follow only after he could assess the conditions at Meduseld. The departure was bitter for him, and as he made his way along the Great West Road, with Minas Tirith growing ever smaller in the distance, he wept more than a few wretched tears.

The long road ran steadily through the open farmlands of Anórien and eventually led into the Firien Wood, where it narrowed as it snaked through ancient trees and thick undergrowth. The company spread out into single file, and Thengel rode at the front of the line, putting some distance between himself and the casual chatter of his companions so that he could be on his own with his dark thoughts.

At last, he crested the small rise by which the road crossed the Mering Stream, and he emerged alone from the wood into the Eastfold for the first time in many years.  Endless grasslands stretched out before him, shifting from green to gold and back again as the wind rippled through the fields. In the distance, the Entwash flowed on its way to meet the Anduin, glittering in the sun like a curving line of liquid flame. And above everything were boundless blue skies, wider and clearer than any he remembered. Something stirred in his blood, as undeniable as it was unexpected. A feeling long suppressed, gone dormant from disuse, but now awakened again by the mere sight of this land.

He leaned forward in the saddle, shortened his reins and nudged his heels into Lightfoot’s sides. Together they galloped out into the plains, the cold wind in their faces and the soft grass rolling by smoothly under their feet, and he felt a surprising calmness overtake him. Each stride brought him closer to Edoras and to Meduseld, to the destiny that he had long sought to avoid. But it also brought him a feeling of familiarity. Of comfort. Of understanding. For the first time since he heard of Fengel’s death, Thengel allowed himself now a small hope. Hope that he was doing the right thing, for himself and for his children. Hope that he could find contentment for himself again. Hope that he was home once more.