THUGO

 THUGO MONARU

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(Something I wrote.)

The Easterlings had long ago left the rugged lands of Harad and sued for peace to enter into the west. The Blacksmith, Thugo took his myriad of followers cautiously into the Freedlands. All of them pridefully hailed their awarded pardons, symbolized as tokened necklaces, for the winged crowned king of the White City had promised his leave and their new beginning without molestation. On the ending heels of the Great War, they sought brighter days and new opportunities; yet hard-won would any real welcome come to them as strangers in a stranger land. Many of the United Realm’s people still perceived them as thralls of the old Enemy.

Thugo’s people had endured the choking air passing through the Black Ashlands, the scorching heat across unforgiving deserts, and fought brutal beasts through the thick jungles, all in their efforts of escaping thralldom. None yielded to the Enemy’s call for warriors. So, in the West, they could endure the glaring stares and bitter words from the war-torn people they encountered as well.

They followed the Blacksmith for they knew him as one true to his word. But there were few of Thugo’s kinsmen who questioned his ill mind or wondered outright if he had gone mad when he claimed to have heard the voice of Mahsaru, The One and Always. For hearing the voice of God made mortal Men uncomfortable. The unknown was seldom a welcomed thing, especially when it challenged one to change. Thugo had nightmarish dreams and even day visions of horrific things, for the war exacted its toll on the living. The slain heroes or innocent bystanders paid their price, Thugo did not question this but when the voice called to him, he wondered if madness had come. The voice came by way of a desert horned lizard, a woodland cicada, and an ocean-side octopus that had washed ashore; all spoke to Thugo and claimed to be Mahsaru! The voice said, “Follow me to the First Children, and your own seed shall be multiplied. Defy me and all flesh shall fail. Do this and even you shall see.”

See what -- they often questioned him, but every path that Thugo took yielded goodness on his behalf to his people. A well where none thought water was possible, a game when even mighty hunters failed, and honors from a Western King when all others were turned away or slain. Still, the Nasilian people pushed ahead following the Blacksmith prophet, a title he himself disowned.

They headed to the far reaches of the Blue Mountains in the west, on foot, horse-drawn house wagons and tents they trekked. One morning as the people approached the forest of Norwood, with the great peaks in the distance, the Shadol came to the Blacksmith’s working tent, “As Judge of the people I should be jealous of you for gaining such favor with the people, but in truth Thugo I am envious. God has never spoken to me.”

“Marithan, my Shadol – I never --.”

“Be at ease my friend, your words are not needed,” Merithan’s honesty showed in his face, “Yet, I must ask --.”

“I do not know, Shadol. If I did, my dearest of old friends you would be my first confidant. Why we are to go to the Firstborn is beyond my knowing,” now was Thugo’s turn to share his questioning look.

“Do the Elves even remain in the world, or at least at their ancient harbor?”

Thugo smiled broadly, “Of that, I am sure. A man of Gondor shared that they do,” he added, “A shoed horse gained payment in the way of news, my Shadol.”

The tribal leader beamed hopefully, “It is a bright glimmer to know one day that we shall be accepted by these strangers.”