Edit: 4 September 09, This is actually pretty outdated now. I've revised it quite a bit, for those of you who scroll down this far.
Once there were two brothers. Ingold and Ingram the sons of Ingame were their names, and they where proud to be called by them.
Together they lived a great many ages ago on their father’s farm, helping him with the plowing and the sowing and with the reaping at harvest time. Ingram loved this work.
He loved to see the empty fields slowly fill with shoots of green and ripen into golden heads of wheat. He loved to be in his village with its rambling gardens spilling out onto the dusty roads and to hear the chat of his neighbours gossiping about the swallows and where they where nesting or how Windlaf’s new bed of potatoes had been hit with grubs last night. And they always had a good word to say for his father’s crops, being widely pronounced to be the best in the village, if not in Kingsland.
Sometimes, as they gathered round the hearth after a good meal and a hard day’s work, they would speak of the old tales, or some grandfather would lean on his stick and hum out in his creaky voice a half-forgotten song of the olden days, when there were dragons and monsters in the world and heroes would rise up and slay them with bright swords.
At those times someone might tell of the Great Wars fought long, long ago or maybe of Eli: how he had made the world and loved it, and given so very much to save it from evil.
They were the times the brothers loved best. They would sit with eyes shining eagerly in the firelight loving each word they heard spoken.
As Ingram listened, for he liked best to listen and seldom joined in the talking, and heard of the high and mighty deeds and the fearsome monsters of the old wide world, he loved his village and its funny people all the more. Here was peace and quiet. He was glad the heroes had fought long ago so that now there was safety.
But as for Ingold, who was the eldest, when he heard the old tales, he longed for the wars and the excitement of those days. He wished he had lived then, so he could ride bravely off and fight back the shadows. Then the old men would sing about him around their fires.
He wanted to go to the City and fight for the King, like their father had done, and win the King’s praise. Or maybe he would rather be a bold traveller, and tread the long paths eastward, where no one ever went, until he would come at last to the shores of the Great Sea. But he would not stop there. He would find himself a ship, and set sail across the sea, until maybe he would come to the far off Dark Continent that folk spoke of as only a nursery tale.
And so one day, when Ingold had become a man, he took down his father’s old rusty sword from where it hung on the wall, kissed his mother and father goodbye, and set out into the world to see what adventures would fall in his way.
Their mother cried when he left, for, as all mothers do, she loved her son very much indeed, and it is always hard for mothers when their sons leave them, even if they must.
Their father, too, looked very solemn and was silent when he went out into the fields, when before he had used to sing, for he loved Ingold no less than his wife did.
So Ingram was glad that he was not yet old enough to have gone with Ingold, though Ingold had wanted him to. Instead he did what he could to help his mother and worked still harder for his father and each day hoped for Ingold’s return.
Every morning he would climb to the top of the hill near the village and peer off into the east, looking for the cloud of dust along the road that would announce Ingold’s homecoming. Maybe he would come with a glorious company of knights from the king, all clad in gleaming armour. They would tell of Ingold’s brave deeds and how he had fought gallantly in the king’s wars. Then there would be a feast such as never had been before in the village.
Maybe he would bring home a wife. That would make his mother glad again; gladder than she was before he had left. Maybe she would be one of the King’s own daughter’s whose love Ingold had won. And maybe they would have a family of their own. How father would laugh to see his grandchildren. He would sing them all his songs.
But Ingold did not return, not even alone. One year passed, two years, three, four. Mother didn’t cry anymore, at least, not so that Ingram could see it, and Father sung again as he worked, but often his songs were not as full of joy as they once were.
And so Ingram grew up and became a man, whether he wanted to or not; and he decided that there was only one thing to be done if his parents were to be happy again. He must go after Ingold and bring him back from wherever he was, or at least find out what had become of him.
But when he told his father and mother how he wished to follow Ingold, they at first would not let him leave, but he told them how it was not for himself that he must go, but for them. Then they blessed him, and said that although they loved him dearly, and even more so since Ingold had been lost, they saw that he must go whether they willed it or not, but that he must promise not to forget them and to come back one day to bring them news of Ingold and himself.
That, Ingram had said, was an easy thing to promise, because the small village had his heart, for it was home.
So thus it was that Ingram set out on the very same road that he had seen bear away his brother with nothing save a stout walking staff and a parcel of food and cooking things slung on his back. He had not even a sword, because the only one in the village had been his father’s and Ingold had taken that.
His mother and father watched from the village gate until he disappeared around the bend and was hidden from them by the woods. All that was left was the dust on the road stirred up by his feet.
Once there were two brothers. Ingold and Ingram the sons of Ingame were their names, and they where proud to be called by them.
Together they lived a great many ages ago on their father’s farm, helping him with the plowing and the sowing and with the reaping at harvest time. Ingram loved this work.
He loved to see the empty fields slowly fill with shoots of green and ripen into golden heads of wheat. He loved to be in his village with its rambling gardens spilling out onto the dusty roads and to hear the chat of his neighbours gossiping about the swallows and where they where nesting or how Windlaf’s new bed of potatoes had been hit with grubs last night. And they always had a good word to say for his father’s crops, being widely pronounced to be the best in the village, if not in Kingsland.
Sometimes, as they gathered round the hearth after a good meal and a hard day’s work, they would speak of the old tales, or some grandfather would lean on his stick and hum out in his creaky voice a half-forgotten song of the olden days, when there were dragons and monsters in the world and heroes would rise up and slay them with bright swords.
At those times someone might tell of the Great Wars fought long, long ago or maybe of Eli: how he had made the world and loved it, and given so very much to save it from evil.
They were the times the brothers loved best. They would sit with eyes shining eagerly in the firelight loving each word they heard spoken.
As Ingram listened, for he liked best to listen and seldom joined in the talking, and heard of the high and mighty deeds and the fearsome monsters of the old wide world, he loved his village and its funny people all the more. Here was peace and quiet. He was glad the heroes had fought long ago so that now there was safety.
But as for Ingold, who was the eldest, when he heard the old tales, he longed for the wars and the excitement of those days. He wished he had lived then, so he could ride bravely off and fight back the shadows. Then the old men would sing about him around their fires.
He wanted to go to the City and fight for the King, like their father had done, and win the King’s praise. Or maybe he would rather be a bold traveller, and tread the long paths eastward, where no one ever went, until he would come at last to the shores of the Great Sea. But he would not stop there. He would find himself a ship, and set sail across the sea, until maybe he would come to the far off Dark Continent that folk spoke of as only a nursery tale.
And so one day, when Ingold had become a man, he took down his father’s old rusty sword from where it hung on the wall, kissed his mother and father goodbye, and set out into the world to see what adventures would fall in his way.
Their mother cried when he left, for, as all mothers do, she loved her son very much indeed, and it is always hard for mothers when their sons leave them, even if they must.
Their father, too, looked very solemn and was silent when he went out into the fields, when before he had used to sing, for he loved Ingold no less than his wife did.
So Ingram was glad that he was not yet old enough to have gone with Ingold, though Ingold had wanted him to. Instead he did what he could to help his mother and worked still harder for his father and each day hoped for Ingold’s return.
Every morning he would climb to the top of the hill near the village and peer off into the east, looking for the cloud of dust along the road that would announce Ingold’s homecoming. Maybe he would come with a glorious company of knights from the king, all clad in gleaming armour. They would tell of Ingold’s brave deeds and how he had fought gallantly in the king’s wars. Then there would be a feast such as never had been before in the village.
Maybe he would bring home a wife. That would make his mother glad again; gladder than she was before he had left. Maybe she would be one of the King’s own daughter’s whose love Ingold had won. And maybe they would have a family of their own. How father would laugh to see his grandchildren. He would sing them all his songs.
But Ingold did not return, not even alone. One year passed, two years, three, four. Mother didn’t cry anymore, at least, not so that Ingram could see it, and Father sung again as he worked, but often his songs were not as full of joy as they once were.
And so Ingram grew up and became a man, whether he wanted to or not; and he decided that there was only one thing to be done if his parents were to be happy again. He must go after Ingold and bring him back from wherever he was, or at least find out what had become of him.
But when he told his father and mother how he wished to follow Ingold, they at first would not let him leave, but he told them how it was not for himself that he must go, but for them. Then they blessed him, and said that although they loved him dearly, and even more so since Ingold had been lost, they saw that he must go whether they willed it or not, but that he must promise not to forget them and to come back one day to bring them news of Ingold and himself.
That, Ingram had said, was an easy thing to promise, because the small village had his heart, for it was home.
So thus it was that Ingram set out on the very same road that he had seen bear away his brother with nothing save a stout walking staff and a parcel of food and cooking things slung on his back. He had not even a sword, because the only one in the village had been his father’s and Ingold had taken that.
His mother and father watched from the village gate until he disappeared around the bend and was hidden from them by the woods. All that was left was the dust on the road stirred up by his feet.
