Eorling Mead Hall

[Lhunardawen]

From afar, Ginna caught a glimpse of the Eorling Mead Hall in the first timid rays of the rising sun. She had never been to the place, indeed this was the farthest she had been from home since she could remember, but she had heard a few stories from when it was yet the White Horse Inn. Despite the change, she imagined that it would remain warm and inviting even from a distance, attracting weary travellers, runaways, or people eager to render their services. But now that she was seeing it with her own eyes, she felt as though she was riding towards a certain, dreadful doom. As the Mead Hall loomed closer in view, she hung back, and gazed wistfully about her, unwilling to let go of her ties to the world she had known.

She caught sight of a pretty yellow butterfly flitting this way and that, flapping its wings enticingly. She begrudged its freedom to go where it would; and when it grew weary and thirsty from its unhindered flight, always a flower would be willing to give it welcome. What I would not give to grow wings and fly away, she thought.

“Hurry up, Ginna!”

Scowling, Ginna urged her steed on with a whispered command and a light kick to his side. Her father had stopped to wait ahead of her.

“I could have made the journey alone. I know the way,” she said defensively. Randvér said nothing, and simply turned back to the road when she had caught up with him.

“Father, I am twenty-three years of age!”

“And yet you still act like a child: gullible and undiscerning,” came Randvér’s reply, his voice level and emotionless, as though he was stating a well-established fact. “No, you are worse, for a child knows not to speak to strangers.”

Ginna noticed that the butterfly had followed her, and she was glad of the distraction; turning to it, she hid the sad smile that had formed on her lips. Gossip ran rampant where there were people and events, and could reach even the most imperceptive ears. She cared not how her father had heard the tale, though she felt relieved that he had received a distorted version of it. Just how greatly he had misjudged her, she was not going to let him know.

“I cannot be fully blamed, Father,” she replied, her voice a show of repentance. “I have had none to keep me company since Mother—”

She could not bring herself to say the word; even after all those years, the wounds left by her mother's passing still stung. Fair Ayessa had been inflicted with a fatal strain of a disease, which first claimed her vitality, then her beauty, then her life. When shortly afterwards the War of the Ring had called Randvér to duty, Ginna had been left alone to contend with her grief, and her fear for her own life. Since then she had not seen as much of her father as she used to, yet she knew that he was still grieving—so much that he seemed to have forgotten that he was not alone in it. She felt it strongly now, as silence fell heavily between them.

“Is this really necessary?” she eventually whispered, almost to herself. Randvér looked away pointedly.

“My old friend Eodwine is a good man. He will keep a keen eye on you.”

“I have learned well from you, Father; I do not need guarding.”

“I do not know why, but somehow it is not what might befall you that worries me, Ginna, but what you might do.”

Ginna peered at her father from the corner of her eyes. She recognised the look of disappointment in his, and could discern what thoughts caused it. He had believed that he and her wife had raised their daughter well, and still could not fathom it: how could her beauty, which surpasses that of her mother, and at which they had always taken pride…how could it have been such a source of disgrace? For Ginna knew her beauty, and knew how to wield it to her own gain, if what she wanted—what she needed—could not be given her.

“I will not be a burden to anyone,” she said resolutely, concealing the bitterness that she felt. Had she not averted her eyes to face the Mead Hall defiantly, she would have seen the hope that replaced the disappointment, and the faint gleam of loving pride appearing out of nowhere into her father's eyes; but they vanished just as quickly as they came, and all Ginna knew of his response was a curt “See that you won’t.”

~*~

If anyone was already awake in the Mead Hall, they certainly had not let it known to those who might be outside. Ginna and Randvér entered quietly, so as not to disturb anyone. As she walked behind her father, Ginna felt that she would burn with shame if someone caught her, a grown lady, accompanied by him. Let them think that he’s leaving a child to their care. And let him arrange the conditions that will allow my stay here. She quietly stole away and wandered around to familiarise herself with her new home.

After a while she felt lost, overwhelmed by the immensity of the place compared to the home in which she had grown up. She knew not where she was, and desired to have someone to let her know, perhaps even give her a tour. So busy she was with her own thoughts that she overlooked the little girl who was then looking curiously at her.