The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Nurumaiel]

Liornung gazed out the window as he considered how to answer Hearpwine's question. "Well, good Hearpwine, I have travelled many roads," he said at last. "I have gone through fair weather and bad, braving ice and snow and much rain. I've seen those who are filled with joy and those who are filled with sorrow. I've met those who are good and kind and those who think of naught but evil. I have sat and played in front of fires and many people, and then alone under the sun and the moon and the stars." A twinkle came to his eye. "I've nearly drowned myself trying to swim across rivers and not get my fiddle wet, as well."

Both Hearpwine and Liornung threw back their heads and laughed. Liornung was the quickest to grow serious again and he spoke most gravely to Hearpwine. "Were you the bard singing with Aylwen?" he asked. "Maercwen here told me there was a bard singing with her."

At Hearpwine's nod Liornung blushed deeply. "I was quite shy when I heard that," he said. "You see, I am no bard but only a poor wandering fiddler who makes what living he can from an old instrument, and indeed I've grown so fond of my work I would not have it any other way. But here you are, a real bard and soon to be Bard of the King, and I actually led you to it!" Liornung chuckled with deep delight. "And you say you even want to write a song about me?"

"I do," Hearpwine replied. A look of awe crept into Liornung's eyes and he blushed a deeper red and he said nothing, though a boyish admiration shone in his features. "Good Hearpwine, I look eagerly towards tonight when I shall hear more of your songs." A wide smile lit his face up. "Indeed, if you'll teach me the tunes to one or two of your songs now, I'll fiddle as you sing. I am a quick learner."

[Bêthberry]

Alerted that the strange man Azaziel had returned and was asking about her, Bethberry left the luxury of her quiet thoughts and descended to the main meadhall of The Horse. Before she joined Azaziel, though, she posted a notice, prominently, upon the notice board near the great fireplace.

Wanted: a singer or minstrel

To compose a song commemorating the free access to Gondor now granted to Aylwen Dreamsong, with all rights and obligations pertaining thereto.

Friends of Aywlen may also offer their words of congratulations.

Apply privately to Bethberry, via PM.

Nodding, with a secret smile to herself, Bethberry stepped back, thought a few minutes, and then turned to find Azaziel.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

"From time to time, the tried-in-battle
their grey steeds set to gallop amain,
and ran a race when the road seemed fair.
From time to time, a thane of the king,
who had made many vaunts, and was mindful of verses,
stored with sagas and songs of old,
bound word to word in well-knit rime,
welded his lay; this warrior soon
of Theoden’s fall right cleverly sang,
and artfully added an excellent tale,
in well-ranged words, of the warlike deeds
done that day, to the doom of many."

Hearpwine’s voice filled the meadhall and once again the room fell silent to listen. After the first few lines Liornung took out his fiddle and began to play along, adding to the strength of the young man’s song a mournful tune of honour remembered. Even as he sang, Hearpwine was ravished by his old friend’s skill with his instrument, and he marvelled at the speed with which Liornung took up and improved the melody. The enchantment of the music seized all who heard it, and for a moment the very sight of those days of doom and death became as though there were real. They heard the far cry of the Men of Minas Tirith as they called in joy from their walls at the sight of the Rohirrim’s charge onto the Pelennor Fields, and they felt the touch of sun and fresh wind that heralded the arrival of the King of Gondor at the very turning of the tide.

“Famed was this Theoden: far flew the boast of him,
son of Thengel, leader of thanes.
So becomes it a youth to quit him well
with his father's friends, by fee and gift,
that to aid him, aged, in after days,
come warriors willing, should war draw nigh,
liegemen loyal: by lauded deeds
shall a king have honour in every land.”

Hearpwine’s voice fell silent before the last quavering note of Liornung’s fiddle. It hung about them like a lament, stilling the very air of the Inn and reaching out into the busy streets of Edoras so that for a second it seemed as though that whole city grew silent with the lament for their lost King. Then there was a moment’s silence in which one could hear the sound of a breaking heart. Liornung was the first to speak, but his voice was soft and thick with emotion. “You sing well indeed, my old friend. The King will be fortunate to have a bard such as yourself.”

Hearpwine looked up at the older man, and there were tears in his eyes. “Your mastery of your instrument has grown with the years, or I have done you a terrible disservice in my memory of it. You are indeed the greatest of bards. I know! You would not claim that title for yourself, but I hereby give it you!” At that he stood and bowed deeply to Liornung, who flushed deeply and bid the younger man sit again.

“What song is that?” he asked when Hearpwine was once more at the table.

“In your honour, I have sung but a small piece of the lay that I have composed for the Contest tomorrow. It tells of the King’s riding forth to the succour of Gondor, and of his fall beneath the Fell Beast. It is a sad tale, but one – I hope! – that will do Theoden king the honour he deserves. But now, you promised me one of your own songs, let us hear that and I will ask the good Aylwen to fetch you some meat and drink.”

[Kransha]

Warm green eyes, laced with a shadowy tint of enervation, surveyed the threshold of the White Horse Inn. The pale flesh beneath the figure’s eyes was rimmed with tinges of sable brought on by sleepless nights. He looked out over the vicinity, overlooking the immaculate masonry and welcoming feel of the structure, his gaze flitting to the vine-blanketed stable nearby and the sign, mounted ceremoniously on a post in front of the inn. His eyelids slowly lifted so that the vermillion orbs that lingered behind them could look more intently at the snow-white horse reared up on a green backdrop. It was a welcome sight to the old man as he turned back to the inn itself. Though the form, dragging himself torpidly into the building, bore a cold, almost debilitated demeanor as he pulled one stiff leg in front of the other, more animated limb, there was still a glimmering like in his expression. Though there was a visible increase tepidity of the surrounding air, he still saw fit to pull his emerald-colored cloak around his stooping shoulders, but lowered it again barely a moment later as he entered the warmer room, bustling with activity.

It was certainly an ample place that Osric made his way meekly into. He stopped a few measured paces through the threshold and assessed the first room, his wizened face wrinkling up as he squinted to see the various ornamentations and decorations for the festivities that he knew were coming. It was yet another anniversary, one of the many recorded in the vast corridors of his mind. He had a head for such things; dates, tales, epics, and all manner of information that would ever be needed by him or most others. It was his nature and he didn’t bother denying that fact, since he often swelled with pride when his encyclopedic knowledge was mentioned.

As he contemplated that, a smile creeping over his sour pallor, Osric took a seat in a sturdy chair and leaned back against it, hefting his inelastic leg onto another unused chair. He scratched at his scraggly brown beard, now intertwined with strands of aging gray that he thought did not belong. The room, filled with lighthearted feelings and goodwill brought him back to a simpler, better time. Wars could come and go in Rohan, but there was always a jovial air to receive him. The elder’s murky pupils focused like sunbeams and took one sweeping glance across the stretching mead hall, the view he saw allowing him another satisfied smile.

Oscric was a man of Rohan, but had only sought Edoras a few times in his many days. He had lived in Aldburg, an ancient town southeast of this grand city, for all of his life that had not been spent beneath a warrior’s banner, sitting atop a noble steed behind his now aged shield with the winds of glory at his back. He did not revel in reminiscing over those lost days, since they brought him little pleasure. His life had been simple, a valiant but composed man who served the cause of his king. To lighten the moods of those around him and elevate the lowest of times, he would tell others the stories that he knew like the back of his horse, regaling them gladly with stories of Rohan’s mighty kings, immortal warriors, and their awe-inspiring exploits. He rarely told stories now unless that was requested of him. Those timeless tales were embedded to deep in his consciousness to be forgotten so easily, so they stuck. Osric had been known, in his day, to burst spontaneously into muddled recitations. The man could still do that, when called upon, but had become more reserved.

Now, Osric was content to sit and listen to the rest of the world, relaxing himself in the comfortable atmosphere of the inn. He closed his eyes slowly, letting the sounds of the inn put him at rest, though it wouldn’t have done so for most. He could hear singing, melodic notes ringing like gently chiming bells in his ears. The swift and efficient harmony of a stringed instrument soon joined in.

[Imladris]

Taliesin opened his eyes wearily. He had fallen into a pleasant sleep amidst the soft bustling of the Inn, but his stomach, protesting loudly at its emptiness, had awoken him. Goldwine was nestled in his bony lap, purring softly. With a smile, the old man petted the feline and quietly put his paper and ink away.

His knees creaking and popping, he rose to his feet and stretched. His muscles had grown stiff from their constant sitting position, and his back ached a little. He sighed. Such was the doom of an old and wizened warrior. His cheeks grew pale, and his eyes glazed with memory. He shook his head. The time of the orcs and suffering many had endured was over.

A pretty young woman stepped up to his table and asked, “Is there anything I can do for you, sir? My name is Aedre.”

He noded, and said, “Taliesin.” Then he smiled at her and said, “Yes there is, oh maiden fair.” He gestured to the empty table, and continued, “Bring food to laden this table bare, and drink to quench our thirst. Please, quickly bring some milk, for Prince Goldwine must be servéd first.”

Taliesin beamed at her and then plopped back into his chair. “Thank you, milady,” he added.

[Nurumaiel]

At Hearpwine's request Liornung brushed the tears from his eyes and gazed thoughtfully out the window. "A song then, good Hearpwine?" He played a few notes on his fiddle, then nodded with satisfaction. "You have sung of the King's riding to Gondor and the great battle that there ensued, and I shall sing of this... a song I have composed in an idle hour full of sorrow that is the lament of a fair young lassie whose soldier lad has ridden to Gondor in hope of fame, adventure, and glory, yet she knows he will find nothing but sorrow and death and if still glory remains he shall no longer care for it." Putting his bow to his fiddlestrings, he added, "I will attempt to play and sing at the same time. I fancy if I hold my fiddle just so it shan't choke my voice up so much."

And then, drawing the bow down he played but a few notes that told tales of sorrow and battle and perhaps a hidden glory. He let these notes rise and fall, gently rising to the ceiling of the Inn and spreading soft fingers to each corner of the room, touching all would listen and bringing thoughts of lamentation to their minds. He then raised his voice in song, his eyes fixed on an empty space on the wall where yet he seemed to see strong men upon horses, their banners waving to the sky and their keen swords flashing in the light of the rising sun.

Oh then woe to the dark forces of Mordor
for they have caused my love to ride to Gondor
away from the one who holds him dear
and by her heart ever near.
And to see their banners in the rising sun
and at the sun's setting when day was done
did make many a heart of Rohan leap
but such a sight causes me to weep.

Oh then woe to the cruelness that calls him away,
that causes him from home to stray
and the tears in my heart now flow from my eyes
as the sky is filled with loud battle cries.
For my love away to the cruel wars has gone
riding away with a light-hearted song
but alas I fear that e'er battle is done
of cheerful songs my love will know none.

Oh then woe be to it the cause of my sorrow
for my love fights in battle on the morrow
and that he will never return I do then fear,
that I shall never see again the face of my dear.
And the wars have taken away my lad
for adventure and glory and honor to be had
but before away fades the last battle cry
my love with no naught but to fear and to die.

His voice dropped and he fell silent, but his fiddle sang still, the clear notes ringing out in harmony with the gentle, weeping voice of a young maid that still lingered in the minds and hearts of the people until at last it, too, faded and drifted away on a last mournful note.

Liornung slowly lowered his fiddle and bow and dropped his eyes, murmuring softly, "Alas for all these sorrows... that men should ride in hope of glory and then soon hope not for glory but that still they might live and not die in battle. And meanwhile they break the hearts of their lovers and mothers.... I do hope the lad in my little song did remember in bleak hours when the skies were dark and death waited to lay cold fingers upon whomsoever might come within its grasp that there was a fair young maid waiting for him and filled with such love for him that she should sing in lamentation. Surely he must have known fear and sorrow... good Hearpwine, men were not made for battle, they were made for peace and love and joy. Alas, then, alas that often comes a time where there can be no peace unless there is battle. Alas for the broken hearts and the piles of dead that lie about in frightening numbers that one would not count in fear. For a man to seek his comrade among the living and not find him and then weep to seek among the dead where it was almost certain he would find him..." His voice broke and he bowed his head quite low and said no more on the matter.

[Kransha]

The aged man’s heavy eyelids managed to elevate again, his deep eyes behind them resting on the visage of a young-looking man with the delicate silhouette of a fiddle sitting in his hand with the sturdy bow of that instrument gliding along gently vibrating strings. The device sung in his hands, its melancholy tune filling the room like billowing puffs of smoke from a pipe, though the sweet sounds of this were ten fold more pleasing then wheezing lungs beneath tawdry outfits. The long notes, resonating with a finely crafted vibrato, filled the depths of Osric’s mind, throbbing like a rhythmic heartbeat in his ears, which nearly melted when faced by the mournful melody.

Swinging his rigid leg off the other chair, Osric pulled his own chair smoothly towards the focal point of that sound, the notes growing more prominent and defined as he neared their source. He heard the words clearly now, each mouthed syllable perfectly shaped and falling like a single raindrop on a placid crystal pool, creating a serene ripple that sounded like a tremulous echo within Osric. The elder listened silently to the chord-mingled lyrics and bowed his head, as had most others within earshot.

It brought back ill thoughts that Osric had long tried to push from his mind’s lonely annals in vain. The voice faded slowly, though the notes still poured from that violin clasped like a fragile but energetic bird in the man’s hand. Soon enough that too became no more than a quite hum which evaporated smoothly into the absence of sound. Osric blinked, wonderment and astonishment twinkling in his eyes. The dark feeling lingered, brought on by the cheerless nature of the piece, but he seemed uplifted by its beauty. The man now listened avidly to the violinist’s words as he concluded. The words of this soulful man almost stung at Osric as he talked dispiritedly of “the broken hearts and the piles of dead that lie about in frightening numbers.” The warrior of Aldburg was stricken with shrouded memories of what he’d seen himself in the service of Rohan during the war that seemed so long ago, now considered yet another one of the grisly battle stories he could tell to Rohirrim pups swarming around a crackling campfire.

Osric, finally regaining his senses entirely, glanced around to see that no one was speaking, or even attempting to make a noise to disrupt the solemn aftermath of that work of music. Though it seemed nearly blasphemous to violate the silence, Osric spoke up, his grizzled baritone barely carrying to the violinist and singer, but still stood out in the utter hush that had descended on this section of the White Horse.

“A stirring song, sir, and your words ring true as well. You have true talent with that device and an unchallengeable philosophy, which I would dare any being in this room to disagree with. You, sir, have a way with both word and music, and I commend you for both. Indeed, it has been a great many winters since I have heard something of that caliber.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The old man’s words stirred Hearpwine back into the waking world, from which he had been taken by the power of Liornung’s music. “Indeed, there is much sadness in battle, and none who have seen it would soon desire to see it again. But I do not know that I can see it as you do, both” he said, looking from the fiddler to the old man. “There is terror and loss and great sadness; but there is also honour and glory. The fall of Men in battle is a terrible price that we must pay time and again, but it is not one that we should mourn only, but remember and celebrate!”

Liornung lowered his fiddle and placed it upon the table with reverential care. “Remember, yes. But celebrate? We must always regale and sing the praises of those who fell, but I cannot – as you – see much to celebrate in war itself.”

“And I,” the old man said to Hearpwine, “have seen too much of war to find anything in it worthy of joy.”

Hearpwine threw up his hands as though to fend off their responses, and said through a widening smile, “Do not fear, my friends! I do not seek to make war pleasant in my songs. Nor would I desire to hide its evil beneath the beauty of my verse. But is not the purpose of song to beautify that which is ugly, and mend that which is lacking in the world?”

Liornung smiled back. “Your music must be powerful indeed if it can mend the world’s faults.”

Hearpwine could sense the tone of gentle mockery in his friend’s voice but he did not take it amiss for he knew that it came from one who cherished and admired music and its power as much as himself. The old man also spoke. “There’s many a tale I could tell of war, but there’s not one of them that’s able to bring back the men who died in the battle. And if there is beauty in them, then it’s the prettiness that comes from knowing the darkness and evil of war is past.”

In reply Hearpwine sang a melody that raced with the thunder of galloping hooves. His voice rose and filled the rafters of the Inn, reaching into the chests of all who heard it and thudded along in rhythm with their hearts:

“The hours sad I left a maid
A lingering farewell taking
Whose sighs and tears my steps delayed
I thought her heart was breaking
In hurried words her name I blest
I breathed the vows that bind me
And to my heart in anguish pressed
The girl I left behind me

“Then to the east we bore away
To win a name in story
And there where dawns the sun of day
There dawned our sun of glory
The place in my sight
When in the host assigned me
I shared the glory of that fight
Sweet girl I left behind me

“Though many a name our banner bore
Of former deeds of daring
But they were of the day of yore
In which we had no sharing
But now our laurels freshly won
With the old one shall entwine me
Singing worthy of our size each son
Sweet girl I left behind me

“The hope of final victory
Within my bosom burning
Is mingling with sweet thoughts of thee
And of my fond returning
But should I n'eer return again
Still with thy love i'll bind me
Dishonors breath shall never stain
The name I leave behind me”

Hearpwine turned to Liornung. “You sing of a maid who has lost her love, and of her sadness at their parting. And you wonder if the boy you sing of thought of she who he left behind as he faced death. Your song is sad, and has caused this reverend old warrior to remember the ill-days of his youth and cast aside all but the darkest thoughts of those great days of triumph. In response to that I sing a song of that boy as he marches off to battle. In it, there is hope and glory, and he does think of the maid. The sadness of your song is greeted with the joy of mine, and the darkness converted to light!”

[Nurumaiel]

"And glory to your song for it!" Liornung cried, clasping his friend's hand. "Alas, say I, for the sorrows of the world, yet we must not forget there is joy still and in the midst of death there is still life. Where then a lad, surrounded by those same battle cries and that same cold death, thinks of his lassie and recalls her love with joy and thinks not of death but of the day when he shall return to her then there is still hope. 'Tis always sweeter the day when sadness turns to joy!" He fell to pondering this for a time, and then turned bright eyes to the old man. "Sir," he said, "may all honor and glory be yours for your services to fair Rohan. May much sorrow befall me if I have recalled to your mind painful memories. Good Hearpwine has lifted the spell of sadness that was cast over me however, and even now as my eyes wander to the fair face of my darling niece songs of joy come to my mind and seek to find their ways to lips and fingers which find themselves anxious to touch those fiddle-strings again. Then permit me to sing again and again play and sing of glory, hope, love, and a valiant battle for freedom!"

Maercwen's eyes shone and she sat back in her seat, breathless with amazement and wonder. She had heard her uncle speak rousing words but in his speech of battle his spirit seemed to have been inflamed and it was kindled in his eye as he raised his bow again and lay it tentively on the strings. He paused for the briefest moment, his mind's eye already seeing the scene he was about to lay before them in music and song, and then the bow drew itself down across the string and a slow but rousing tune was pulled forth from his old, weather-worn instrument. A breeze from the open window softly made its way through the room and if by some strange magic the fiddle caused that same breeze to be scented with the sweet perfume of heroes and glory, a sunrise and a hope in the midst of death.

Out of doubt, out of dark to the day's rising
The men rode forth, their song reprising
Their once mild eyes with fire beaming
And from their spears the sunlight gleaming.

Hark how they cry out for their glory
Ne'er a one felt near to sorry
For their country, for their king
That battle cry o'er the plains did ring.

See the hope from their eyes glowing
Scores of doubt they're overthrowing
And their gallant hearts are beating
Death they're fearlessly meeting.

Hear the song they raise in granduer
Death and fear they do banter
They did not hesitate for a breath
They fought for life and scorned death.

See the shining swords unsheathing
Hear their heart's beat and their breathing
See their shields in morning light
Shine proud their emblem, horse so white.

If one does hang back in fear
If to die one will not dare
Let descend upon his name
Contempt for fools and coward shame.

On for Rohan, on for glory!
Let us find a name in story!
On for country, on for king!
Death to every foe do bring!

Then farewell to the sunshine bright
And farewell to the charm of night
For if in battle I do die
In pride and glory, in joy fell I!

No honor greater do I seek
Amid death's foul and awful reek
Then to die, and so to give
Hope that my country might still live.

Onward soldiers, stout and brave
Let none of you be traitor knave
We rose in battle Mordor's slaves
But we go in freedom to our graves!

And freedom rang loud and clear with the sound of the fiddle though Liornung's mouth had closed and his strong voice had faded. Maercwen did not hide her tears in shame but let them fall freely down her face as she stared in amazed admiration at her uncle. As his fiddle also felt silent she saw his eyes were also suspcisiously moist.

"If those brave men found no glory in life as they fought amid death, I pray that they find it now," Liornung murmured. "What greater honor can be bestowed upon a man than to fight and die for all that which he holds dear. And if he lives then we who can do naught but play simple music may show to the world all that joy and glory that they have thought lost in the midst of sorrow. Glory was lost for many, and they could not find it, but still it was there and it is resounded in all splendor with every simple strain of a fiddle and raised voice of a bard. These are the days we remember them and their sorrows and their deaths but we also remember their glories and heroic sacrifices!" He turned to Hearpwine, joy mingling with the tears in his eyes. "Good Hearpwine, I permitted myself to fall into a bleak mood and dwell on most sorrowful thoughts but I again I thank you for your song and your words to bring singing birds back into my heart. When a man loses all hope and joy what then in life does he have left?" The flame kindled in his eye again. "Hearpwine, tonight we shall rouse the good patrons of the noble White Horse as we sing of glorious deeds and the valor of simple men yet not so simple." A laugh sprang to his lips and he leaned back in his chair, a look of great self-satisfaction coming to his features. "Truly good Miss Aylwen could not hope for two finer singers than the two of us, could she now? Such music and songs will be heard in Edoras tonight that have rarely been heard before. Dare we venture to say such as what we will sing tonight will never be heard again? We can do naught but try." And he closed his eyes to muse over what he had said and what he had heard said.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine laughed again and asked the pretty serving maid for food and drink, “to give us the strength we will need for this nights endeavours” he explained. As they waited for their nourishment, Hearpwine spoke to the young niece of his friend. Throughout their outburst of song she had sat at the table quietly taking in all that she heard, her eyes growing wider and wider with each melody. “Tell me Maercwen, what kind of song is your favourite? Lays of war and glory, or the simple tunes of country life and mirth?”

The lass flushed at being made the center of such attention but answered promptly. “I cannot rightly say. Both have their place and time, and I have already heard this day enough of each to fill me with wonder for days to come.”

Maercwen grinned. “A good answer, my lady, and a true one. For all times are different and so suited to their own songs. But what of this moment? What kind of song would you like to hear?”

She paused for a moment before answering. “There has been a deal of song and talk about war and battle. As much as I have enjoyed them I think that I would like to hear something about things that are closer to the life I know. Do you know such a song? Perhaps one from your own land?”

“Indeed there are many! And I will gladly sing you one, but I begin to feel the need of my harp. While I am not nearly as accomplished a musician as your uncle, I can strum along well enough. Would you be good enough to fetch it for me? It is in Hrothgar’s saddle-bag. He is stalled…” But before he could finish the lass jumped to her feet. Crying out that she knew which horse was his, she flew from the Inn. Hearpwine smiled after her retreating form, as he had always enjoyed the sight of a pretty girl. From the corner of his eye he saw the old man smiling at him, and he flushed slightly before dismissing his embarrassment with a chuckle. “And what of you, friend? What is your name, and what kind of song would you like to hear this evening?”

“I am Osric,” he replied, “and I have heard so many songs in my life that I do not mind now which is playing. But for the sake of the girl’s pleasure – and perhaps your own, who clearly seeks to please her,” and he winked broadly at the younger man, “I will add my vote to hers for something bright and shiny from your own lands.”

“So it shall be!” Hearpwine cried. Maercwen was soon back with his harp, her face flushed from running to the stables and back. Hearpwine bowed slightly as he took the instrument from her hands. He strummed upon it a few times, and then began to pick out a pleasant lilting tune. Indeed, he was not nearly as accomplished with it as Liornung was with his fiddle, but the melody was pleasing. Without a word, Liornung picked up his fiddle and joined in, creating a duet that melded the rhythmic sound of the harp with the melodious interweave of the fiddle. After a few bars, Hearpwine sang once more.

“Hi! says the blackbird, sitting on a chair,
Once I courted a lady fair;
She proved fickle and turned her back,
And ever since then I'm dressed in black.

“Hi! says the blue-jay as she flew,
If I was a young man I'd have two;
If one proved fickle and chanced for to go,
I'd have a new string to my bow.

“Hi! says the little leather winged bat,
I will tell you the reason that,
The reason that I fly in the night
Is because I lost my heart's delight.

“Hi! says the little mourning dove,
I'll tell you how to gain her love;
Court her night and court her day,
Never give her time to say ‘0 nay.’

“Hi! said the woodpecker sitting on a fence,
Once I courted a handsome wench;
She proved fickle and from me fled,
And ever since then my head's been red.

“Hi! says the owl with my eyes so big,
If I had a hen I'd feed like a pig;
But here I sit on a frozen stake,
Which causes my poor heart to ache.

“Hi! says the swallow, sitting in a barn,
Courting, I think, is no harm.
I pick my wings and sit up straight
And hope every young man will choose him a mate.

“Hi! says the hawk unto the crow,
If you ain't black then I don't know.
Ever since the first bird was born,
You've been accused of stealing corn.

“Hi! says the crow unto the hawk,
I understand your great, big talk;
You'd like to pounce and catch a hen,
But I hope the farmer will shoot you then.

“Hi! says the robin, with a little squirm,
I wish I had a great, big worm;
I would fly away into my nest;
I have a wife I think is the best.”

Hearpwine finished and laid down his harp, basking in the glow of Maercwen’s smile.

[Nurumaiel]

"Lovely!" Maercwen cried as the song ended. "Songs of heroes and battle are fine, but 'tis sweet to hear a pleasant tune of the simpler things of life that more of us know. Yes, it is something grand when thrill after thrill goes through you as you listen to tales of valour and courage but a merry, light-hearted tune that touches a sympathetic chord in the heart of a lass such as I who has never seen battle is a happy tune indeed! To weep over the courage and strength of those who rode into battle is sweet, yes, but it is also sweet to laugh over simple little things that sometimes are the loveliest of all."

"And true, kind maid," Osric said softly. "Many a time in the midst of battle I have longed to return to those simpler things of life that bring such gentle, kindly joy."

Liornung was studying Hearpwine's instrument with a keen interest. "You have some talent with your harp," he said, his voice thoughtful and pondering. Shifting in his chair a bit, he continued to stare at the harp, something evidently on his mind. "You know, I do believe you are quite skilled with it. You are not yet a master, 'tis true, but if you continue to play all the time you quickly will be."

"Encouraging words," said Hearpwine, "from you, master of the fiddle."

"I've heard it said I have talent with that which I play, and I do not deny it," Liornung replied, "but I do not say I am a master." He scowled when he saw the twinkle in Hearpwine's eyes. "Does that little light gleaming in your eye betray you, or is that some trick to hide what you really think?" He tossed his head haughtily. "No matter for I am going to sing a song now to please Maercwen. I would," he said, directing his words to his niece, "sing you a merry song of my own make, for you mustn't think I can already write about dreary battle and sad love songs. I have seen happy things in my wanderings as well. But looking into your lovely eyes now I recall a day fourteen years ago when I played a little tune for you on my fiddle reputed to be from the Land of Halflings and you sang most sweetly, telling me you were quite certain that Halflings were not mere children's stories. I wanted to believe you but I was no longer a child who could easily believe such tales, yet I was proved wrong in past years. So, ltitle Mae, in honor of that occasion and in your own sweet honor, I sing for you a song of Hobbits....."

I'll tell my ma when I go home
the boys won't leave the girls alone.
They pulled my hair and they stole my comb
but that's all right 'till I go home.
She is handsome, she is pretty,
she is the bell of Bywater city,
she is courting one, two, three,
please won't you tell me who is he?

And through the whole song he sang, and at the words a fair blush came to Maercwen's cheeks and she sang along with him, their voices blending kindly together and showing no objection to it. And when the words were finished Liornung played the song on his fiddle through 'till the end, filled with delight at the smile on his niece's face. His only regret at that moment was that the rest of his nieces and nephews were not also there listening. But, if he knew them at all, the rest of them be there soon, all nine from Maercwen's younger brother to the little baby... as long as Hearpwine did mind being surrounded by children, there would be no happier man in Rohan when the rest of the children came. Of that Liornung was sure, and he told himself so most positively as he played the final note and brought the song to a close.

[Bêthberry]

"I should say you won't," proclaimed Ruthven loudly to Oin, tapping her finger with some purpose on his shoulder. "You leave off boxing Finky's ears for such a kind and considerate offer."

"I'll do nothing of the sort," retorted Oin. "He's my concern and I'll thank you not to tell me how to handle him." He struck a haughty air and tried to jump up in the mud. But the combined effect of shakey footing on the mud and his motion to push her finger away threw Oin off balance. Instead of finding a dignified position from which he could tower over the old woman and the other dwarf, he fell forward. Right into Ruthven. The two fell into the mud, Oin on top of Ruthven, Ruthven underneath and mired into the deeper part of the mud.

"Now look what you've done," wailed Finky, who was aghast at the tumble the old woman had taken.

He stood up and reached over to help her up.

"Oi!" she retorted, her arm pulled faster than the rest of her body could move. She jerked her arm back and Finky came with it, falling on top of the two of them.


"Oooph," complained Oin, who was still trying to get up off Ruthven, but whose feet kept getting caught in her shawl.

"I will box your ears," retorted Oin, "for falling on me." With that he tried to knock Finky on the left side of his head but Finky ducked. He hit Ruthven instead, his hand covered in mud.

"Watch your hands, you meddlesome dwarf," yelled Ruthven as the mud from Oin's hands spread over her face. She grabbed at Finky, whose shoulder was the only thing she could find to give herself a firm grip as she tried to stand.

"Mind your knee," Oin grumbled as she half raised herself and he turned to fend off the offending knee.

"What are you doing throwing mud at her?" Finky cried as he lifted his hands up.

"I'm not throwing mud at her. She assaulted me," cried Oin, bent over into a position of some defense.

"Fie she did!" retorted Finky. "You're harming an old woman!"

"She's done me a damage!" moaned Oin. "And you'll pay!" He reached out to pull Finky's beard, now caked with mud.

It wasn't hard to tell where this drama would lead...

[bilbo_baggins]

As Oin grabbed Finky's beard, Oin tripped again into the mud.

"As I said, we should hlep miz Ruthven, Oin. It would be the only kind thing to do," Finky pleaded, hoping that Oin would relent.

"No," said Oin, still trying to stand up out of mud, "we are not going to help any strange women with their business and cart loads!

"Oin, I am ashamed to call you a fellow dwarf!"

"Finky, you are going to get it for that!" So Oin got up and began to chase Finky around the cart.

"Oh, stop it both of you!" Ruthven said suddenly, obviously exasperated at the sight of them. "You're acting like toddlers!"

"With good reason, though! He has insulted my honor and my authority; such action needs acounting," Oin stopped and replied haughtily, knowing a way out this mess was not going to be easy for Ruthven.

Ruthven would need to have a certain way with words...

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Aylwen listened with a smile on her face as the minstrels played their tunes. The afternoon had fast arrived, and the Innkeeper began to wonder where the day had gone off to. When nightfall came, Aylwen would announce the festivities of the next few days with a speech, in remembrance of the War of the Ring four years past and the celebrations that would take place in honor of the heroes of Rohan.

The celebrations would last long into the night and the next day would be full of contests, feasts, and dances down at the marketplace of Edoras. Hearpwine's contest, which would determine the king's new bard, would take place mid-morning, and would last near to the afternoon with all the hopeful minstrels that would attend. Aylwen had faith in Hearpwine, with his courage and spirit.

That night would be full of stories and tales, and perhaps songs from anyone willing to contribute. The stories were never the same, and always had different meanings than any that came before. Somehow, Aylwen felt like the songs and stories meant more during the annual celebrations. They were gifts to the dead and the living heroes as testimony of the population's gratitude for their service.

Indeed, the festivities will be quite enjoyable...Aylwen thought happily as she went on serving the patrons and working in the ledger.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“Good Liornung,” Hearpwine said, “music may be as food and drink to men such as us, but it does not wholly replace the need for nourishment. And if we are to play the night through, we will need to keep up our strength!” As though waiting for her cue, the serving maid returned at that moment with a board laden with bread, cheese and cold meats. She had in her other hand three cups, one filled with golden ale for Liornung, and two with water for Hearpwine and Maercwen. She quickly placed the refreshments on the table. “Thank you my lady,” Hearpwine said courteously. “I must apologise for my behaviour in the kitchen earlier – but you can see now why I ran out so quickly. Is not my old friend Liornung a mighty…I would say bard,” but, noting the look in the older man’s eye, he added quickly, “but he has forbidden me to do so!” He laughed. “I have yet to make your acquaintance? I am Hearpwine.” The pretty maid curtsied and said that her name was Aedre. “A lovely name! Well-deserving of a song!”

Liornung laughed around his mouthful of meat. “I begin to think that you wish to compose a song about everyone and everything you meet.”

“Nay, about everything and everything there is! And is not that right? For if what the sages say is true, then the whole of Middle-Earth was wrought from song, and should it not therefore be celebrated and renewed in the same way? A song for every star, each drop of water and all Peoples – does not the glory of the world deserve such?”

“You will need many more years than you have to accomplish that, my friend. Perhaps you mistake yourself for one of the Eldar race?”

Hearpwine grew suddenly, and quite surprisingly, serious. He cast his voice lower to a pitch that none of them had yet heard. “Nay, I do not aspire to such as that.” He fetched a light sigh and thought for a moment. When he began again he spoke as one in a dream. “I saw the mightiest of the Departed, you know. When King Theoden was brought back to Edoras after the War, myself and a few others who had fought on the North Marches met him on the way and sang his praises. There were among that troop many of the Golden Wood, and I saw – and heard sing – the Golden Lady herself. Ah! There was a music above mortal ear and fancy my friend! Would you had been there…” He shook his head as though waking from a sleep. “No, I do not pretend that my music is aught compared to that. But it is, I hope, accomplished enough for the service of my King and people. Still, when I returned to my home I could not help but feel that my own world was somewhat smaller and duller than I had thought -- after seeing such greatness and beauty, how could it have appeared any other way?"

"What is your homeland?" Maerwen asked. "I do not recognise your device or apparel, and yet you are clearly of Rohan."

"My family holds a small estate on the very rim of the Westfolds. Formerly our lands bounded those of Saruman -- curse his name! -- but since the War, the King granted us new lands beyond the Gap of Rohan so that we might pacify the Wildmen of the west and bring that rich land under cultivation. It has been hard to manage those lands, so long bereft of the rule of Men, but it has been rewarded. We are not a rich or powerful family, but we are proud, and of nothing more than of our labours in fulfiling the wishes of our King! But what of yourself, fair maiden Maercwen? Have you family in Edoras or are you from some small upland vale, come to the city of the Kings to seek your fortune, as I have?"

[Kransha]

Osric’s ancient eyes half closed again, pondering the oration that this man who sat before him related. He gave an acknowledging nod to Maercwen as she passed and presented the men with food and drink in ample supply. The retired warrior looked down, with a slight gleam of hunger in his eyes, at the surplus of food that lay there for the taking. As Hearpwine and Liornung paused momentarily in their discourse, he quickly spoke, hoping for but a simple bite to replenish his energy after the tiresome trek to this inn.

“Might I?” mumbled Osric softly, gesturing a withered and rough-skinned hand at the platter before him. Hearpwine nodded curtly and the aged man of Rohan tore off a small piece of bread from one of the many loaves. He hesitated before taking a conservative bite from the food and swallowed abruptly as he listened to Hearpwine’s words. There were more memories relived in that speech given, as Osric remembered with a bowed head the passing of the mighty Theoden, son of Thengel, on the field of Pelennor so far from this jovial inn. It had been a great and terrible day, when Osric was a younger man, though not so young as to be stalwart and brave like the Rohirrim pups on noble steeds who charged the armies of darkness on that fate-remembered day. The memory that flitted through his countenance might cause a mournful tear, but past glories were still glories, and solemnity was only a path to the lighter reflections of that past.

As he heard more of Hearpwine’s words, he simply could not resist speaking up again after the man of the Westfold posed a simple question to the lady, Maercwen. He leaned forward in the chair he’d reclined in and raised a quizzical hand at Hearpwine, talking quietly and as humbly as a fellow like him could.

“You will pardon the interruption, good Hearpwine, but my curiosity is unflinching and must know of one thing. You say you have seen the Golden Lady of the Wood herself? If so, I would be most grateful if you were to tell me some small thing, some bare word that could tell me of her. You see, Hearpwine, I am…or was…a teller of tales and a spinner of yarns in my day, but I have naught been able to relate any knowledge of the Golden Lady to my comrades. In the service of the King, I have traveled many leagues across these lands beneath the vessel of the sun, but never have I been blessed by the sight of her or heard the voice which I have oft been told of. Good sir, I pray you tell me but a little so that I might now before my time on this world is over.”

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry sat off to one side, coddling a mug of hot cider in one hand. Her other hand absent-mindedly scratched Prince Goldwine's chin, the cat stretching and yawning and directly her hand's attention to an ear and then his back. This cat has seen and heard much here, thought Bethberry. She sat back, watching the Inn's patrons. Many of them, like Taliesin and Hearpwine and Osric, were veterans of the War. Something about the Inn drew them here, a place where memory could be given voice. Yet perhaps also it was the children running underfoot which gave them comfort, children for whom the songs were just songs and not experience wrought with music. There was comfort in the contrast between the old warriors with the young exhuberance shown by Leofan's children. Bethberry was glad, very glad, she had kept the stable master and his family after that disasterous fire so long ago..

Smiling, Aedre brought a plate of cheese to her and more cider. At the other end of the mead hall, Aylwen was working on her ledger, a smile marking her face as well.

Out of all that pain and terrible struggle, reflected the older woman, has come this contentment of music. Or perhaps it is the form and structure of the songs which help us make sense of our memories. Bethberry found herself nodding, Hearpwine's and Liornung's tales weaving in and out of her memories. Achingly, she hoped this day, this moment, would last, stretch out into a golden afternoon.

Goldwine jumped down and broke Bethberry's revery. This wouldn't do, she said to herself. Yet she found herself looking to catch both Hearpwine's and Liorung's eyes, hoping they would understand the depth of her appreciation.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Far from being upset by the interruption Hearpwine was gladdened that he had said something to intrigue the old warrior. The young bard had fought in the War, but his had been but a small part on the edge of mighty deeds, and he regretted that he had not been there when the Rohirrim rode to death and glory before the walls of Minas Tirith. He was not one of those mad souls who craved death, but he longed to have a life as wide and as beautiful as the songs he made. It had never occurred to him that perhaps such a life as he wished for existed only in song, and had a wiser greyer head pointed it out to him, he would only have laughed. In Osric, Hearpwine could see a man who had lived the life that he sang of, and he held the older man in a kind of reverence for that.

“Tell you something of the Golden Lady? You ask much, my friend. I am as accomplished a Man of words as this land can boast, and still I am afraid that I would run out of all mortal words before I could pay the Lady her due. Could I sing for a week about the beauty of sunset over snow, and of frost by midnight, or of lilies in the sun! If I could put to music the sight of ice that burned and water that rushed like diamonds, or if I could tell the tale of the moon’s journey through the skies in pursuit of his love the sun – if I could do all this, then – perhaps – I could begin to capture for you some of that Lady’s greatness and beauty! But, alas, I cannot put any of that into words, and even if I could it would still be lacking, for she was of a descent and greatness that far exceeds the waking world. They say she is gone, now. Gone into the departed West and all that will remain of her are the pale songs that Men like me use to try and keep the memory of her alive in this world of shadows.” He fell into a deep and brooding silence at that, and a stillness spread outward from him to all those who sat and listened to his lament in the failing light of the afternoon.

Slowly, they began to make out a song. Hearpwine began by humming a simple tune, but soon the humming took on shape and like stars appearing in the evening sky, words emerged from the humming and sparkled in the room.

“Ai! laurië lantar lassi súrinen,
Yéni únótimë ve rámar aldaron!
Yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier
mi oromardi lisse-miruvóreva
Andúnë pella, Vardo tellumar
nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni
ómaryo airetári-lírinen.

“Sí man i yulma nin enquantuva?

“An sí Tintallë Varda Oiolossëo
ve fanyar máryat Elentári ortanë
ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë;
ar sindanóriello caita mornië
i falmalinnar imbë met, ar hísië
untúpa Calaciryo míri oialë.
Sí vanwa ná, Rómello vanwa, Valimar!

“Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar.
Nail elyë hiryva. Namárië!”

Hearpwine fell silent, and as was the way with Elvish music it took a time for those who had heard to come back to the waking world. Liornung was the first to speak. “You are mighty indeed, my friend. When I said that you wished to be one of the Elder Race, I did so only in jest. I see now that you are likely to be numbered among them.”

Hearpwine’s joyful laugh shattered the stillness like glass. “Had you heard the one who sang it to me, you would find my version to be the cawing of a crow! The Lady herself sang that to me and my companions. She heard our laments for Theoden and came to us to congratulate us on our music. We were all of us dumbstruck before her. She asked if we knew any songs of her land, and I – foolish youth that I was! – sang some old children’s ditty that came to my mind. Immediately I was finished I felt as though I were a child, but the Lady laughed and it was like joy itself had found a home amongst us. She then offered to reward my for my song with one of her own, if I so desired it. It took me many minutes of staring at the grass before I found the courage to meet her eyes and accept her offer. Oh!” Hearpwine closed his eyes at the intensity of the memory, “That was the song she sang, and as she did I felt it enter into my heart as though she were writing it there with a pen of solid gold. There has it lain ever since, and I have never before dared to sing it aloud, for fear that it would fail and fall in the waking world of Mortal Men – and it grieves me more than words can say that it has.”

Hearpwine shook himself roughly. “But I shall not let such misery overtake me. The greatest of all singers may have left us, but there are still musicians of note amongst us! Liornung, play us another tune and drive away my melancholy. But Maerwen,” he said, suddenly remembering the girl. “That is the second time today I have given you scant notice, and for that you shall never forgive me, and my mother will be sure to box my ears should she hear of it! Please, tell me of yourself or, if you wish, what song you would like to hear and I shall give it you at once! And you my lady Bethberry,” he said, calling out to the woman whose eyes were searching for his own, “If you would like to hear a tune let us know and we shall endeavour to sing it for you!”

[Crystal Heart]

A young woman walked into the Inn, her hood concealed her face. It was the only form of protection besides the sword underneath her cloak that she had. She looked around the Inn in interest. It was much different then the other Inns she had been in, but it seemed quaint enough for her liking. She walked swiftly through the maze of chairs and tables to the front desk. She touched her pouch. There was enough coins for a nice meal, a couple of drinks, and a room for the night.

She sat down on a stool. She pulled the hood from her head slowly and shook her hair out from under it. Auburn hair pulled away and lay in soft curls as it always did. Her unusual mixture of brown and green eyes looked around the room. She didn't open her mouth to say a word. This place was so different then she had first realized.

She wasn't afraid or shy of this place. She just liked to be quiet for a while and take it all in. She learned more by just listening to the people around her. She also learned more about the place she was in by how the people acted, talked, and what they ate and drank. Someone had once told her that it was a type of gift of hers, but she had never believed it. It was only just a skill she had acquired over her years of travel.

She had left her home so many years ago that she couldn't remember where that home had been. She had lost several years of her memory. She wasn't sure how it had happened, but it had and she hadn't regained it back. She had a feeling that she didn't want to remember those memories ever again anyway so she wasn't worried about the fact.

She did remember her name, or at least what she thought her name was. She had been under so many aliases that she had started to forget what her own name was, but she remembered it right now. Her name was something wonderful, at least in her opinion. Crystal Lerena Sandrine Heart. A name that she had thought was regal and noble, even though she didn't come from noble or regal blood.

She decided to order a drink at first. She wasn't sure what they sold here.

"Excuse me, but what is a good drink to have around here?" Crystal asked the bartender.

[Orofaniel]

"How can I be at your service dear?" Aedre asked the woman as she passed by her table. She had just stepped in to the Inn, and she was probably hungry. There had been quite a few guests at the Inn that day, and Aedre found it difficult to keep up with everything. Aedre had been walking from table to table asking the guests if there were anything they would like to eat or drink; she hadn't been standing still at all that day, just running around in all directions.

The woman looked up, a bit surprised, and smiled. "Ah..yes thank you. I'll just have a mug of ale to start with, I think...," she said seeming exhausted. "I thought you might say that," Aedre smiled. "Is that so?" The woman asked curiously. "Yes, dear...you seem exhausted..and there is nothing like a cold mug of ale for an exhausted body and mind.” Aedre continued. The woman laughed and her eyes sparkled. “Is that so?” She asked trying to be sincere. “Yes, I do believe it is,” Aedre answered trying to muffle the sound of her own laughter. “An ale it shall be then!” The woman said in a commanding voice, smiling at the humble servant. “..and an ale you shall have!” Aedre replied, while she curtsied.

Shortly after, Aedre returned to the woman, holding a cold mug of ale in her hands; “Here you are..”

[Bêthberry]

A still hush of late midday greeted Hearpwine's singing of Galadriel's lament. It was the cessation of movement around The White Horse which caught Bethberry's eye. It was as if not a breathe was taken nor expelled.

She saw Aylwen poised above the desk, hand still holding pen, as still as the barrows which rowed the entrance to Edoras. She saw Aedre unmoving, her hand holding a pitcher which she had placed upon a wooden trestle, her face turned towards the warrior turned bard. She saw Maercwen sit quietly and all Liornung's other neices and nephews rooted to their spots upon the floor, no longer rolling their small glass baubles nor bouncing their balls and pick up sticks. She saw Ruthven and the two dwarves, Oin and Finky, stop their raucous laughter to listen to Hearpwine's entrancing voice. It was difficult to imagine those two still, but indeed they were, not a tug at their beards nor a scratch at their heads nor a stretch of their arms. The old warrior Osric, his eyelids lowered to half cover his eyes, had straightened his back and his neck, lifted his head; even his arms had sought a stiff attention as his hands held bread. What enemy was he seeing march towards him?

"It is a song of great keening, the White Lady's lament," spoke Bethberry finally, "a song suited to the passing of her people, to opportunities lost, to roads not taken, to great regret."

Both Hearpwine and Liornung raised their eyes towards the former Innkeeper. What did they know of her past, of who this woman was?

"Yet every beauty has its cost, its great peril. There are those who say that Gimli himself spoke of the danger of light and joy and the wounding which comes of its passing."

Here a fleck of sunlight skittered into the great hall and fell upon Hearpwine's face. All could see him raise an eyebrow at Bethberry, which she acknowledged with a slow, small half smile which wafted over her face as moonlight dances over a running stream.

"Your words of praise are strung as pearls, great ornaments to beauty. Yet you have said when you returned home after the War that home seemed smaller and duller than you remembered it. And now you have forsaken it, seeking a different path."

Hearpwine did not contract her, but sat waiting for her to continue. Liornung watched her closely.

"For elves, memory was their heart's desire. And their bain. Can you sing a song for me, Hearpwine, of those who heart's desire turns them not back but forward, to find ever present beauty in the changes of each day?"

The woman who as a child had played in the Withywindle and around the roots of Old Man Willow, heedless of their dangers, and who had then journied the many paths of Middle earth as an itinerent healer, in search of the lost mother, sat back in her chair, realising that this day would bring wonders more bountiful than the current Innkeeper had imagined. She asked Aedre to take a seat beside them all, relaxing with the music. Then Bethberry waited calmly.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine’s laughter rang out clear into the Inn at the woman’s words. “Aye, and again Aye, my good woman Bethberry. A song of Men for Men, who must live and die in a world that changes ever – that’s more fit for us. Forgive me my song of Galadriel, as I hope the Golden Lady herself will forgive me for mangling it as I have. But do not be so quick to consign the Elves to that which is gone. From the songs I know of them, and from what I heard during the Last Journey of Theoden it would seem that their part in the great Song is come to an end. But the melodies they have played linger in the tunes of lesser beings.” He saw Bethberry smile at this, and he knew that she too found him to be a bold and not entirely realistic young man. Hearpwine merely laughed again, so used was he to his elders thinking him a fond young person.

He drank another cup of water in a few swallows, and then lifting his harp, he sang a sprightly song that lifted the hearts of all who heard it.

“Her arms across her breast she laid;
She was more fair than words can say;
Barefooted came the beggar maid
Before the king Frealaf.
In robe and crown the king stept down,
To meet and greet her on her way;
‘It is no wonder,’ said the lords,
‘She is more beautiful than day.’

“As shines the moon in clouded skies,
She in her poor attire was seen;
One praised her ankles, one her eyes,
One her dark hair and lovesome mien.
So sweet a face, such angel grace,
In all that land had never been.
Frealaf sware a royal oath:
‘This beggar maid shall be my queen!’”

He finished the tune on his harp and acknowledged the gentle applause with a slight nod of his head. “What think you of that song, eh mistress Maercwen? It is one of my favourites, for it tells the tale of a young person from the countryside who came to Edoras seeking her wealth, only to be cast into the direst poverty. But when the King himself beheld her, his heart was smitten with her beauty, and he took her up as his queen!” Maercwen simply blushed and looked away, unable to speak to Hearpwine’s manner. The young man turned back to Bethberry. “I can see by the laughter in your eye that you liked my song; but there is something there that also speaks to dislike. Perhaps you do not approve of my tale of a woman condemned to wait upon the whim of a powerful man? Well, let me mend that song with another!” And without waiting for a reply he stroked his harp into vigorous life once more.

“I know her by her angry air,
Her bright black eyes, her bright black hair,
Her rapid laughters wild and shrill,
As laughters of the woodpecker
From the bosom of a hill.
’Tis Kate–she sayeth what she will;
For Kate hath an unbridled tongue,
Clear as the twanging of a harp.
Her heart is like a throbbing star.
Kate hath a spirit ever strung
Like a new bow, and bright and sharp
As edges of the scimitar.
Whence shall she take a fitting mate?
For Kate no common love will feel;
My woman-soldier, gallant Kate,
As pure and true as blades of steel.

“Kate saith ‘the world is void of might.’
Kate saith ‘the men are gilded flies.’
Kate snaps her fingers at my vows;
Kate will not hear of lovers’ sighs.
I would I were an armed knight,
Far-famed for well-won enterprise,
And wearing on my swarthy brows
The garland of new-wreathed emprise;
For in a moment I would pierce
The blackest files of clanging fight,
And strongly strike to left and right,
In dreaming of my lady’s eyes.
O, Kate loves well the bold and fierce;
But none are bold enough for Kate,
She cannot find a fitting mate.”

Once more applause filled the Inn, but this time there was also some laughter. “So what make you of my music Bethberry? To make amends for my song of the Lady Departed I give you two songs of women who are all too real in Rohan. Which of these two women do we,” with a sweeping gesture of his hand he indicated all who sat and listened, “which of these women do we prefer? The beautiful wretch who must wait upon her lord? Or the proud maid who will wait for no man?”

[Bêthberry]

Ruthven gingerishly rose to her feet, carefully feeling all her limbs and sides to make sure her aged bones could take this kind of horseplay. She watched Oin and Finky race around her cart. They seemed to have forgotten her and so for the time being she could simply catch her breath and wipe some of the mud from her. Truth be told, she hadn't had so much fun in years. Yet it wasn't like she would let on to the dwarves.

"You harmed my dignity!" shouted Oin, barely missing one of the cart's handles as he tried to catch Finky.

"You harmed an old lady!" retorted Finky, running around the front wheel and nearly catching his foot in the spokes..

"You'll pay, you miserable dwarf!!" accused Oin.

"Make me you descendant of rats scurrying under mountains."

"By the Beard of Durin I'll make you eat this mud," swore Oin.

"Tastes better than your words!"

The faster they ran around the cart, the more the mud flew and the dirtier the two dwarves became. Their hair and faces, beards and clothes were covered with mud, head to foot and back again.

Ruthven began to laugh, slowly at first and then faster and more loudly, but with good humour. Her voice rang out and slowly penetrated the thick skulls of the two dwarves. They stopped. They looked at each other. They looked at her.

Now, Oin was a decent fellow inspite of his grumbling. And Finky really did care for Oin. And they were getting tired of all this running and falling.

"I beg your pardon?" commented Oin, attempting to regain some of his dignity.

"What's this?" asked Finky, wanting to appear the peace-maker.

"You're dignity's digging yourselves down in the mud. Keep it up and the two of ye will be turned into stone yourselves prematurely. I won't know ye from the earth you're pounding."

The two looked at her under muddy eyebrows. They looked at each other. All three began to hoot and hollar.

"We are a right mess," observed Oin.

"We have taken our beauty baths," sniffed Finky.

"Methinks we'd best move on and clean ourselves before this cakes on," replied Ruthven, beginning to feel the chill of the spring mud move into her bones.

"Come, Finky," said Oin. "Let's get this cart out of the mud and head back to that Inn. We'll never get on our way this way."

"Right you are," replied Finky.

And so the two dwarves helped Ruthven roll her cat back to her small leanto behind one of the stores, where she cleaned herself of the muck. And the two dwarves moved on to the Horse, where they carefully treaded into their room, tossing Aylwen some coin for the mud they brought in, and bathed as is the wont and way of dwarves. Which is to say, in mighty pails of steaming hot water.

And so Ruthven found that she needed a way not with words but with laughter to bring the two to their senses. And so they all agreed to meet again at the Horse once they were cleaned and dried and brought back to jolly good humour. And that was how they found themselves listening to the battle of the songs between Hearpwine and Liornung and attended to the challenge of songs between Hearpwine and Bethberry. All in all, it had been a good day to be a dwarf.

[Imladris]

This beggar maid shall be my queen the euphonious utterance rang like a silver bell within the my cranium-imprisoned mind. The minstrel of words began to cantillate yet another pulchritudinous composition that revealed a maid of so cavalier an air that she seemed like a caustic elixir burning the torn, throbbing heart of star-struck lover.

My buckram muscles, with great demurral, untwined themselves from their twisted seated position, and I, with inbred feline lissomeness, leaped to the wooden floor of the Inn. Ochroid insignia lifted high, I trotted to where the master of words resided.

“So what make you of my music Bethberry? To make amends for my song of the Lady Departed I give you two songs of women who are all too real in Rohan. Which of these two women do we,” with a sweeping gesture of his hand he indicated all who sat and listened, “which of these women do we prefer? The beautiful wretch who must wait upon her lord? Or the proud maid who will wait for no man?”

Bethberry…the lady was like a returning ghost of memory. Had she really fondled me so many years ago? The thread of memory had grown ragged indeed.

Diverting the powers of cogitation to the balladist, I considered it. Having a resplendent damsel drinking your grandiose aura was rather alluring. I purred, and rubbed myself against Bethberry’s leg.

[Nurumaiel]

Maercwen was leaning back in her chair, her two white hands clasped together, her face flushed with pleasure and excitement, and her eyes shining with delight. She was a lovely sight to behold, it was true, but the look that came to her face was lovelier still when two little children came stumbling into the room, holding hands and looking about them in confusion. One was a laddie, fair-haired and blue-eyed, his face freckled and cheery though not lacking the bold defiance and wildness that is often found in children of his age; the other was a lass, resembling Maercwen very much, her eyes and hair colored much the same as the little boy beside her, but her face was more lightly freckled and she was very pudgy while he was only slightly so. Standing behind them was another lad, but older than the two babyish-featured children by perhaps ten years, and he greatly resembled Liornung, in fact even more so than he did his father who was working in the stable. He was tall, almost as tall as Maercwen, a thoughtful, ponderous look upon his tanned features, but an eager light leapt to his eyes when they fell upon Liornung. He was holding 'the bonny baby laddie,' as little Drihten son of Leofan was often wont to be called by those who loved him dearest.

The three children skipped forward to their uncle and greeted him warmly. The young lad, Beorht, and the lass his twin Middaeg, fell upon him with shrieks as wild as those of Deman and Fierlan before them, and while the older lad Gomen merely gave his uncle a short embrace his eyes were shining with the excited thrills that passed through him. Liornung's face was something to see indeed! Such a wide smile was upon his countenance as he greeted his little niece and three nephews and it was apparent to see he delighted in children, especially those children of his brother. Drihten had buried his face shyly in Gomen's shoulder, peering out of big blue eyes at his uncle, a sly little smile flickering across his face, yet he showed no objection when Liornung took the baby on his knee. If one had ever seen the fond, caressing way Liornung had held his fiddle they could well imagine how he held his baby nephew with ten times the fondness and love.

Gomen, relieved of his burden of the baby, placed himself on the arm of Maercwen's chair and slipping an arm about her shoulders, greeted her a good afternoon, calling her his 'little sister.' She greeted him likewise and questioned him as to where the rest of the children were, saving Deman and Fierlan who were continuing their battle out by the stable. "Giefu is making himself a wooden sword in the stable," Gomen replied, "though I think Papa brought him out intending to teach him more about horses. Mereflod is helping Mamma in the kitchen, because you know, little Mae, how she likes to work. Motan is also in the stable, though by now she is probably fast asleep in some empty stall."

Liornung had put his free arm about the two-year-old twins and brought them closer to him, saying, "Hearpwine, this is my little niece Middaeg and her twin brother Beorht. This bonny babe here is Drihten," and here he put a hand upon the little head that was just growing fuzzy gold curls, "and that handsome lad there is Gomen. As for the others there are five more, I think, somewhere about. And that introduces you quite properly to my darling family."

[Kransha]

A smile lighted Osric’s face again as he listened to a more jocund song from the mouth of Hearpwine. In truth, it was not very merry, but it brought back merrier memories. Though the song of Hearpwine chimed a gentle bell, it was Osric’s mind that strayed from the lyrical verse itself, leaving only the rhythm of the tune itself that lingered like a heartbeat in the aged Rohirrim as he thought back.

He could see the same jet black hair, smooth strands as dark as night’s tempting shadows, that Hearpwine sung of in his stirring melody. It was his own maiden, the one image he remembered better than any tale. Unlike the maiden whose portrait was so finely crafted in song, her eyes where a tranquil green, glimmering with what Osric had always thought to be a tint of gold. Those eyes and that noble but delicate complexion soothed the elder Rohirrim, rocking him into a state of mental slumber as he pictured the woman with a reminiscing smile upon withered lips. He was brought, soon enough, back to the warm reality of the White Horse with the sound of an oddly pensive feline’s purring, as it rubbed against Bethberry’s leg calmly. This was followed by more arrivals, namely a quartet of young ones who pranced over, most energetically, to Liornung. As the fiddler took the smallest of the children on his knee gently, he introduced the four of them. Osric’s smile widened, the creased wrinkles of his face fading in happiness, and he spoke, turning to Hearpwine. He quickly gave Gomen, Middaeg, Drihten, and Beorht an acknowledging nod and further grin, to the slight delight of the child, Drihten, whose blue eyes seemed to wink with that wonderful innocence that only a child had.

“Though I’m sure I speak not for all, Hearpwine, I can honestly say that the second is, in my foolish old eyes at least, the fairer. The only maid who I ever loved was one such lady, a woman as strong as a storm and as untamable as the very Mearas themselves. The meek may be for some, Hearpwine, but is those with fire that draw me and, so I have heard, a great many men. I find that this fire may dwindle and need new firewood to rekindle it as years go by, but the mysterious and elusive beauty of the flame will be eternal as the sun.”

The old one paused, considering his words in contemplation and chuckling foolishly to himself as his mind began leafing through neglected pages of ballad, story, tale, and epic he could have related about any beauty that he thought of now. He knew any attempt would be weak and surely dwarfed by Hearpwine’s serene talent and expertly honed skill. The man’s eyes, widened now as he awakened from his veritable dormancy, turned and gazed with reverence on Hearpwine.

“If my mind was still mounted upon firm foundations, lad, I could tell such stories, but alas I would only butcher them each in turn, for my silver tongue has dulled. But, I see new hope for the next age when I see folk such as you, Hearpwine, and the fairness of your words. I assure you, the Golden Lady would be proud to hear your moving rendition of her verse, for who could sing anything but its praises? You are too modest, Heaprwine, a trait which I have not seen in a truly long time.”

[Crystal Heart]

Crystal looked up and thanked the Innkeeper. She took a small sip and gave a smile. It was rather good.

Her memory wandered, but there was still places where she still couldn't remember a thing. In her travelings around middle earth she had been in rather rough fight with a drunken man that had mistaken her as his wife. His fists had been wild and hard against the skull of her head. There was only portions of that she actually remembered. She did remember waking up in a place with a woman over her telling her what had happened to her. She couldn't remember many other things after that. Her memory was slowly coming back, but it was so painfully slow that she had stopped trying to actually remember. She wasn't even entirely sure that Crystal was her real name.

She thought back hard against the bearer, but nothing would budge in her mind. There was just a black portion that just sat there, unweilding against her mental pushes. She itched her neck and felt something she hadn't noticed before. She pulled the rough thing away from her and saw a necklace. It was long with a pendant on the end. She read it: Eowyn Lightheart. Ah, that was her name. It had to be. She couldn't have found it any where else. She smiled.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The Innkeeper watched as the newcomer asked Aedre for the ale. Aylwen raised her gaze from the ledger to watch and study the young woman, who puzzled Aylwen and made her suspicious and nervous. Of course, it was Aylwen's job as Innkeeper to be suspicious, or at least her right to be. Aylwen didn't want any trouble, and the only reason that caused her to suspect was the weapon she'd caught a glimpse of earlier when the stranger had walked in. The young woman's looks betrayed that she did not hail from Rohan, as did the fact that she traveled alone. It struck Aylwen that not only did the girl travel alone, but she carried a sword, as though she meant to travel alone anyway.

It is unsettling to have an armed patron, for we are people of peace here after the great war, Aylwen thought. But there are probably other weapons in this Inn that I am not aware of. I shall not have the young'un tossed just because I caught sight of her sword...The Innkeeper sighed and listened half-heartedly as Bethberry and Hearpwine spoke and sang. I will do naught unless the sword is brought out for use...

“So what make you of my music Bethberry? To make amends for my song of the Lady Departed I give you two songs of women who are all too real in Rohan. Which of these two women do we...which of these women do we prefer? The beautiful wretch who must wait upon her lord? Or the proud maid who will wait for no man?”

Aylwen looked over at Hearpwine, a smile in her heart and playing upon her lips. The young man amused her, to say the least. Aylwen was almost jealous of Liornung and Hearpwine's talent and skill with music, but more than anything Aylwen was overjoyed to have them at the Inn.

“Though I’m sure I speak not for all, Hearpwine, I can honestly say that the second is, in my foolish old eyes at least, the fairer. The only maid who I ever loved was one such lady, a woman as strong as a storm and as untamable as the very Mearas themselves. The meek may be for some, Hearpwine, but is those with fire that draw me and, so I have heard, a great many men. I find that this fire may dwindle and need new firewood to rekindle it as years go by, but the mysterious and elusive beauty of the flame will be eternal as the sun.”

The Innkeeper turned her gaze to the man called Osric, and nodded at his words. It was a good man that spoke truly and honestly from his heart, and it seemed that most men of Rohan were so, and that, to Aylwen, proved to be all well and good.

“If my mind was still mounted upon firm foundations, lad, I could tell such stories, but alas I would only butcher them each in turn, for my silver tongue has dulled. But, I see new hope for the next age when I see folk such as you, Hearpwine, and the fairness of your words. I assure you, the Golden Lady would be proud to hear your moving rendition of her verse, for who could sing anything but its praises? You are too modest, Heaprwine, a trait which I have not seen in a truly long time.”

Aylwen nodded, for Osric's words were true of Hearpwine. At that moment, several familiar children came running towards Liornung, all children that Aylwen had known for a very long time. Aylwen had known most of them, in fact, for their whole lives. The children of Leofan went to their uncle with happy smiles upon their faces.

Turning her gaze, Aylwen's dark eyes finally rested on the newcomer, who thanked Aedre for the wine she'd been served. Aylwen sighed and watched as more customers entered the Inn. The Inn would become crowded quickly, for the sun was slowly waning in the sky and once it was completely gone Aylwen would give her speech to begin the festivities.

[bilbo_baggins]

Finally clean of all the muck, and having a bout of laughter every few moments, Oin and Finky made their way back to the main room, listening to the cheerful noise of song in the air.

"I always did like a touch of song now and then, don't you Oin?" asked Finky, hoping to cheer Oin up after making him so mad out there.

"Well, hahaha, I do, hehe, like, hoohoo, a good bit of song, ahaahaa, now and then. Heeheehee!" Oin couldn't stop himself, and barely contained by the time he had arrived in the Common Room.

It was a beautiful place now, with bards singing and contesting their hearts out. Songs filled the air with a peaceful, graceful, unaggressive competition. It was truly a wonderful place now.

But deep in Oin's heart, he knew that everything here was very noble and ancient, long in use and purpose. He and Finky were mere childs compared to such people as these.

[Bêthberry]

Almost without thought, Bethberry reached down to stroke Goldwine, her fingers entwining in the soft fur and languishing at the touch upon the feline's warm body. Goldwine promptly jumped up and claimed a regal spot on the woman's lap, where she continued to allow herself to be caressed as Bethberry listened to Hearpwine's songs and Osric's proud proclamation of the beauty of dark-haired Kate. The arrival of the children and the attention paid to them gave Bethberry time to reflect upon Hearpwine's reply.

Hearpwine had not, as she had suspected, understood what she was about. Oh, he had seen her smile and he had thought about 'heart's desires'--well, more rather 'heat's desires' --but he had assumed she was regarding him as many do the fond and energetic young. Instead, she had been testing his appreciation of the White Lady's lament. It seemed that he was indeed as cynical as he was enthusiastic, for he had dismissed the elven melodies as, perhaps, mere melodies, and not attempted to see how their heart's desire might inspire a new age.

"Let me think, Master Harpist," she spoke up. "You give me a choice between two women made wretched by the purposed dominion of men, but when has that tale ever not been true? By your very choice you consign the elven melodies to mere fancy, to trifling amusement and eliminate the meaning of the White Lady's burden from your thoughts. The old warrior Osric was not so dismissive."

At this, several eyes were raised at Bethberry in astonishment. The fond young bard was taken up short and he cocked his head slightly to the side while over old Osric's face there danced a smile of wisdom and recognition.

"Galadriel's lamentation is a burden of real life, no illusion of the conceiving mind, but the melancoly lesson of rebellion and leadership and dreadful battle against foes mighty and cruel. It is wrought out of the perils of this realm and weariness with it. And she learnt the lesson of the ring and of power. If we do not take that with us as we weave our music, then indeed we face a long defeat." She paused, wondering if she was speaking too much of her knowledge of the tales of Middle-earth, a knowledge gleaned from her father and mother's side and which for many in Rohan was the mere stuff of legend, not history.

Then she continued. "Is there no room in your vision of the new age for the reality of the elves, Hearpwine? Not the nostalgia, now, which is what I wondering about, but something that accords with the law of this Arda , some arresting strangeness that can capture a consolation unexpectedly out of grief?"

She heard coughs and looked over at Ruthven, whose aged eyes were harbouring a gleam of wicked delight, and then at the dwarves Oin and Finky.

"I forget my manner now that I am no longer Innkeeper here. We have others here, travellers from many lands, who may wish also to sing or tell of their songs. Perhaps they will serve to give impetus to our bards here, Liornung and Hearpwine." Then Bethberry looked up at Aylwen. "Or you?"

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“Ah! like gold fall the leaves in the wind,
long years numberless as the wings of trees!
The long years have passed like swift draughts
of the sweet mead in lofty halls beyond the West,
beneath the blue vaults of Varda wherein the stars
tremble in the song of her voice, holy and queenly.
Who now shall refill the cup for me?

”For now the Kindler, Varda, the Queen of the Stars,
from Mount Everwhite has uplifted her hands like clouds,
and all paths are drowned deep in shadow;
and out of a grey country darkness lies
on the foaming waves between us, and mist
covers the jewels of Calacirya for ever.
Now lost, lost to those from the East is Valimar!
Farewell! Maybe thou shalt find Valimar.
Maybe even thou shalt find it. Farewell!”

Hearpwine’s rich voice filled the mead hall in reply to Bêthberry. The music was the same as when he had sung it in the Elven tongue, but this time, as he sang it in the common Westron, it did not call to the heart, nor did it take those who heard it to a far realm of memory and repose. When he had finished he gazed to where the woman sat and smiled at her again – this time, however, it was with a somewhat subdued, even chastened expression. “Forgive me my good Bêthberry, I sang again without anyone’s bid, but I found myself sore-charged and needed to respond. As you can see, the Lady’s song did go to my heart and left there an indelible mark that I shall take with me to my grave and – time and luck willing! – perhaps I shall be able to leave somewhat of it behind me for those who come after. I say perhaps, however, for as you can tell, when I sing it again in my own tongue and not as I heard it from the Lady, it loses much of its great power. What shall bards do when this tongue, which already too few among us know, is utterly forgotten? But even were I able to preserve the song as I heard it from the Lady Galadriel, I cannot replicate her voice as she sang it, nor begin to give a sense of what it was to hear that song beneath the moon with the Lady herself glimmering in the gathering night as though with her own radiance. Much has been retained, and there is much we can do with it to guide the songs and singers to come, but much has passed, and will never be again.”

He fell into a deep and brooding silence, broken only by the purring of the cat and the quiet games of the children. Hearpwine had been delighted with their entrance, for there was no audience more honestly and wholly appreciative of music than the young. But this new challenge by Bêthberry weighed on his mind. When at length he spoke again, it was with the slow dawning of a new light. “And yet I begin to understand what you mean, lady. The singer is gone, and the song irrevocably altered, but the melody remains…Aye! There is much that I might learn from the verse.” He sat upright and brought his hand down flat against the table, making the children who watched the interchange (and who were mightily confused by it) jump. “Yes!,” he cried, “I understand the lesson now! For too many years has that song lain dormant in my heart, for I dared not utter it aloud, knowing how pale and coarse it would sound when compared to the memory of its first singing. But how must the Lady have felt about her song: she who had heard the singing of those who dwell in the West? And for Them? What must They make of Their songs after having heard the Song of Eru of which all other melodies are merely receding echoes? The Age of Men has come. We must keep alive the memory of what we can, and seek to weave as much of that as we may into our lays!” He gazed at Bêthberry with gratitude. “Come Liornung!” he cried, and his joy was so great that tears started from his eyes and he let them sparkle on his cheeks unashamed. "Let us sing such songs as these good people have never heard! Let us create new worlds with music even as we celebrate the world that is passed! Come all -- bid us sing what you wish, then lend us the aid of your voices as chorus, and the reward of your hands in payment!"

[Bêthberry]

It was a performance beyond most that had graced the mead hall of The White Horse Inn and like all mesmerising and enigmatic performances, it brought a calm denouement in its wake, as if the audience was quietly in thrall to the ineluctible promise that had been held out to it. Hearpwine looked around at Liornung, who was silently cuddlying the bairn Drihten on his lap and at Osric whose wryly twisted mouth held promise of future comment. Aedre, Taliesin, the cloaked woman, the other patrons, all sat back as if exhausted and the childlren were silenced. Goldwine sleepily decreed that he had had enough of Bethberry's coddling and jumped off her lap with a dismissive self-possession that the Inn's patrons seemed to lack.

"Rough indeed is the Common Tongue, Hearpwine. Its glory perhaps can be made to shine only by the hands of a Master." It could not be denied that there was a twinkle in her eye, yet her face spoke of wistful thought. Here indeed was a wild Rohirrim boy, uncompromising in his fealty to his art. She wondered, however, if this would be the kind of Bard the Golden Hall would want, uncaged and uncageable and forever young.

"Gomen and Maercwen, you must remember this day, for it is the stuff of which lengends will be made and if you do not live it perhaps you shall write it." The two looked at Bethberry quizzically and she grinned mischievously.

"This is your mistress of the letters talking. You have an hour to spend over your slates while I read to your younger siblings."

Their faces darkened and pouts appeared around their lips.

"We shan't go far but only to gather 'round the other fire, where you may still hear the amusements of the adults. but where my voice will not interfer with those here."

Bethberry rose and took Drihten from Liornung's arms, for even the babe attended to her story-telling sessions, his eyes darting to the sound of the common tongue made soothing by her voice.

"Oin and Finky, what would the dwarves say to the elven lament? What are your tales of the perilous realm? And Osric, though your voice be quavering with age and memory, think not that an infirmity. Let time be the judge of your tales and not human scorn nor humbleness. All of us here have experiences of how the past War engrained its struggle and deprivations upon our lives. Gomen and Maercwen will return with their tales and even Aedre, I think, can add to our remembrance. Aylwen's call is not far away."

With a slight bow to all and a nod to Hearpwine, Bethberry rose and took the children to the side for an hour of conning and drumming over words and letters, but an hour that passed swiftly for she was no school marm, but an entertainer in her way.

[bilbo_baggins]

Truly Oin did have a song to sing, for he wished to hold his race's own in this fair Inn:

As the Eldar have a sad story to tell
And Men speak of danger and foe
So the Dwarves have a song to sing,
It also is filled with woe

When the Fathers awoke
In the Depths of Time
They were not wholly
Devoid of Rhyme

We Dwarves sing too,
Though our voices pale
In comparison with
The hearty or hale

We may have rough tongues
And sing of rough themes
But of tales and of songs
We have more than few reams

Though it seemeth I babble,
I tell you, we sorrow
For long-gone caverns
And for what cometh tomorrow

A Ballad I quote,
Of the Dwarves and their singings
For our proud race
Does have some sore longings

We held our own
In the war of the Finding
In the fights with Evil
Against its binding

The losses were hard
And the Dwarves shall remember
The days of the War,
The days of the Finder

For in those days
A friendship did spring
Between the Elf and the Dwarf
And our hearts did ring

Our troubles are soon ended
In these days of peace
Where justice is served
To even the least


As Oin finished, he noticed several people moved by his song. He himself had not known he could bring all of the Dwarves views out in the open in such a deep, completely true telling.

His cousin Gimli had written this song a while back, telling of the friendship that had sprung between him and Legolas. Truly, he could not tell it like his relative, but the song told of more than simple singing. It told of peace and happiness to come.

Oin knew he was not a bard, and seldom do Dwarves become bards, but it was actually quite fun singing that song.

[Bêthberry]

With a hearty giggle if not a guffaw, Ruthven found herself warming to Oin's song as she had not to Hearpwine's elvish lament. That had lacked the kind of regular measure and beat which excited her pulse and thrilled her aged bones. While she could appreciate the keening of the lament, it had not caught her fancy enough to move her body.

But Oin's verse! Now there was something to join along with!

Her foot started tapping the floor in a pounding rhythm to match that of its metre, although her old muscles could not quite keep up a regular pace, if that had been needed. Rhumm dumm rhumm dumm dumm da dumm beat her foot and her head joined in, nodding in time. And then her hand unbidden picked up the beat by drumming the table, nearly, at one point, knocking over the tankards of ale and beer. She caught them in time before they toppled over and spilt the golden brews but in doing so she spied spoons amid the cutlery and plates strewn over the table.

Ruthven picked up two spoons and placed them in her hands, bowl of spoon facing bowl of spoon. Soon she was able to rattle them together in rhythm with Oin's song, and the longer she went on, the larger grew Oin's smile as he told his song. He had an appreciative audience, something he had not expected, nor, even, experienced before and he found himself quite liking the sensation. If gave him courage as he went on.

Finky, meanwhile, saw a means to persuading Oin to stay longer at The White Horse. A grin spread across his face as he began to mark the beat with his hands, a clap for the first beat and then a second and third rap on his thighs. Dumm dha dum. Dumm dha dum. The children, away at the end of the mead hall with Bethberry, looked up from conning their slates and began to nod along with the rhythm.

[bilbo_baggins]

Oin made up some verses in his head now, as he wanted to keep on going:

In the Dwarvish halls,
They sit, and they sing,
Though the language be course
And their voices don’t ring

They sing of proud endings,
And of all that has past
From the very first time
To what is now last

Of battles and wars
They sing of not few
For our race has fought
From the time it was new

Ever we fight
For what we hold dear,
And for what we long after
We shed many a tear

The songs go on
And sing of the peace
That came after war
Though it be brief

The death did ensue
And quickly it brought
Many a sadness
And vengeful thought

The Dwarves have fallen
And now have become
A race that hides
And from the world does shun

We hold to our wealth
And greedily seek
To gain ever more,
To stop any leak

Though my song be course
And my rhyme doth fail
I hope you enjoy it
And think it worthy and hale


As Oin finished, he grabbed a glass of water from Finky's hand and quaffed it. He was spent, and hoped that his efforts would be pleasing to the other geusts at the Inn.

He noticed that the old, wizened lady who he and Finky had encountered today was enjoying his rhythms. He went over and asked, "Did you like my songs? I made up the last one, and I believe I may have to hear another's song before I can think of any more verses to sing. I hope you are happy after getting your task with the cart done?"

"I really liked the songs, you spry young rhyming Dwarf! I got my cart out of harm's way too, and I hope to never get it stuck in that same place again. I am happy now, listening to these songs in here, too." replied the lady Ruthven.

"Good, good. I hope to hear some more songs, too." said Oin, and promptly sat down to rest.

[Mad Baggins]

The sun was waning in the sky, and Ceryl was glad that she did not have to walk far to get to the Inn. She lived right here in Edoras, in a house not far from the Horse. She pushed open the door to the Inn. A merry tune was being sung inside, and there was a pleasant rhythm within it. Ceryl was unhappy to hear the song end almost immediately after she stepped into the room. She tucked her golden hair behind her ears and surveyed the room. There were little clusters of people everywhere; nervous people, merry people, tired people. Ceryl threaded her way through the crowd of people and tables to the bar, where she hailed the barkeep.

"Cup of tea, please? Thank you, miss." She smiled and nodded at the young girl, who smiled back and walked off for more duties. Ceryl breathed in the hot steam rising from her cup, letting it buffet her face gently. She raised it and took a long sip. The hot liquid sliding down her throat felt better than anything else in the world. After sipping her tea, Ceryl looked around again. She noticed a minstrel in one part of the Inn and two dwarves across the room.

Feeling her stomach rumble, Ceryl hailed the barkeep again. "Excuse me, miss, but could I trouble you for a bowl of stew? Thank you ever so much."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine roared with appreciative laughter at the conclusion of the Dwarves’ song and clapped his hand to the tabletop so mightily that Liornung had to look to his cup as it danced dangerously close to the edge of the table. “Well sung!” the young bard cried, “well sung indeed, my friends. You do your race credit! I did not know that Dwarves cared for aught but mines and gems and craft. You shame me in your proof of my ignorance.” Standing, he bowed to them deeply (but as he did so, he cast his eyes across the room to where Liornung’s pretty niece was sitting at her lessons). The Dwarves beamed at his praise and stood to return his bow, their beards sweeping the floor.

Hearpwine sat again and swallowed the last of his water to clear his throat. He then turned to the fiddler and demanded of him, “Why are you sitting there so silent, my friend, when we are charged by the lady Bêthberry herself to raise the roofbeams of the meadhall with our music? I know that we have sung much this day, and I begin to fear that I overtax my voice for the Contest tomorrow, but I am in such a mood for singing as has rarely come over me!”

In truth, he was rather alarmed by his mood, for the singing and revelry, while genuine, had become somewhat giddy for him. Hearpwine fingered his tankard while he considered this. When he had arrived at The White Horse Inn, he had been certain that the Contest before the King was his to be won – but with the formidable talent of his friend as an example of the greatness of other bards, coupled with the sobering lessons of Bêthberry…Hearpwine’s characteristic confident spirits were beginning to slip somewhat. He shook his head to clear those thoughts and turned to Osric. “Come, old warrior, tell us a tale from your storehouse. You say that you are no longer capable of a full and proper telling, but I deem that you are able to do the patrons of this Inn good service. I will sing another brief lay while you cast about for an appropriate story.” And with that, Hearpwine sang a stirring song that set the blood on edge of every warrior in the room.

“Forth to the battle!
Onward the fight,
Swift as the eagle in his flight!
Let not the sunlight o'er our pathway close,
Till we o'erthrow the evil foes.
Strong as yonder foaming tide,
Rushing down the mountainside;
Be ye ready, sword and spear,
Pour upon the spoiler near.

“Winds! that float o'er us,
Bid the tyrant quail,
Ne'er shall his ruffian bands prevail!
Morning shall view us fetterless and free,
Slaves ne'er shall Rohan’s children be.
Heaven our arms with conquest bless,
All our bitter wrongs redress;
Strike the harp! Awake the cry!
Valour's sons fear not to die.”

[Crystal Heart]

Eowyn looked up and watched in interest as people sang. She had could not remember anything about songs. There was a barrier against the memories of her childhood. Like most of her memories they seemed to be locked behind doors that she did not carry keys for. She couldn't even remember exactly why she had come in the Inn. There had been a purpose she supposed. She knew she wanted a drink, but there had been something else. She couldn't remember.

The only thing she could remember was that terrible fall. She had been riding with people that she knew were familiar and that she had known at one time, but she couldn't put her finger on who they were. They had been in Gondor then. She had toppled off and had hit her head against something hard. When she had awoken she remembered being in the dark with no money, no weapon, and no means of transport home. She remembered that she couldn't remember who she was or where she was from. She hadn't remembered where home was. She still wasn't sure.

She figured that had been at least a year ago. She couldn't recall time anymore. Everything seemed to blurr. Every once in a while she would remember a tidbit of something, but it only made her confused because she didn't know what it meant to her. All of her memories that she had still maintained were pieced together in a makeshift puzzle that really didn't fit together. There was such blackness all through her memory that she had no idea what things were real and what she had made up on her own.

She smiled softly to herself as she recalled what one of the people she had met in similar type Inn had decided to call her. Crystal, like her voice was his reasoning. She had carried it around without a last name, telling everyone that she was Crystal. She remembered someone saying that she had a kind heart and had decided to make that her last name. Other then that she had had no memory of her real name.

Until today. She had been sitting here thinking when she had found the necklace around her neck and remember that her name was Eowyn Lightheart. She had recalled that the heart part of her name had sounded familiar. She couldn't remember when she had had a normal bath last. She usually got very wet in her travels and her and her clothes had ended up clean. Now that she thought about it, she wondered if her accident had really been a year ago after all. Maybe it had only been about three weeks in actuality. Or had it been longer? A month maybe? She had no idea.

She frowned in frustration. There just didn't seem to be any hope for her to remember anything about herself and what she use to be. This was her now, whatever it was she had become. At least she had a real name to fall back on. Maybe if people called her that then she would start remembering more.

As their songs drifted to her ears she wished that they would unlock something in her, something that would make sense to her. She had was sick and tired of guessing about her past and making up theories about what she supposed she knew.

She sipped her ale and wondered if she would be a loner without a home, without a memory, without a purpose for the rest of her miserable life. She hadn't been happy wandering around like an invalid, wondering what and who she truly was. There wasn't a thing that she could do on her own to unlock her vital memories. She put her head in her hand and sighed deeply.

[Nurumaiel]

"Oh, good Hearpwine, that was one of the loveliest songs that has graced my ear in many a day," Maercwen cried, looking up from her slate. "Indeed every song that has been sung this night is delightful and full of brave deeds and love." She turned coaxing eyes to her uncle. "Wouldn't you, Uncle Liornung, sing the rather amusing song of the laddie who went courting a lass for the first and the last time due to the events that came of it?"

Liornung couldn't resist laughing. "That was a highly amusing song, I'll admit," he said, and spoke next to Hearpwine. "She speaks of a song I was taught by a Gondorian bard when I was just a lad. 'Twas he who gave me this fiddle. Shall I sing you the song?"

"I daresay I could manage to laugh at anything amusing," Hearpwine said. "If it would please Miss Maercwen..." He looked in her direction, and she spoke quickly, saying, "It would indeed."

"Then," Liornung said, catching up his fiddle, "I shall sing it."

Whack-fo-the-diddle-di-dum-day!

When I was but a lad of twenty years or so
there was a maid who down the streets would go
every morning early, every evening dark
singing like the high-soaring, bonnie, bonnie lark.

She sang,
Whack-fo-the-diddle-di-dum-day!
Singing like the high-soaring, bonnie, bonnie lark.

She was fair to look at, her manners did charm
to call on her a day I thought it wouldn't harm
but little, little did I know the heart of this maid
so did I love all she did and all she said.

She said,
Whack-fo-the-diddle-di-dum-day!
So did I love all she did and all she said.

I called on her one day early in the spring.
She asked me to sit down, treated me like a king
but when I chanced to ask if she'd marry me
I sorely regretted it and felt as though to flee.

She said,
Whack-fo-the-diddle-di-dum-day!
I sorely regretted it and felt as though to flee.

She flew up from her chair, caught me by the hair
and gave me a beating that I could hardly bear.
Then she took me up and in the fire threw me
and I was drove half mad till I hardly knew me.

She said,
Whack-fo-the-diddle-di-dum-day!
And I was drove half mad till I hardly knew me.

Then out of the fire and out of the door
and she took it to beat me a little bit more.
And there was a pond and in it she tossed
me and all my love dreams that were past.

She said,
Whack-fo-the-diddle-di-dum-day!
Me and all my love dreams that were past.

I'll never again go courting lassies fair,
not here in Rohan, or Gondor, nor anywhere.
I value my life, if I court she will kill
and of courting the lassies I've had my fill.

I sing,
Whack-fo-the-diddle-di-dum-day!
Of courting the lassies I've had my fill.

Liornung finished his song but not his tune. He appeared to be madly excited over his song and began to work his fiddle at a rapid pace. A merry tune, similiar to the tune of the song yet different, was brought forth from his old instrument and after listening a little while Hearpwine took up his harp and began to play along with him. Gomen jumped to his feet and extended a hand to Maercwen, who took it gleefully, and soon they were dancing about the common room, twirling and spinning, laughing heartily. Liornung brought his tune out harder and faster, Hearpwine followed, and the two children danced harder. For a full two minutes it went on before Liornung brought the melody to a satisfying conclusion. Gomen and Maercwen collapsed by their slates, breathing hard but laughing still. Liornung smiled fondly at them.

"You dance as lovely as you did when you were a baby," he said. "I fancy tonight there will be much dancing, but I'll be so busy playing my fiddle that I shan't be able to."

"Never think that, good Liornung," Hearpwine spoke up quickly. "I will play music on my harp and you shall dance with your niece at least once."

"What about her mother?"

"Her as well."

"And all her sisters?"

"Oh, my dear Uncle Liornung," Maercwen laughed, "you mustn't demand too much of Master Hearpwine. Next you'll want to dance with Bethberry and Aylwen and all the women in the inn, and then not satisfied you'll begin requesting dances of Gomen and my father!"

"Your father," Liornung said gravely, "is the worst dancer I have ever seen, and his singing is worse. He always did spend too much time with those horses." Hearpwine's eyebrows raised sightly and Liornung laughed. "Nay, Good Hearpwine, do not let my teasing fool you. My brother is a fair singer and an excellent dancer. He can't help it with a little brother like me."

"Rest your voice a little now, good uncle," Maercwen said. "Let Master Hearpwine take a turn. Will you," she added, turning to the future Bard of the King, "sing any song I request of you?"

"Any, Miss Maercwen."

A little smile flickered across her face. "You needn't call me that," she said. "My uncle and family always refer to me as Mae. In truth it is a rather charming name. But come, sing to me a song about a dance so we may anticipate tonight's festivities. Create in song a room lit by a fire, a fiddler sitting by that fire playing merry and delightful tunes, and people dancing about together in complete happiness and fun."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

For the first time since he’d arrived, Hearpwine’s natural good humour seemed to fail him utterly. “Alas!” he sighed with true sadness, “I’m afraid Mae” and he flushed a little as he called the lass by this name, “that I do not know of any song that will match your desires. With an hour or two of thought I could write one, but you ask for something to dance to now…” He fell into a thoughtful pose for a moment, but then his eyes brightened and he sat up in his chair. He seized his harp. “This is not, perhaps, what you need, Mae, and for that I’m truly sorry. But perhaps it will do until I can think on your request a bit longer and craft a song for you myself.” And with that, his hands flew to the strings of his harp and the room was soon filled with a rousing tune. Mae and Gomen were soon dancing once more. As Hearpwine began to sing, Liornung stood up and, taking his niece in his arms, they danced together.

“Oh once upon a time on West border,
An old man sat in his little cabin door,
And fiddled at a tune that he liked to hear,
A jolly old tune that he played by ear.
It was raining hard but the fiddler didn't care
He sawed away at the popular air,
Though his roof tree leaked like a water fall
That didn't seem to bother the man at all.

“A traveler was riding by that day,
And stopped to hear him a-practicing away
The cabin was afloat and his feet were wet,
But still the old man didn't seem to fret.
So the stranger said: “Now the way it seems to me,
You'd better mend your roof,” said he.
But the old man said, as he played away:
”I couldn't mend it now, it's a rainy day.”

“The traveler replied: “That's all quite true,
But this, I think, is the thing for you to do;
Get busy on a day that is fair and bright,
Then pitch the old roof till it's good and tight.”
But the old man kept on a-playing at his reel,
And tapped the ground with his leathery heel:
”Get along,” said he, “for you give me a pain;
My cabin never leaks when it doesn't rain.”

“My cabin never leaks when it doesn't rain!” Hearpwine sang once more and then brought the music to a halt. Once more there was applause which he acknowledged with a slight bow. He was enjoying himself as he had not in many a year, but at the back of his mind there was a nagging worry. Hearpwine had ridden for days through the raw air of spring, and he had now been singing and talking for hours, almost without break. His throat, strong as it was, could not keep going much longer. He thought about the Contest tomorrow and decided that it was time to beg off singing any more – he could play his harp, but his voice must not be over-exerted.

Just as he was to explain to the room that he dare not sing any more, Mae turned to him and her face was flushed with joy. He eyes were blazing and there were a few strands of hair clinging to the light sweat on her forehead that Hearpwine – strangely enough – found himself wishing he could brush back from her eyes with his own fingers. As though sensing his thoughts, the girl ran her hand across her hair to smooth it out as best she could. “That was wonderful!” she said. “But it was far too short. Sing us another song, with a fit tune for dancing. But perhaps one a bit slower this time, so that my uncle and I might dance something a bit more gentle.” Hearpwine bowed his head to her and made no complaint.

He began a slow tune then, one that moved along the limbs of the dancers and urged them to sway along with it like boats that rocked gently with the incoming tide. He watched as Liornung and Mae danced together for the first recital of the tune, and so engrossed did he become with the sight that he missed his entrance. He had to play the tune through again before he could begin the song. Bêthberry, he saw, noticed his slip, and she smiled at him in a manner that made him blush and look to his harp as though he were checking his fingering. When the entrance came round again, he rushed into it.

“I see her in my dreams, she trips to me lightly,
With joy on her lips she whispers my name.
Her eyes look in mine, so fondly so brightly,
I wake and 'tis then no longer the same.
Her glance then is chilly, her step seems to shun me,
The lips that have smiled wear the curl of disdain;
Oh! Rohan’s fair child my love hath undone me,
But yet in my dreams I'd see thee again.

“Oh, Rohan's fair child, in sleep thou art with me,
Wherever we walk, you go by my side;
Thou hear'st with delight the words I am saying,
I read thy young heart, I read it with pride.
But ah, when awake if I vow I adore thee,
Thy look ever tells me I woo thee in vain;
I'll trouble thee not, no more plead before thee;
I know in my dreams, thou'lt love me again.”

He felt it the instant he finished the song, unmistakably. He had reached the limit of his voice for that day. He smiled at the applause and hoped that he could find a way to rest his throat before the Contest tomorrow…