The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

"I think that you should be yourself first, and be subject to another second. Your uncle protects you well, Mae, and no road is long when you are in good company. But Mae, I gave this to you, and it is yours to keep. I will not accept a returned gift, I fear," Jesia smiled slyly, looking over to Hearpwine. "Perhaps another will accept it...one who need not fear disobaying Liornung."

Casting her eyes downward to the bracelet, Mae sighed and looked to her uncle. Jesia and Asad followed her eyes to Liornung. Asad could hold his tongue no longer.

"If I may speak, sir Liornung?" Asad requested quietly, and Liornung's eyes shot from Mae to the dark-skinned boy who spoke. Liornung nodded solemnly, refusing to steal another glance at the bracelet. "Sir, I feel that the point to all this is that the luck lies not in the bracelet. It lies inside the person."

"What do you mean?" Hearpwine asked, speaking up and voicing the question that was in everyone's face - even Jesia's.

"I think that a man can believe in luck if he wants...if it gives him more confidence. I feel like that is all luck is - confidence in oneself. Perhaps grandmama only gave the bracelet to instill a sense of hope in Hearpwine and Mae, or at least provoke some sort of thought within them. If this did not happen, then I speak it now in explanation. I do not think she meant it to create such a stir with you, sir Liornung."

Jesia's black eyes twinkled with mystery as she nodded and turned to look Liornung eye to eye. "Some things you catch and learn, others you miss by never reaching out to grab them," Jesia murmured darkly. "And though you may lose your chance, you should never lose the lesson in missing that chance."

If they do not understand her words, someday they will stumble across a fork in some road and think of the old, poor merchant woman with the dark hair and skin. They will remember this day, I hope. Asad thought.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Now that Mae had been found, Hearpwine was all but jumping out of his skin with impatience to return to Meduseld. He listened politely as Jesia spoke with Liornung and watched as his friend took in what the older woman was saying. He realised that the matter of the bracelet had reached an impasse: Mae could not keep it, Liornung did now want it, and Jesia had forsaken it. With the easiest manner he could manage amid his anxiety, Hearpwine reached out and gently took the bracelet from Mae’s hands, saying gently “If it’s not overbold of me Mae, I think that it might be a good idea for me to have that trinket. Not to keep as my own, but to hold for you until you wish to claim it.” And so saying he placed it upon his own wrist. Whether it were magic or not he could not tell, but he did feel an immense relief that the matter had been dealt with and he was free to return to the Contest.

“Now, Mae,” he said jovially, “I am afraid that you are wanted at the Inn by Miss Aylwen, who I am sure is becoming quite aggrieved with your uncle and I for having kept you away this long.” Mae pouted (quite prettily) but did not disagree, for she was aware of the conditions that the Innkeeper had placed upon her attendance at the Contest. Hearpwine turned next to Liornung. “My friend, I wonder if I might ask a favour of you? I am positively burning with desire to return to the Hall to hear the other bards…”

“And,” Liornung interrupted his quietly, “to hear the judgement of the King, no doubt!”

Hearpwine laughed and his friends were glad to hear it, for it was the first sign of his accustomed good humour this day. “Aye, and to await the King’s judgement, be it for good or ill! Would you mind escorting Mae to the Inn yourself? I am sure that Asad wishes also to return to the Hall with me.” The youth nodded and looked as though he would spring up the hill that moment. Hearpwine continued, “Once Mae is safely stowed with Aylwen, I am sure that you would still have time to hear the last of the bards. I hate to ask this of you my friend, but…” Liornung cut off the young man with an easy gesture of his hands, and assured him that he was happy to take Mae in hand. Hearpwine smiled with relief and turned to leave, but not before pausing to say to Mae, “I am glad you were in the Hall this day, to hear me sing. Perhaps when I return to the Inn, I will do so with good news!” Mae smiled and said that she hoped this would be so.

Without waiting for another word, Hearpwine and Asad rushed back up the hill toward the Hall of the King. As they went, Asad returned to the topic he had addressed before the adventure with Mae. “You sing very well, Master Hearpwine,” he began. “I fear for my sake, and the sake of all the bards gathered this day, too well!”

“Aye,” he replied, “I did feel as though I was in good voice, and the song did seem to go to the heart of the King and his lords. Lady Éowyn, I thought, was particularly moved, for I saw her dashing away a tear – so strange that a woman of such stern and noble matter would be moved to tears in that manner! But she loved Theoden well.”

Asad paused for a moment before speaking again, unsure of how to broach his question. “Your lay was not entirely as things happened though, was it? As I have heard tell of that day, Éomer did not bear Theoden from the field, and he was not laid on his bier in the company of the Lady Galadriel until nigh on midsummer when he was brought back to Rohan in honour.”

Hearpwine’s brow furrowed somewhat as he replied. “I thought long on just that point as I wrote that song. It seemed to me, though, that it was more important to get the truth of his passing right, rather than the mere events. It would not make for much of song should I tell of the endless weeks that Theoden lay waiting in a cold tomb of stone for his journey back to the green fields of his lands.”

Asad nodded but said nothing in response, for they had reached the great door of the Golden Hall once more, and with a quick nod to Wulfstan, passed once more into the light and song that filled it.

[Nurumaiel]

"Uncle..."

Liornung looked down at this niece with a smile. She had a puzzled look on her face, a look of bewilderment and confusion. She did not return his look but merely stared at the ground as they moved towards the Inn. "Uncle, Jesia spoke as though you had missed something very great. She spoke of you losing a chance and learning a lesson. What does that mean?"

"Apparently she thought I was very foolish about the bracelet," he said. For a moment Maercwen thought he was not going to say anything further, but after a brief pause he continued. "I lost that chance, she says. I lost nothing, but gained much. The only thing I did not reach out and take, as she puts it, was the bracelet. I took more wisdom, however. Mae, everyone seems to consider me the foolish bard who doesn't know anything about the War. I... I'd beg to tell the truth now. I say I didn't fight but I do not mean it except in a sense."

Maercwen's eyes widened and her breath quickened. "I keep much of my past hidden from young and old people," he continued. "Indeed, I believe it's only your mother and father who know. But I tell you because this bracelet has a very valuable lesson to teach... not about luck and confidence or any other such thing, but something I can hardly explain. So I'll tell you... I can understand Hearpwine's longing to be Bard of the King. For a brief time I was also Bard of the King... to our dear King Theoden."

Maercwen stopped abruptly, but said nothing. Her eyes clearly showed what she was thinking. She could not believe what he was saying.

"I say a brief time for it was no more than a year. Troubles came then and I left him, though I did not desire to. I returned one day and found he was not right. I could not grasp what was wrong with him. It did not seem like illness, yet it did. And then, to speak very briefly for you will learn this in your history books if they speak at all of King Theoden, an old man came and spoke to him. And he was King again." He paused and looked off into the sky, remembering things long past. "This old man I heard called 'Gandalf.' He was not unkind to me. I was like young Hearpwine... very confident of myself and assured of my talent, for light and carefree. I was still a boy, like he is now. I think I amused this Gandalf somewhat with my ceaseless songs and my fiddle. And then one time... I recall not when it was, whether it was before or after the great battle of Pelennor, where our beloved King fell... It has left my memory when, for the words he spoke to me have banished thoughts of all else on that occasion. But he was there. Gandalf was there, and I was nearby, singing a silly little song which was centered around the luck of one man. When I finished I looked at him. I always sought the approval of those who seemed high and mighty. And he spoke to me. 'Your voice rings true, as do the strings of your fiddle,' said he, 'but I wonder whether the words of your song are true? Do you really believe in chance, or luck as you put it? Do you really believe it was chance that brought the minstrel of Gondor to your doorstep, the stone that started the avalanche of your journeys? Do you really believe it was chance that made you Bard of the King? Do you believe it was luck? Or do you believe there was a purpose for it all, that it was planned, that a one inspired the Gondorian minstrel to travel to Rohan so he would meet you and your life might go as it has thus far?' I did not know what to say. A glimmer of wisdom shone upon me. 'Think upon it,' he said, and no more. I was quite an expert at judging the moods of men even then, and I could tell he was recalling the past. It was not the first time he had spoken thus to one. I never saw him again after that.

"You see, Mae, I believe what he spoke was true. Chance? How could chance ever chance so much, in such an orderly way? Do you realize that if this foolish 'chance' did not come Hearpwine would not stand before the King today? Recall that it was I who moved him to be a bard when I went to his estate one day. Think of all the things that have happened just because one minstrel came to my door. Think of how orderly it all is. Luck? I scorn how ridiculous it is. The old man was right. It was planned. By whom? I know not. But it was planned, and luck and chance are mere nothings that do not exist. Now you, little one, think upon the words of the old man and see if he was not right." He fell silent, and Mae fell into thought. She did not want to consider what the old man had said. It was too frightening to think someone was planning everything that happened to her uncle... and to her. But she considered her uncle's past... he had fought in the War after all, and he had once been Bard of the King.

[Kransha]

Osric still sat, sagging forward and occasionally yanking his beleaguered form up. His eyelids tried to droop, but his strong will flexed them mercilessly, keeping his glazing over orbs from even the satisfaction of a weary blink. Though the inn’s volume level had increased of late, Osric’s quavering ears did not hear the rumbling din within or outside. He merely heard the steady beat he kept, a calming hum that escaped him as he sat, drumming his rough, wrinkled digits upon the tabletop and systematically keeping up with the enervated monotone all around him. At last, recognizable silhouettes bounded across the threshold of the White Horse, for which Osric thanked whatever masters of the relieving of tedium existed amongst Valar or Maiar.

It was Maercwen and Liornung who entered, with oddly subdued looks upon their faces. Osric immediately missed Mearcwen’s youthful vivacity, and Liornung’s jocund gait, for they seemed to be missing from the two figures who strode inside. Osric’s bushy eyebrow of ivory gray perked up as he shot a quizzical glance at the two. He beckoned for Liornung, who caught sight of him in the inn’s more shaded corners and forded the growing waters of folk who were beginning to crowd within. He pulled the sturdy seat across from Osric at the table, placing his limp arms and hands upon the smoothly furnished wooden slate. Osric could see the meager creases upon the fingers of his left hand, signifying his playing of the melodious fiddle. The Rohirrim wasn’t sure if these marks of dedication to the instrument were recent, or a permanent gathering that had followed Liornung over time. His eyes upturned from the man to see Mae nearing them, probably to bid her uncle a good day before she pranced off to see to Miss Alywen’s assignments.

Partially out of the gnawing boredom that had set in upon the attentive old fellow, and partially out of sincere concern for the expressions of seriousness swimming in the eyes of Maercwen, though more tempered in Liornung’s, Osric spoke, his voice raspy at first having not even opened his mouth in a good many hours of the day. His gravelly tone soon smoothed out as his dry lips parted. “Liornung, good sir, I trust you’re adventure in Edoras this day was met well? Oh, what am I saying? Of course it was met well! I do not doubt that the throngs of Rohan have chaired you throughout all the city and chorused your name throughout the hallowed halls of Meduseld and beyond!” Osric’s apparent belatedness managed to snatch a fleeting smile from Liornung, but Maercwen still seemed uncharacteristically humorless, still ready to hurry off to whatever duties she was required to do, much to Osric’s dismay. But, the old Rohirrim stayed her from her mission, pausing only briefly and with a curt breath, considering as he blinked several times, rubbing at the crimson rings that encircled his eyes, and spoke again with more of a reserved pitch. “Forgive me for prying, but is there anything troubling either of you? I would think that any such festive event, won or lost, would bring flavorful winds, rather than what I see on you. Was there a mishap at the Great Hall, perhaps?”

[Nurumaiel]

A deep sigh escaped Liornung yet he smiled. "Nothing is amiss, good Osric, or at least I do not believe it to be so." He sat across from the old man, tracing the patterns on the wood. Lights flickered in his mind. All things seemed strange. Since he had encountered the bracelet he had been led to think of deep things, things he did not understand. It brought confusion to him, and wonder, and a deep peace. "I have been considering things very deep, and it strikes wonder in me. Would you care to hear?"

"If you should care to tell me, I would greatly desire to hear," Osric replied.

So Liornung poured forth all he had told Maercwen. He told of his service as Bard of the King, his service in the War, and of the words of the old man Gandalf. Osric listened carefully to all, saying nothing until Liornung had finished. When his tale was done, the fiddler leaned wearily on the table, gazing into Osric's face.

"Sir, you are older than I and I would believe you to be much wiser," he said. "I believe the words of the old man Gandalf are true and that chance is a fool's word. But if it is not chance, or luck, that causes things to happen, what is it? Who could be so powerful in this world as to plan out a man's life and guide things to happen exactly as he planned? I am bewildered."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine and Asad moved back into the Hall and took their places at the back of the crowds who had gathered to watch. There was an old bard singing at the moment, one whom Hearpwine had heard of even in his far flung corner of the March. The man’s voice, while elderly, was clear and he sung an ancient and well known lay of Brego and the founding of Meduseld. He concluded to a general clamour of applause, for he was popular with the people of Edoras, and his song was well-known. Bowing to the King with great and practised courtesy the man moved back into the crowds as the next bard’s colour was called. A middle-aged man with a long thick beard came forward and began to sing a rousing song. The melody and words were pleasant, and his voice was strong, but he lacked a full ear for music and the feeling of the moment was not right. Hearpwine could feel the crowd shift and ripple about him as they enjoyed the music, but knew that this man was not going to win the Contest this or any day.

As the two young men listened politely, Hearpwine felt a light touch on his shoulder and he turned to see the old bard at his elbow. Hearpwine and Asad bowed to him and congratulated him on his performance. He waved their compliments away with his aged hand saying, “Nay, it was a fine song, but not the best I’ve given. The years have moved too quickly for me, I’m afraid. My best days are behind me now.”

Hearpwine smiled and, remembering to keep his voice low, rejected this politely. “Do not think so Master Eorcyn. Why I still remember the Lay you sang for Theoden King as he was brought back from Gondor at the end of the War. You met us at the border of the Mark and sang of Eorl the Young as the sun rose. It was as though your music were bringing the light to us in our hour of greatest darkness!”

The old man smiled at Hearpwine’s extreme youth. “You honour me,” he said, “you, who sing of that death and that journey so movingly.” He paused for a moment, looking at Hearpwine cautiously before speaking again. “It is an impertinence, but might I ask if you would be willing to let an old man speak plainly to you?”

Hearpwine was a bit taken aback by this, and he exchanged a confused look with Asad before agreeing. Eorcyn spoke slowly and with great care. “You sing a mighty line, my friend, and you do so with a passion that I have rarely seen in one so young. Your skills with the harp, while impressive, could be bettered, but I have no doubt that time and practice will make you a master of the instrument to be told of for years to come.” He paused, somewhat uncomfortably.

“But…” Hearpwine said, urging him to continue. The old man smiled.

“But,” he said again, “you take certain risks with your singing. Risks that the schooled ear thrills to, but which perhaps place too great a demand upon the more, shall we say, casual listener.”

It was Asad who spoke in passionate defence of Hearpwine’s singing. “He is a masterful bard!” he said somewhat too loudly, earning them all a few stares of approbation. He cast his voice lower and continued. “If there are those who cannot hear that for themselves then it is their loss!”

Hearpwine placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder to quiet him, appreciative and touched by his opinion. Eorcyn continued, “Nay, I agree with you Master Asad – do not mistake me. I would not have Master Hearpwine do any different. But to be Bard to the King, you must aspire to entertain more than the King and his courtiers. The Bard is called upon to mark all occasions of celebration and festivity, and thus he must know how to please the crowd. That is a skill that I have spent my life mastering, and as a result I am better known and better loved by more people than many men of greater skill than myself. Your friend, Liornung, whom I saw you with earlier, he is one such person. I can only dream of possessing the skill of that man!” As he contemplated this his eyes shone and his voice rose into a singing register.

Their conversation was stilled by the conclusion of the current song. Instead of another wooden chip being drawn from the cup, though, the Chamberlain stood forth and commended all the Contestants for their performance this day. Like a wave in the Sea it hit Hearpwine that everyone who was to sing that day had performed, and his stomach contracted into a tight knot. Suddenly oblivious to the presence of Asad and Eorcyn, his eyes were locked onto the small group of courtiers and nobles who gathered around the King’s Throne. Everyone in the Hall was equally quiet as they strained to hear the deliberations, but the people gathered about the King kept their voices low. The debate grew quite heated, and some occasional words escaped the tightly knit circle, but nothing that would indicate which way the debate was going. At one point, Hearpwine’s heart flew into his mouth, and there were a few stifled gasps from the people gathered about him, as the Lady Éowyn openly pointed at him while speaking with the King.

Finally, the conversation was over and the King stepped forth. He stood in the middle of the Hall where the bards had sung and spoke to the people. “There have been, as I predicted, many great singers before us today, and much honour have they done to this Hall. Never before has there been such a display here, and I dare say that it will be long ere there is a gathering to match it. As you can all tell, it was difficult for us to reach a decision. The position of the Bard of Meduseld is a weighty one, and it is not to be given lightly.” He paused here as his eyes fell onto Hearpwine, Aras and Eorcyn. All other eyes in the crowd followed his, and those who stood before them fell away to either side, leaving an open space between the trio and the King. The hearts and faces of all the other bards fell. “It is with joy that I see the three mightiest singers this day have found one another out! All of you deserve great praise for what you have done this day, and all of you have my eternal thanks. Only one, however, can I choose as my Bard.” He paused again as he looked from one to the other. “Eorcyn!” he cried. “Step forward, and assume your place as the King’s Bard in the Golden Hall of Meduseld.”

The crash of thunderous applause, and the cries of the crowd were lost upon Hearpwine. As soon as the eyes of the Hall had left him, he moved into the darkness of the furthest corner and cast his cloak about his eyes.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

"No!" Asad cried, almost spontaneously though he knew exactly what he was doing and exactly what sort of trouble he would get himself into. Asad walked forward from his spot, walking right up to where the King and the others of the court still stood. Most continued clapping despite Asad's cry, but some stopped to watch the spectacle and some looked towards the edgy guards. "No! This cannot be right! Hearpwine was meant to be the winner! He was meant to be the Bard to the King!"

Asad wondered at the words coming from his own mouth, and how he was defending someone else. Why not complain that I am not the bard? Asad second-guessed himself. Because Hearpwine was meant to be the Bard! I could see it in his eyes! In his heart is all that is needed to be where Eorcyn stood now! Asad's gaze became stony as he glared steadily at the King and Lady Eowyn.

"Excuse me?" The King looked down at Asad. "This was not your decision to make. We have chosen he who is best suited for the task appointed. As I said, there were wonderful bards and singers here today, but Master Eorcyn is most talented and most skilled for this job! Do you understand, young man? Do you?"

"Why do you speak to your king in such a manner?" Lady Eowyn spoke, her voice melodic and smooth but somehow strict and demanding at the same time.

"I speak what I know, and I know that Hearpwine was meant to be standing by my king now! With utmost respect to Master Eorcyn, I must say that Hearpwine would be better suited for the task set before us on this day!"

"And how do you know this?" Eowyn asked, and Asad was surprised at how quickly the argument had shifted to be between them and not he and the King.

"It is in his eyes!" Asad began, but was quickly interrupted.

"In his eyes? What about what music springs from him?"

"He has much to learn!" Asad blurted, and Eowyn furrowed her brows in confusion.

"This means that Eorcyn is best suited, for he knows much in the ways of pleasing sounds and melodies. He is more skilled than young Hearpwine!" Eowyn protested.

"But Hearpwine will learn here and prosper here, learning new lays and tunes that will be more pleasing than aught that Eorcyn knows," Asad had given up being as polite as possible to Eorcyn, and when the battle of words ended Asad promised himself that he would approach Eorcyn and prove the real respect he held at heart and not when arguments were being faught. "Hearpwine writes his own music, and inspiration will come easily here!"

The King waved his hands, and Asad felt a tight grip on his shoulder. Two fair-haired guards were grasping his shoulders, ready to lead him out of the Hall.

"You are all making a big mistake!" Asad cried out as he was dragged away. When he went by a shocked Hearpwine, Asad whispered, "Keep fighting! It was meant to be!"

With that, the guards shoved Asad out of the Hall.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

A stunned silence fell upon the Golden Hall and all eyes slowly turned to Hearpwine where he stood, open mouthed yet speechless, by the great Door. He looked across the room at the range of people staring at him, and his eyes settled on the King, who was now regarding him with open curiosity as to what the young man would do. Hearpwine noticed that the King’s earlier easy manner and gentle countenance had been replaced with something much sterner. The Lady Éowyn regarded him with a kind eye, but her face was full of stern pity. Realising that it was up to him to break the quiet tension that had fallen upon the room in the wake of Asad’s outburst, Hearpwine did his best to square his shoulders and move into the open space between the fire and the King. As he walked across the stone floor his footsteps echoed through the rafters and beams of the Hall, uninterrupted by the slightest noise or word from all those who looked on.

When Hearpwine reached the King, he bowed low before speaking. “My King, I must beg your forgiveness for my young friend’s words. He is passionate and fiery, like all youths. Do not punish him for speaking his mind.”

The King’s face was unmoved as he replied. “You call him friend? Do you stand with him, then? Will you place yourself at his fate?”

Hearpwine considered for a moment before replying. “I do call him friend, but I have known him only the length of this morning. He did me a service, though, that I will every hold dear, and he spoke kindly of my music – always the surest way to my heart!” His light joke sent a slight chuckle through some parts of the room, reducing the tension somewhat. But still King Éomer was unsmiling and displeased by the interruption in his Hall on this day.

“Then you do stand by his words? You feel as though you have been wronged by our decision?”

“Not wronged, my lord! You have the right to choose whom you wish as Bard. But, yes, I do stand by what Asad has said about my singing and my value as a Bard…although I would have had him put his opinions somewhat more gently. I am a great admirer or Eorcyn’s, as I am sure Asad is. But like all those who were not chosen this day, I cannot help but feel that it would have been better had I been so fortunate as to win your favour.”

“If it is our favour that you seek,” said the Lady Éowyn, “then consider yourself the victor. You have won the favour of the King and of Éowyn this day.”

Hearpwine looked at her and asked with the honest heart of a small child, desirous of praise, “Did you like my song, Lady?”

Éowyn smiled and say, “Yes, that I did. It brought back to me that terrible and glorious day, when Theoden Thengel slew the Fell Beast and felled the Serpent. You do that day it’s full measure of honour with your song.”

Hearpwine bowed his head once more, saying “Then with the happiest of hearts do I concede the victory of this day to Eorcyn; for you have rewarded my labours with the greatest prize I could hope for.” He turned to leave.

To the amazement of all, Eorcyn spoke. For the duration of the Asad’s outburst and subsequent conversations, he had stood to one side of the dais, the mantle of the King’s Bard in his hands but not yet about his neck. “Wait,” he said quietly, coming forward. “I feel the honour that you have done me this day, my King, and my heart rejoices at it. But I am an old man, and will not long grace your Hall as its Bard. Perhaps it would be better to give the mantle to a younger man, one who will grow old in your company and delight you even into your own age.” A gasp went through the crowd and the King’s eyes grew wide with shock. For a moment, all stared at him, uncertain which way things would go. But then Éomer began to laugh with such humour that all the tension bled from the room like water, and everyone’s hearts began to beat once more.

He turned to Hearpwine. “Well, young Master Hearpwine, your tongue is indeed magical. Not since the time of Grima Wormtongue has someone been able to usurp the power of the King with little more than the honeyed sound of his words. Nay, nay” he said quickly, seeing the alarm in Hearpwine’s eyes at the comparison, “I do not accuse you of any evil like that wicked man’s. I do but enjoy the prerogative of King to make idle jests in his own Hall, when more serious matter is called for.” He turned once more to Eorcyn. “Your actions do you honour, old friend, but to set aside that burden is not in your power. I have laid the mantle upon you, and you must wear it.”

Eorcyn opened his mouth to protest but before he could, the Lady Éowyn stepped forward and stopped him with a gesture. “My King,” she said, “we have reached an impasse I fear – a welcome one, though it may be. We have two bards, one old and one young, both of whom would do this Hall honour. Only one can be bard, and I agree that Eorcyn is that one. He is older and more experienced; he knows our people well, and they love him in return. But,” she said with a glint in her eye, “is there not room enough in our realms for two Bards?”

A silence fell upon the crowd and there was excited shuffling as the Lady resumed. “Just as there can be only one King, there can only be one Bard to the King. But as the King has his heir, does it not follow that the King’s Bard should also have one to prepare for his place when the day comes he can no longer fill it? Let us bid Eorcyn take Hearpwine as apprentice. Let him learn what he needs to in preparation for the day when he can assume his place in this Hall – when he is ready?”

The King smiled and said to his sister, his love for her easily read to all who stood by. “You speak as truthfully and as wisely as ever! Let us do so. But where shall Hearpwine practice his trade? It would not do to have two bards singing at the Hall, and I doubt that either would relish working under the other’s shadow?”

“Then let Hearpwine come with me and my Lord Faramir back to Ithilien. There will he tarry two seasons of the year as Bard to the Prince of Ithilien. The other seasons, let him come here to learn from Eorcyn and prepare to become the legend that he was so clearly born to be!”

Even those who stood outside the Hall could hear the cries of joy that greeted this. And when they looked up the steps to see who would emerge as the winner of the Contest, there came two men: Eorcyn bearing the mantle of the Bard, and just behind him came Hearpwine in the colours of the Lady Éowyn, with tears flowing upon his cheeks unashamedly.

[Nurumaiel]

The sound of cheering soon reached those at the Inn. Maercwen straightened up, her heart beating quickly, and she returned to Aylwen, an unvoiced question in her eyes. The Innkeeper hesitated only briefly before she smiled and nodded. Maercwen gestured wildly to her uncle, who was sitting by Osric, and flew out the door on light feet.

Not far from the door to the Inn was the crowd gathered about Hearpwine and an older bard. Maercwen pushed through the swarms of people with as much courtesy as could be allowed until she reached Hearpwine. Liornung shook his head at her pushing and shoving and with experienced ease slipped in between and under people, chuckling as he thought of the time he had helped Frodides through a crowd just as thick.

Tears were flowing from Hearpwine's eyes and down his face, tears of great joy. No doubt he had become Bard of the King, yet... this older bard wore the mantle that came with the title. Maercwen pulled at Hearpwine's sleeve until he turned to her, and a smile came to his face. She gazed up at him in puzzlement. "Hearpwine, are you Bard of the King?" she questioned, doubt apparent in her voice.

He shook his head but continued to smile. "Nay, Mae, the Bard of the King is Eorcyn, and well he deserved it."

"Then why your tears of joy?" She stopped and looked him up and down and her cheeks became a trifle pale though it was just barely visible that she had lost color. "Why do you wear the colors of the Lady?"

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine was too caught up in his own joy to notice the distress in Maercwen’s voice and face. Looking past her to another well-wisher who cried out to him, he took another man’s hand in his own and spoke quickly to a third while the girl waited for an answer to her question with increasing anxiety. When finally Hearpwine turned his attention back to her he spoke through his grin while dashing the tears from his face with the back of his hand. “I am to be apprentice to Eorcyn, and heir to the title of Bard to the King! Do you hear that Mae! Someday I will stand before the Throne of the King and my song will fill the Hall to its Rafters!” He laughed like the ringing of a clear bell and swept Mae up in his arms, swinging her clear off her feet.

By the time he put her down again, Mae was breathless and becoming impatient. As Hearpwine turned away to speak with yet another well-wisher, she clasped him by the arm. “But why do you wear the coat of the Lady Éowyn?” she cried, and for the first time Hearpwine saw the tears of frustration starting from her eyes.

Those tears sent a chill to Hearpwine’s heart, for until that moment he had not realised how deeply the girl’s feelings had perhaps gone for him. Surely he had not done anything to lead her to think that he and she… But as he remembered the dancing of last night, and thought over his manner this morning as he had begged Aylwen to allow Mae to accompany him to the Hall; and his disturbance when they had thought she had been lost… A deep swell of shame came over his heart. He regarded Mae as a fair and happy lass, one whom he desired to look on, and whose looks he liked to draw himself. The sight of her bright eyes lighting up as he sang was one deeply to be desired, but beyond these trivialities his mind had not yet gone. He had been so caught up in his desire to become Bard that it had never occurred to him that his attentions might have been misunderstood by the girl… But still, there was no knowing what was in her heart, and perhaps things were just as they appeared: she had asked a question of him that he had not yet answered, and she was growing impatient with him for it.

He took Mae by the hand and led her away from the crowds so he could speak to her with greater attention. “The King has decided that it would not be best for there to be two Bards at the Hall throughout the year. Even though I am apprentice to Eorcyn, there can be only one Bard to sing the praises of the Rohirrim, and nobody wants there to be differences of opinion amongst the people of Edoras as to whom they would rather hear sing those praises! So I shall spend half the year in Ithilien with my Lady Éowyn, to whom I am now in service, and the other half of the year will I dwell in Meduseld, where I will hone my abilities under the strict tutelage of my new Master. Oh Mae!” he broke out once more, “is it not wonderful? Why this is better than my dreams of winning the Contest! Now I can spend years in travelling the length of Rohan and Gondor, seeing the peoples and places I have only dreamed of, learning the songs of all the lands about us, and then, when I am mature and growing stiff in my bones, I can settle myself here and sing of these things to my King until either he or I is laid in our tomb.”

[Nurumaiel]

A slow, sad smile came to her face. "Yes, it is wonderful, good Hearpwine," she said, "but I shall miss you. I have not known you long, indeed barely a day, but I have come to think on you as a brother. My uncle also will miss you." She paused a moment, struggling with the tears that threatened to flow down her cheeks. "It is always hard to say farewell to a friend, especially when the road he goes on is so long."

Hearpwine said nothing but let her struggle with herself. Bitter disappointment was creeping into her eyes to be companion to the sorrow. "I had also hoped," she continued, "that you would stay a long while and might teach my brother Gomen the trade. My uncle also will be leaving soon; this I know for he never stays more than a few days in one place. Gomen has often been expected to be horsemaster as my father is but I have long known that his heart is prisoner to sweet music and flowing words."

His brows came together in deep thought, and a few moments of silence passed before he smiled. "I think that perhaps I will be able to convince Bard of the King, Eorcyn, to help teach your brother," he said. Then he laughed. "Perhaps Gomen will someday be Bard of the King."

"He would follow the steps of his uncle," she said, raising her eyebrows slightly. "He never told anyone but he was Bard of the King in a time before the War of the Ring." He stared at her with deep amazement but she did not give him time to say anything for she glanced at Eorcyn and broke into joyous laughter. "My heart sings this day that two worthy men gain titles of honor. Come, Hearpwine and you, Master Eorcyn, Bard of the King, and seat yourselves by the warm fire of the humble White Horse to feast upon rich wine and hearty food and celebrate this occasion of deep joy!"

[Kransha]

As the day had dragged on, it’s luminous and vibrant course swirling melodiously into what seemed to be a vague dusk, but was actually still day, not long after the noon and the sun’s zenith in the unclouded sky. Osric, scratching at his beleaguered forehead, studded with rough marks and creased with wizened wrinkles, got to his feet slowly, proceeding as swiftly as he could behind Liornung and Maercwen. He followed with whatever quickness he could muster, flinging his stiff leg along like the limp limb of a mannequin, flailing behind and before him until he found himself being unconsciously devoured by a small crowd that had flooded around the visage of a young man, looking pleased, but sobered up in a unknown fashion, as he and the crowd that trailed him moved towards the inn. When Hearpwine (for Osric knew the figure to be Hearpwine now) had neared the narrow threshold and saw Osric limping towards him, he smiled solemnly as his eyes twinkled, and extended his arms to greet the aged fellow.

“Good Osric,” he cried, most vigorously, “I have good news from the Golden Hall!” Osric nodded; his hand ready and up. “I know, young friend,” he said slowly, deliberating over each word that passed over and out from his moving lips, “I have heard. My ears are old, not deaf to the songs of Edoras.” Hearpwine seemed somewhat confused, as the words of Osric held an air of incredulousness, and unusually prompt for the man. He looked as if he was about to speak but, severing his words with words even more deliberated and contemplated over, Osric continued.

“Master Hearpwine,” he began, lowering his head and turning as all the figures moved into the warm and abundant cheer of the inn’s atmosphere, “I, like Maercwen here, have not known you long, but you stirred something in this old warrior that he hadn’t felt for many years. I want to thank you, at least, for that service to my stony soul. You must promise me, Hearpwine, that, before you leave you shall sing a song to this inn to remember you by. When in Ithilien, the voice can linger here, and I’ll be proud to say to those who cross the threshold of the White Horse that I knew Hearpwine, Bard of Ithilien and Rohan, and a great man. I wish now that I’d met you years ago, when the light of hope dwindled in me when the black serpent bore Theoden Thengal to his death in the confines of Rammas Echor, but now my heart is rekindled, lad! You and Master Liornung gave me something that you’ve given to many, and I thank you heartily for it.” He finished on a more jocund note, turning, and clasping Hearpwine’s hand and arm firmly, shaking it where he stood and smiling, a featured gesture which the bard and poet soon returned.

“But, no more talk of parting!” cried Osric, with a severe suddenness that nearly caused the gathered to jump in their places after the old horsemasters solemn but jocund reverie, “Mae is right, let us feast and let us drink and you, m’lad, you may serenade the throngs of Rohan here in the Horse. It may be naught compared to the scathing critique of Lord Eomer and Lady Eowyn, but it is still a grand thing to hear you, where e’er it might be, eh? Come, and give us a rousing verse for your gathered base of followers!”

[piosenniel]

~*~ Discussion Thread Opens Tomorrow - June 5th ~*~

Durelin invites you to look at the discussion thread for the new game:

~*~ Bloodstained Elanor ~*~

Click HERE to view it.

Come play!

Players already in the game are: Amanaduial the archer, Arvedui III, Aylwen Dreamsong, Fordim Hedgethistle, and, of course, Durelin.

---------------------------

Will remove this in a few days.

[Snowdog]

Celebrations of victory filled the aire of Edoras, and Hanasían rode slowly through the crowd. No smile graced his face except when he saw someone looking at him with smiles of celebration. But the four years since the war had not been kind to him. A veteran of the battles of the Fords of Isen, Helms Deep, and then, being one of the Dúnedain, he rode with his northern brethren and Chieftain through the Paths of the Dead and beyond. He fought also in the battle with the Corsairs, and the Pelennor and suffered the loss of his brother Hayna there. Hanasían himself was wounded in the Battle of the Morannon, but recovered. There was no celebration in him for the victory, but for the vanquishing of the darkness of Mordor. But the memories of friends and brethren lost he was reminded of.

Hanasían dismounted and looked about. He saw a young stable girl and he passed the reins of Greyshadow to her with a silver King’s coin. It wasn’t Rohirric, but was accepted in the Realm of his mother’s kin. He looked about some and smiled and waved to some boys who shouted praises to the veterans of the war, and he soon turned to the doors under a sign of the White Horse Inn.

The crowds were in such gaiety and Hanasían deduced from the nearby banter that a bardic competition had concluded and the joy of having the King’s title was pouring out in cheer. He heard mention of Éowyn, the white lady of Rohan and Princess of Ithilien, and one being in her service. It had been four years since he had seen her, and Lord Faramir as well. Memories of their love for one another when he was in the Houses of Healing brought refreshing memories to the tortured veteran. Hanasían smiled and clapped his hands as he pushed his way through the throng to the doors and entered the Inn.

Many were out in the streets celebrating, and Hanasían did his customary look about the common room as his eyes adjusted to the light inside. His seeming dark locks were in loose long curls about his shoulders, and his attire was that of the pre-war Dúnedain Rangers of the north. He wore dark leathers and a light cloak of deep gray-green. He made his way to a table across the room that was vacant, and being somewhat weary of the road he took to Edoras, sat and leaned back in the chair that if it could talk, could tell tales into eternity of all it had witnessed. He had beaten the rush of celebrators who were surely heading to this Inn, and Hanasían ordered a tankard of ale from a passing maid. While he waited for her return, he dug out his pipe and pipeweed, and tamped up a pipe. Drawing out a twig he kept, Hanasían lit it from a nearby lamp, and he drew his pipe into a deep orange glow. It was a good trade with the old Hobbit up north, for a store of 1420 Longbottom was relaxing for sure! The pound of Khandese tea he had to give up for it was well worth it! The lass brought the ale, and Hanasían handed her a coin of Kings silver. He smiled and relaxed for the first time in awhile, and he would enjoy his time here.

The banter of the crowds came through the door, and talk of Ithilien and song were in the aire as the noise level went up a notch. Talk from Rohirrim veterans made Hanasían wonder if there was an Annalist of the Rohirrim to record the names and events, lest they be forgotten with the passage of time. Being that the Rohirrim were his mother’s people, he would do what he could to remember, and write. Hanasían’s hand went for his satchel. He was short of parchment, but his quill and ink was in good order, and if events allowed it he would do some writing and gather the stories of the individuals who fought in the war.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Osric’s sudden and uncharacteristically good humor brought a smile to Hearpwine’s face and a laugh to his throat. He pounded the elder on his back with such vigor that the old warrior staggered into his seat, but Hearpwine’s spirits were too high to notice. The Inn was quieter than the street had been, and its now familiar and humble shape was strangely comforting to Hearpwine after the grand heights of the Golden Hall. He looked about and saw Aylwen looking up from where she sat at her desk, her face wreathed in smiles. Bêthberry was there with, as always, her oddly knowing smile. She returned his glance with little more than a nod of her reverend head, but he read much in that gesture, and with a gravity that did not often characterize his actions, he bowed his head to her slightly. But his joy was greatest when he beheld Liornung coming toward him, his arms outspread and his face beaming with joy. The two men embraced one another like brothers, and once more Hearpwine felt tears upon his face, for of all the men whom he could have wished to be with on this day, the fiddler who had set him on the Road that had brought him to this moment was the most dear. “My dear, dear friend,” Liornung said, “I am more happy for you than you can know! What a tremendous honour! And how much more enviable than becoming the Bard – now you can travel and see the world. Who knows, if your Lady will allow it, perhaps you can join with me in my travels some time.”

Hearpwine’s face took on the look of one who had been granted his heart’s desire beyond all hope, and he was speechless. He merely took Liornung’s hand in his own and fought back the knot that clutched at the back of his throat. Liornung then saw Eorcyn approaching and he hailed the old Bard with glee. “Good Eorcyn,” he said, “I had heard of your success and was overjoyed – the King has chosen wisely indeed!” The two men shook hands.

Hearpwine found his voice at last. “You were Bard to the King!” he burst out at Liornung. “All this time, and you did not tell me! I had thought that none had followed Gleowine until this day!”

It was Eorcyn who replied. “Indeed he was, and a much finer Bard than I fear I shall be. If the Lady could indeed be prevailed upon to allow you to accompany Master Liornung on his travels, even if for only a short time, you would learn more from him in a season than I can offer you in many years of careful instruction.” Liornung flushed and began to refute the compliment, but the old Bard held up his hand and said with mirth, “Silence! Have I not this day been made Bard to the King? I will not be gainsaid in matters such as this – a masterful Bard you were, and one you shall always be, although I know you do not take the title for yourself.”

It was Osric, now recovered from Hearpwine’s rough treatment, who first recalled the bards to the matter at hand. “I see that we have here,” he said loudly, commanding the attention of the Inn, “three Bards of the Golden Hall: past, present and future. Come! Let us demand a song of them, so that we may boast years hence of the day we heard the three mightiest bards of Rohan united in song!”

[Nurumaiel]

"I made a dreadful mistake in telling my service to the King as Bard," said Liornung with a playful little smile. "Now you compliment me more than I am worthy of. I thank you." He bowed low to Osric, and the latter spoke again, "Sing for us first, Master Liornung, as Bard of days gone by."

"But, uncle, I beg you tell me this first," Maercwen broke in before Liornung could go to fetch his fiddle. "Why is it that you were Bard of the King and no one ever knew this? Would not Eorcyn know, and perhaps Osric as well, and others who were older than children before the War?"

"It was not a grand affair," Liornung replied, "as this one is. Times were growing troubled then, and such festivities were not held. There was no Contest; I sang in the Hall once as I passed through Edoras and the King bid me stay awhile and be Bard. The honor of Eorcyn and Hearpwine is much greater; they have earned through hard toil their right to the title while my little song merely caught the King Theoden's fancy." He moved off to find his fiddle and Maercwen went to her sisters, drawing them to her and kissing their golden heads. She sat beside Gomen and a silence fell upon the room when Liornung returned. His eyes had become soft and dreamy and he struck up a slow, haunting melody that rose and fell as waves of music, bringing the incense of sound to the room and delighting the ears of those that heard.

"Oh, fare thee well sweet Hall of Gold,
I leave thee for awhile.
The days are short, the year is old,
the road is many miles.
I hoped to stay but a little more
and linger for some days
but my presence here is o'er;
I can no longer stay.

Oh, when I was but a little boy
I heard of your renown
and such tales filled my heart with joy,
you, Edoras' crown.
I dreamt on thee by dewy grass
when time was sunrise
and hoped that one day at last
you would be my prize.

And Edoras is sweet and fair,
Rohan's gleaming star;
the Golden Hall a jewel rare;
I saw it from afar.
I travelled to that fairest place
to come before the King.
I saw the Hall's golden grace
my heart did sing.

And then before the King a melody
presented soft and low;
I sang a song most readily
of heroes long ago.
His eye was kind, his voice was soft,
no evil his words marred,
he wished me in the Hall to sing oft;
he named me as King's bard.

Joy complete, oh Hall of delight,
I sang within your walls,
my heart with peace was ever bright
and ever was enthralled.
But now alas I see darkness afar
and see a sorrow fall.
The darkness brings a weary war
so farewell, Golden Hall!

Oh, fare thee well sweet Hall of Gold,
I leave thee for awhile.
The days are short, the year is old,
the road is many miles.
I will not return again, I fear
to sing before your King
but all memories I will hold dear,
and the joy my music brings.

His voice broke and his hands trembled as he set the fiddle down. He shook his head and spoke, saying, "My friends, there is more to the song but I cannot sing. My heart was near broke when I left the Golden Hall and ceased to be Bard of the King. I dreamed of it long, ever since I was a boy, and it was bitter. I recall those days now when I gaze upon the youthful face of Hearpwine, and the memories are sweet and sorrowful. Yet I do not sorrow that the young has had his dream fulfilled and will someday be Bard. I weep that my days as Bard were too soon over, and the days of King Theoden. Perhaps I will sing to you the rest of the song when the memories have fled my heart and no longer pain me as they do now."

[Kransha]

Osric listened, focused and soothed by the calm verses, to the song of Liornung the former bard. His gaze became weary, serene, like a wistfully gentle sea in the wake of any storm; the like had been seen in the bustling streets of Edoras. He nodded in reverential agreement as the voice of Liornung withered and died in his throat, the sweet sound disappearing gradually as the silence that had completely overtaken the room became evident. No one clapped, or showed the merest hint that the song had ended, even after Liornung had finished speaking. Osric looked up, as he’d been looking down, pondering the shadows on the floor beneath, and managed to get out the first words, as he so often did in the tune’s solemn wake.

“My friend, Liornung,” he said, quietly at first, but then with more resoluteness, “you need not conclude that song just yet. When your verve is rekindled, do so, but I pray you, rest and be merry. Though you have left the Golden Hall, we can all see that the hall has not left you, more in soul than heart. You carry the flawless beauty of Meduseld with you, the fluttering grandeur of the Rohirrim banners held aloft, the beauteous things of Edoras and all of Rohan, and beyond, if I may say so. I too know some of the wonder that lies in that place, and perhaps the residue that cling to those who leave it." At last, the subdued nature settled on the innards of the White Horse dissapated, "Be at peace for this moment, and we shall elicit a song from master Hearpwine or master Eorcyn, so that you may collect the verses which have entertained us.”

As the old Rohirrim came to a serious, if not tedious conclusion, he reflected. He had been moved especially by what the bard and fiddler had said. The man of Aldburg had come on numerous occasions to the city of Edoras, and from the rolling, dipping hills of high-hanging grass, rippling across the plains of amber green as water would, the eyes of Osric, whether as old and nestled between wizened flaps of wrinkled skin as they were now or shing out and glinting with a fiendish light as they had in youth, would always fall upon the hall, its roof thatched with shimmering patches of sunlit gold. He had looked, in past days, upon the beauty of the hall and dreamt of entering. Dreamt, with his boyish fancies, until one day. Dreams fulfilled, so he had thought, were to be beauteous, but his had been only grand until the dream ended. The Golden Hall, from without and from within, was a wondrous weight, which gnawed at Osric murderously when it had been lifted years ago, leaving an unexpected emptiness behind it to haunt the man.

“Eorcyn,” said Osric, feigning harsh sternness as he turned to this unknown man, scratching his dappled beard in contemplation, “milord Bard, perhaps, since you have not before graced this horse with a fairer saddle, you would be willing to show us what made you so favorable ‘neath the roof of the Golden Hall. If Hearpwine’s humble words ring true, than you are a marvel to the world of music indeed. So, let me not speak of you more, since you are surely capable of doing so yourself. Give us a round, and a merry one at that, else we shall have to find another bard who can do the job justice, but I have no fear of that.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Eorcyn bowed to Osric and smiled gravely. “You doubt that the King as his nobles have made the right decision,” he began. “I am afraid, for my sake, that there are many who will think so too. Perhaps you have not heard the whole story of the Contest however? I offered the place of victory to Hearpwine but was denied by the King.”

“I have heard the story,” Osric replied, “and I am glad to know that it is true. But by what I’ve heard, you denied the decision of the King in that you felt a younger man who could serve him longer would serve him better. I did not hear that you relinquished the title of the better singer.”

“And that I do not,” Eorcyn said, his voice taking on an edge of iron that it had seemed incapable of earlier. “Master Hearpwine is talented and passionate, but he is young and untutored – he will benefit from a few years’ seasoning.”

Oscric made to reply to this, but Hearpwine stepped forward with his arms raised between them. He had not noticed the slight altercation at first, for his eyes had been taken by Mae where she stood (quite prettily) contemplating what must have been for her a miraculous sight: not one, but three Bards to the King! Hearpwine tore his attention from her and spoke to the two older men. “Please my friends, do not quarrel upon such a happy day: do not mar my victory with disagreement. For a great victory I deem it – have I not won both the favour of the Lady and the right to learn from the King’s Bard himself? Come Eorcyn,” he added quickly to forestall and more harsh words between the two old men, “give us the happy song that my friend Osric asks. And if I might be allowed, I will accompany you on my harp.”

Eorcyn looked at Osric once more but did not say what he was thinking. Instead, he seized the middle of the room and began to hum a familiar tune. Hearpwine knew it well, and soon the melody flooded from his harp to all corners of the room.

There was an old fiddler who had a cow
The cow wore striped pants
And when the old fiddler would play a tune
The cow would love to dance
Dance, dance, dance, the cow would love to dance
Dance, dance, dance, the cow would love to dance

The fiddler played and the cow she danced
Beneath the light of the moon
The fiddler got tired, but the cow did not
She said: "Play another tune."
Tune, tune, tune, Play another tune
Tune, tune, tune, play another tune.

The cow kept dancing and danced all night
And most of the following day
And all of the animals joined right in
And danced their shoes away
Away way way, they danced their shoes away
Away way way, they danced their shoes away

There was an old fiddler who had a cow
The cow wore striped pants
And when the old fiddler would play a tune
The cow would love to dance

Eorcyn finished to a round of applause and raucous laughter, bowing and smiling to those around him (but not, Hearpwine noticed, to Osric), saying “‘Tis a piece of lovely nonsense I learned of the Halfing Meriadoc,” he explained. “I met him when he and his companions returned here with our King, and though he was saddened by the loss of him he loved, he did teach me the words to this song. ‘It’s a silly song,’ he told me, ‘such as my people sing, and not at all fit for high company. But I sang it for Theoden before he rode away from Dunharrow and he said he liked it. I sing it now in memory of him’.”

Hearpwine applauded with the rest of the crowd, and soon the cry came for him to sing a tune but he shook his head quietly saying, “I am sorry, my friends, but I have done so much singing since I arrived that I must give my voice a rest. Why, all last night I sang, and then this morning I had to give a performance fit for a King. And then, I’m afraid, I much abused my throat in the celebrations after. Please,” he added wearily, “allow me to have a bite to eat and some drink and then I shall sing for you when my strength is gathered once more. In the meantime, I daresay my master will be willing to share his song-hoard with you all.” Eorcyn smiled and bowed once more to the Inn, saying that he would be happy to entertain any requests for music.

Hearpwine took the opportunity to move away from the centre of the room. The tables were all filling up, and he went over to a small one by the window where sat a Man dressed in the habiliments of a Dúnedain Ranger. “May I sit,” Hearpwine asked.

[Kransha]

Osric, with his withering gaze, smiled as best he could, though the smile’s luster was removed. He looked at Eorcyn, the two clouded orbs nestled into his wizened face unblinking as the bard’s eyes met his. They exchanged only a swift glance, the glance of brethren, though they shared no such bond. Both men broke the locking of their stares instantly, so as to keep up their combined appearances. Eorcyn turned to entertain the berating of numerous questions. Osric, muttering indignantly to himself, turned, reflecting back to the words Liornung had said, talking of the Golden Hall of Meduseld and his subsequent melancholia. This drove Osric’s mind from quiet contemplation to deep, unsettled thought as the candle flame of a darker memory, though thatched with glistening gold, flickered in his mind, sparkling seductively to entice the thinker back to it.

It had been years ago, the number of which had been lost to Osric’s inferior memorial records, that the man, now old and having lost his prime years to war, had been called to that place where men and women, poets and fiddlers, and all their jolly kin had flocked on this fine day. He had felt himself a lad, though he’d seen so much of war’s ineptitude, its uselessness, the squandering of fair youth and the stealing of the beauty in the world. After that day he was old, and, strangely, he had not been so before. Before he entered the Golden Hall, he had been a warrior of Rohan, with the white steed on grassy green behind him. When he left, his strides no longer filled with exaggerated vigor, he had been an ancient dotard of a Rohirrim, unfit to hold his station, or the gaudy titles pinned upon his breast unjustly. He was saddened that day, profusely, and his luster abandoned him, spurning him cruelly and striking him from his high perch, no longer the noble falcon but the cantankerous old crow, reclusive in his stories of war, death, and illusions of merriness.

For his deeds and for his presence in the War of the Ring as a man who stood on the field for principle and for honor, Osric of Aldburg had been allowed to enter that hall, alongside the few brothers of his who had not fallen, and be looked upon by the noble Eomer and fair Eowyn, Lord and Lady of the kingdom. He had been humbled, not by them, but by the place, by some strange futility that accosted him to no end. He could not shake as he looked upon the marble pillars, gleaming in sunlight manufactured perfectly by the sensational golden hue of the rafters above, on the dazzling tapestries of past conquests ceremoniously decorating Brego’s hall. It was something that lingered in Osric now. But, the Rohirrim tried not to consider it an ill thing. He had seen Meduseld, and was honored to have even the syllables of his name spoken by the brave and regal Eomer upon his gilt throne. Now, as Osric so warily assured all others, was a time for celebration.

“So,” queried the man, more as thundering statement than question in reality, clapping his suddenly clenched fist upon a table and rattling its foundations, “who now is left that has not placed his voice upon our heart strings and plaid, like master Liornung on the fiddle? I know but one who has yet to awe us with his words and song!” The crowd seemed to unanimously agree with the anonymous voice, since none knew its owner, and began to shout and hoot and holler, though they soon realized that they did not know which bard they ought to center their attentions on. They all looked around, bewildered, which allowed Osric a choked-back chuckle, which soon stopped as his own attention was swiftly diverted to another, more important matter.

Slowly, but with zealous sureness, Osric edged his rickety wooden chair across the floor, scraping up the polished wood, towards where Eorcyn sat. The bard took notice, but seemed, with his theatrical skill, not to, at first. He shot a sideways look at the once-warrior and turned back to the crowd, but Osric persisted doggedly, swinging his chair up and over beneath him and to the table that Eorcyn stood beside, his arms still half spread as requests seem to rise and fall. Osric gestured to him, somewhat ruefully, and the bard turned to the man, sitting beneath him. Osric, pushing up from the table with wobbling, narrow arms sheathed in cloth, stood hunched before the bard and spoke, though no others heard his voice in the commotion.

“Eorcyn," he said in reservation, being all but concise, "you must forgive my inconsiderate choice of words when we spoke. I was somewhat addled at this whole scenario playing out; my ancient wits were prone to some failing, so I may have seemed ungrateful. I want, now, before the end of this happy day, to extend my hearty thanks for your services to my friends this day, and to the noble men and ladies of the Great Hall. I know I should not speak on their behalf, as I am barely a member of the conglomerate I speak of, but I can still hope that you might accept this poor excuse for penance.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Eorcyn considered before replying, for he could sense that Osric meant what he said, but that the old warrior remained, in his heart, loyal to his opinions rather than to the judgement of the King. Eorcyn warmed to him for that. His harsh words of before had come as a surprise to himself, and he was only just now beginning to resolve them in his heart. He had lived a long and successful life as a bard, and his selection this day should serve as the fulfillment of his existence, but over it all there stood yet a dark cloud. When he had heard Hearpwine sing, there had been no doubt in his mind that the young man would carry the day. His voice was untutored and his discretion somewhat lacking in performance, but there could be no denying the raw talent of the lad. Eorcyn’s own performance had been somewhat lacking this day, he thought, and even the youth Asad’s singing had, to Eorcyn’s mind, been deserving of higher praise. He had won the affections and the loyalties of the Golden Hall this day, and for that reason the King had chosen him wisely. But the hearts and souls of those with the ears to hear and the wits to recognise belonged firmly to his student. He was ashamed as he recalled the relief he had felt with Éomer had proclaimed that Hearpwine would not perform in the Golden Hall until his time had come to become master and not apprentice: Eorcyn feared sharing the floor with such talent.

He eyed Osric carefully and sat. Pitching his voice low he said, “I think you for that, friend, but I fear I owe you the apology, for I was rash when I spoke – rash and foolish: two things that are never comely in a man, but that are more than ridiculous when found in a man of my age and supposed wisdom.” Osric raised a questioning eyebrow but did not reply, so Eorcyn continued. “I fear that you touched too close to the mark with your doubts, for I share them myself. You are right when you say that I did not offer to bow to the greater singer, and I truly believe that there is much that young Hearpwine can learn from myself and Liornung. But there is an ugly truth that I will share with you – I believe that in a very short time the young man will have learned all that he can from me, and then I will be nothing more than an old encumbrance between him and the station that will be rightfully his. I am the better singer…for now. But when he reaches the full limit of his strength, when he learns to pace his song and achieve its full gallop where it shall have the most effect…I am afraid that I will sound like that croaking of an old crow beside him!”

They looked across to where Hearpwine sat in conference with the new arrival from the north. Osric said, “Such is the burden of age. We have come through our adventure and offer little to those who follow but the imprint of our feet upon paths that we no longer have the strength to follow. The best we can hope is that those younger feet will not completely obliterate the signs of our passage as they hasten to surpass us. But do not despair, for without the aged, how would youth know the path that they must follow? Hearpwine may surpass you someday, but for now he does not, and he looks to you as his rightful master. If you can find it in your heart to help him along the path you have taken, he will perhaps find the strength to make one of his own – and if that happens, your path will remain your own, and become the starting point of a most miraculous journey! That, I think, is no small accomplishment!”

Eorcyn returned his gaze to the rheumy eyes of his companion, and saw there that Osric was speaking as much to comfort his own age. He smiled at the man in what he hoped was a friendly manner, for his mind was still oppressed. “You speak wise counsel, friend. Come, let us order some drink so that I might loosen my throat somewhat, and then I shall constrain my apprentice to accompany me a song!” He turned and waved at the Innkeeper to get her attention.

[Bêthberry]

[OCC]

April and May were very busy months in The Shire and saw the completion of several excellent games. Many gamers deservedly earned access to Rohan and three Game Founders earned full status in Rohan.

Gamers with full status as Game Manager and Game Player

alaklondewen
Everdawn
ittlemanpoet

Gamers who have earned access as Game Players

Alatariel Telemnar
ArwenBaggins

Durelin

Eorl of Rohan
Esgallhugwen

Fordim Hedgethistle

Kransha

Lumiel

Memory of Trees
Meneltarmacil

Nuranar

Regin Hardhammar

Witch Queen

A round of applause and a round of ale at the White Horse for these new Gamers and Game Managers in Rohan! Every one of them wrote with accomplishment and creativity and responsibility.

New Writers of the Mark, please take the time, if you have not already, to read through the rules for gaming in Rohan in the thread called The Golden Hall.

Welcome to Rohan. I look forward to gaming with you either in Rohan games (when I can find the time to join games or run my own) or at The White Horse. Please do come to the Horse in character and allow us to raise a pint in honour of your accomplishments.

Bêthberry,
Moderator for Rohan

[Bêthberry]

It had been a long and confusing morning for Bethberry, for she had chosen to avoid the competition at the Golden Hall. She had not felt inclined to remember the events of four years ago amid glittering celebration and regal pomp.

She had struggled with the children's lessons, watching their impatience and eagerness to be off to the excitment of the market and the competition. Rather than a formal lesson, she had encouraged them to draw on their slates images of kings and queens, the Golden Hall itself, the barrow of Theoden and those also of the many who fell that day. The children found an outlet for a time for their imagination and then grew impatient. She gave them leave, as she knew Frodides would have allowed, to run off to stand outside the Golden Hall in hopes of hearing the contest, with a warning to listen to Gomen who could be relied upon to keep a very watchful eye over them. With nary a word, they allowed their slates to clatter upon the old table and were away.

She sat quietly for a time, watching Ælle and Osric share a breakfast ere she rose and sought out Ruthven, the woman whose company always these days soothed her best. Ruthven knew, as did the poor of Edoras, that the last four years were years of struggle and deprivation. The costs of war were great and many went hungry and languished in pain and destitution from want. With the old rag lady only could Bethberry share her feelings of frustration with opulent ceremonies of the nobles when so much still yet remained to be done for the people. Yet, when finally she rose to leave Ruthven, her heart was more at ease.
Thus it was that she was back at The White Horse when Hearpwine and Liornung and Eorcyn bounded into the Mead Hall with their excitement and swelling enthusiasms which overtook the Inn. She had been about to address a new patron, a stranger, a northern Ranger it appeared from his dress, when Hearwpine caught her eye and nodded. She smiled at him, who seemed to have won a different prize that day, once which suprisingly gave him greater happiness than winning would have. Interesting, she thought, how things can be given even in the midst of others being lost or taken away.

Once the excitement and uproar subsided, she rose to speak to all.

"We are honoured here with the presence of three bards, the like of which The Horse has never before seen. In honour of this day and their art, may I offer them a fine meal from our kitchens and to all others, ale or cider as thirst may dictate or desire. And in memory of those who have fallen, the little remembered in song and verse as well as the great, for their sacrifice is no less keen for being less known. "

She bowed before the three, old Eorcyn, secretive Liornung, and the expectant Hearpwine and then sought her way back to the table of the northerner, whose action in pulling out quill and parchment had caught her attention.

~~~

OOC My apologies for my recent absence. My road in real life went ever on and away from the Downs and indeed I crossed the continent and was brought to the Western shore. Yet I have returned to find one of the most splendid sub-plots the White Horse has ever seen. Wonderful work particularly by Aylwen Dreamsong, Nurumaiel and Fordim Hedgethistle and writing equally good by Kransha and Snowdog. May the other gamers return as well now that events have returned to The Horse!

Aylwen and I will be hatching new subplots as this one comes to a completion, so if any Writer of the Mark wishes to suggest further plots, please contact either Aylwen or myself. This is not to call for an end to the current plans, but simply to prepare for future events.

[Snowdog]

Hanasían had out an acceptable piece of parchment, and his quill, ink and powder were set by as well as he listened to the arousing bandter and celebration that had made its way in the White Horse. But in this corner of the Inn, Hanasían started to write of the dark, confusing days of the Battle of the Fords of Isen. He was hoping to meet his twin cousins Frea an Folca here, but they were obviously off celebrating. So he penned the names of men he fought beside and tried to note anything he remembered of each, and having lost himself some into that fateful day Theodred fell holding the eyot, he wrote some words they had traded before that fell battle.

"May I sit..."

Hanasían had instinctivly sensed his presence, though another may have been startled when in such deep thought. Hanasían waved his hand with the quill toward a chair in offerance to the bard before dipping the quill in the ink and continuing to capture a thought. Setting the quill down, he dusted and gently let slide the dust with a soft breath.

He set the parchment aside and lifted his tankard. He looked at the Bard and said,

'It is an honor to have a man of such high esteem to come share this table. It sounds as though you have done well this day?'

He took a drink of the ale, and leaned back. He could see the bard's eyes looking at the Elven script on the parchment in a curious way, and Hanasían went on,

'As you tell of deeds in song and word, I tell of them in writing. Too many deeds go un-sung and un-remembered, when so many fell in the struggle against the darkness. Much is worthy of word and song.

Hanasían then listened as a lady spoke of the Bardic competition, and an applause came forth at its finish. Hanasían said to the bard at his table,

'It looks like you are well rewarded sir!'

Hanasían then stood up at the approach of the woman.

'Mae govannen lady of Rohan!'

He stepped aside to make sure the remaining chair at the table was clean of boot dirt and offered her a seat.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

There could be no lack of happiness and festive hearts on that chill, early spring day. The progression of time and events could never be duplicated or occur as it had on that day, either. None could explain the spirit that had settled over the town of Edoras. Remembering the distant and recent pasts collided with hoping for a better future. Old friends were able to come together and remember friends long gone and past times spent together, whether on the battlefield or elsewhere. Strangers met and shared stories and songs, learning to come together as they shared the promise of tomorrow.

Despite all this happiness, there remained many a task for Aylwen to complete. Most of her work that day entailed feeding and serving the customers that flowed into the Horse constantly that day. This was the Innkeeper’s job every day, but today the tasks felt less hefty as they were lightened by song and tale ringing throughout the Mead Hall.

The afternoon passed much like this, with song and merriment ringing throughout the Horse and throughout Edoras with pride in their country. Hearpwine let his voice rest before giving a stunning encore of the tune he sang for the King and the Lady. Liornung aided in the song making, as did many others who passed through the Inn that day. Stories of the valiant warriors who died in battle peppered the festivities, reminding young and old of what had come to be just four years earlier.

Sunlight became scarce, however, as the good times and good tales passed all the time of day. People began to filter out of the Inn slowly, some ready to leave with their whining children and others hesitant to exit the White Horse. As the sun went down, Aylwen stood upon her stool and raised her hands for silence.

“After being an Innkeeper for fourteen years, I have heard and seen a great many things,” Aylwen began, looking over and catching Bethberry’s gaze for just a moment before continuing her speech. “I have met many people and learned much from each of them. Some I know and remember to this day, others come and go, only to have someone new walk in the next day. I have learned that perhaps it is the way of things for people and lessons that you love to come and go, as does the day. One can go after these people and these lessons, running to catch up and never have to miss them again. Or one can stay where they are and meet different people and learn different things, keeping the memory of those they miss alive in every task they do. Tonight, my friends, we gathered to remember those that we lost in a great battle…”

Aylwen paused for a moment. She eyed Hearpwine and Liornung, Osric and Eorcyn, Bethberry and Ruthven, and she passed her gaze over all the patrons of the White Horse in turn.

“Hail the victorious dead.”

---

Aylwen pulled the windows of the White Horse Inn open with ease that came from many years of practice. Dust flew from the opening, visible only in the rays of light that flashed from outside and danced onto the wooden floor of the Inn.

Days and weeks had passed swiftly from those few celebratory nights in early spring. Trees bare of leaves had long begun sprouting buds, and before long the grand shade of green had flourished across Edoras again. Air no longer brought chills or shivers, and flowers had been blooming for a few months. Midsummer fast approached Edoras.

Motan paraded around the Inn at that early hour with a crown of colorful flowers upon her head. Frodides chased the little four-year old about, until she caught her daughter and lifted her high into the air with laughter in both their hearts. Aylwen smiled as she watched them, then turned and went to open the next window. Goldwine happily purred and rubbed against the Innkeeper's leg. When the woman would do no more than scratch once behind his ears, the cat curled his tail in a put-off manner and went to rub his back against on a leg of one of the many chairs that littered the room.

The sun had scarcely risen in the sky when Aylwen opened the front door of the White Horse for any to enter.

[Nurumaiel]

"Come now, Gomen!" Maercwen laughed as she stroked the neck of the impatient stallion that was prancing by her side. Gomen's cheery face peered from around the stable door and he nodded before withdrawing. The stallion gave a loud whinny and a little buck. Maercwen tightened her grip on the reins and caught his head, kissing his nose. "Patience, Mihtig, patience. I know this fair summer day brings thoughts of adventure to your mind, but we must wait for Gomen."

And Gomen soon appeared, leading a tall chestnut horse that thrust its head proudly to the sky and looked for all the world a king. Behind Gomen was Leofan, who went to his daughter and looked doubtfully up at Mihtig. The stallion was tall, strong, and spirited. He was not certain that his young daughter, just barely eighteen now, could manage him. "Mae, are you sure he won't be too much for you? You're strong enough to handle him?"

"No, Papa," the girl replied. "I'm not nearly strong enough to handle him. I am relying solely on the training you have given that will cause him to listen to my words rather than my strength, as well as the obedience and respect he has for me as his 'sister.'"

"Very well," said Liornung, but still he looked doubtful. He addressed his eldest son then, instructing him to watch over his sister and both the horses, and to make sure no harm befell any who were to ride out that day. He bid them farewell with a last bidding that they return within two hours so Mae could help her mother with the washing. He watched as they rode off and then turned to the sound of singing and laughter. Mereflod and Motan were skipping towards him, both golden heads wreathed with flowers and each little hand clutching a bright array of equally colorful flowers. "Papa, papa!" they sang as he skipped towards him. He kissed them both and caressed their hair, saying, "My little daughters look like the queens of fair flowers and bright meadows. Where did these lovely flowers come from."

"They came from our garden, Papa," Mereflod replied. "We've worked oh so hard in it every day and the flowers are all growing so beautifully. Don't you like them, Papa?"

He kissed each again, replying, "I love them. Make sure you pick some for your mother, Mistress Bethberry, and our innkeeper Aylwen."

"Oh, Papa," said Motan, "we already did. See?" She held out a dimpled hand. Leofan laughed. "Good, good," he said. "Now go give those flowers to those three lovely women and see if Bethberry wants you for lessons. If not ask your Mamma if she needs help. And if she doesn't need help you may come out here and play." The girls hugged their father once again and then skipped away, clasping hands. Leofan chuckled and went back into the stable.

[Durelin]

It had taken Durelin quite a long time to get all prepared for a move to Rohan. It was a long way from Bree to Rohan, after all, and a long way meant a big difference. This was certainly a great change for this Shire loving young woman, and many details entailed in making this move complete. Now that these details, and other details of her life, had been worked out, Durelin decided that it was time to introduce herself to the goings on of her new home. And, as it was in any quaint, quiet, common sense little town or a bustling city without any signs of cheery faces on short, stout halfling bodies, the resident inn was the place to go to get ‘in the know’.

As a city such as Edoras, a city very much unlike Bree, she was finding, had several inns, it was important that she find the inn. Whatever population size a community had, there was always one place where any could go and see anyone. ‘Anyone’ was just reduced in size in cities. When Durelin’s feet had become rather sore in her soft, slipper-like leather shoes (a bad choice, she now realized, to wear that day), she finally came upon an inn with its doors thrown open wide with sounds of merry making that had been calling to her for a block now. Still, this had to be relatively quiet for the inn, this early in the day.

She paused for a moment to look at the sign hanging above the door. The White Horse Inn she read, thinking of how she should not have doubted that it would have ‘horse’ somewhere in its name. She pondered the meaning of a ‘white horse’ until her thoughts were disrupted by a tugging on her arm. The small hand in hers was gripping as tightly as it could, and the child the hand belonged to was seemingly trying to pull Durelin’s arm off. The child was of course hers; it was her only son, as she had only an infant daughter at home with the father (who was in no mood to be social, at this point!).

“Mamma!” he cried with an incredible amount of huffiness, “Can’t we go in?”

The boy was just barely eight, but he was already almost up to his mother’s chest. He was going to be tall, much like his father. Also like his father, he had very blonde and very straight hair, along with light blue eyes, almost a blue-grey. This was all due to Rohirrim heritage. This was his father’s home, and this was why Durelin was here. He had refused to allow his son to grow up any more outside his homeland. Durelin could not argue with that, nor would she wish to. She had left family in Bree, but this was her family now. There was no way she would ever be lonely, she knew, as she looked down at her son with a smile. It won’t be much longer before I am unable to do that. I will smile up at him, and it will be very different, she thought, as she was already beginning to feel that time was playing tricks on her.

“What did you say, Loar?” Her son was in no mood for smiles, but he knew to say “please”. Durelin’s smile widened as she let go of Loar’s hand and had to pick up her skirts to walk quickly enough to follow the boy, now running in his excitement. Durelin sighed as the boy disappeared into the crowds and stopped to look around. It would be quite embarrassing to be seen running with her skirts pulled up trying to catch her child. Besides, he couldn’t get himself into too much trouble, the amount of people here would not allow him to…would it? There was a good many, but not enough to hide him for long. But perhaps there was enough that they would not notice a young boy doing mischief… Durelin then imagined her young son slipping underneath someone’s table, reaching up to tip over a mug of ale and opening his mouth wide beneath it. Her head turned wildly from side to side, her eyes straining to search the entire inn. She sighed once again, this time much more heavily, and gave up for now. An inn like this, much larger than the Green Dragon back in Bree, was perfect for hiding someone as cunning as her son.

Calmly, but quickly, she walked up to the bar, and got the innkeeper’s attention. “Excuse me, miss. Did you see a young boy run by here just a moment ago? I seem to have lost him already.”

[Kransha]

The midsummer air, fresh and crisp, may have had the gentle temperament of a cooling breeze, but Osric of Aldburg only felt the restricting heat, which forced his garb to cling to him with more weight, dragging down his resolute posture as he dragged his quivering right leg and his stiffened left along the grassy ground, swinging up his oaken cane beneath him and planting it firmly in the soft earth. His shadowed eyes sparkled anew as his gaze drifted up, taking in the serene sight of the White Horse Inn that sat, nestled into the rural terrain of Edoras, before him. The wrinkled wreaths of reddened flesh around his two clouded eyes pulled apart and his narrowed mouth curved into a satisfied smile as he looked upon the structure, letting his armored chest heave with the relaxed atmosphere of a refreshing, deep sigh, breathing in the brisk air. He lowered his wizened head, shaking it with a furthered smile as his mind slipped into the shroud of reminiscence, which clouded both vision and his experienced senses.

He looked older somehow, which he was, but by more than a simple season. His shoulder-length hair and unkempt beard, formerly speckled with shadowy gray, was now as white as winter snow. His beard stretched down farther, hanging in limp strands over the glinting leaf mail and furnished leather hauberk that covered his chest. The aged Rohirrim seemed older in the way he carried himself along as well, stooped over with an arched back concealed by a long cloth cloak with a collar of bristling fur. He held a long staff of oak-wood that had been polished delicately and sanded of all blemishes, with a rounded sphere, amber in murky hue, which his gnarled digits were curled around tightly, clutching the cane near him. He wore more elaborate garb than he had borne the last time he came this way, garb which weighed heavily upon him as he staggered along a winding path which only he saw. Osric wore a simple tunic, evergreen, that hung down like a cropped robe and a sturdy hauberk of brown leather over that with the stencil of a braying steed drawn into the material. His forest-colored sleeves and trousers swung limp on his limbs, too large for him, but were affixed to his arms and legs by two glinting, golden-bronze vambraces and greaves, strapped with bands of cloth to each appendage, pauldrons bound to his sagging shoulders, and a skirt of dull golden leaf mail, all these designed with constant thematic motifs of horses and blades. It was ceremonial dress, to be sure, as it served no purpose but to make old Osric look nobler, more chivalric, more royal in gait and bearing, or so it would seem to most who had seen him before under any circumstances.

But, Osric was not alone on this journey. Beside him, half in his shadow stood a taller, but far less imposing individual with a more colorful face and youthful complexion. He was a fair-haired lad, certainly young, with a bright face, a merry expression, though wrought with seriousness, and a quick and patient gait as he wandered on behind the other. His head was held upright, ovular, and capped by some unruly dirty-blonde hair which hung down but an inch less than that of Osric, unkempt and untamable. His eyes, cold and watery blue, searched the sky rather than the ignoble ground and his features remained smooth and simple. His outfit was certainly not as contrived as Osric’s, which gave him a more amiable look, as he wore naught but the earthy colors of brown and green shades upon him, a long, withered tunic, a tight hauberk over that, and a frock coat draped messily over his prominent, broad shoulders. He was a lad by most standards, no longer a child, but not yet a man. He stood and walked, ever nearing Osric until the older man began to droop on his course, sliding down. Then, suddenly, old Osric stumbled. The young man groped for the opportunity and dove, his hands clenching around his uncle’s arm and hauling him tenderly up.

“Here, uncle, let me help.” He crooned, his voice calm and composed, “I said in Aldburg we should have ridden.” It was a scolding tone, one of reprimand, he held, which elicited an irked and involuntary wince from the other, who's eyes, narrowed and suddenly tinted with a darker hue.

“Ulfmane is not the steed he was once, Sigurd.” Osric almost snapped as he wrenched his arm foolishly from the younger man’s grip, “I do not take him on trivial journeys like these. I would not trust his care to the most renowned of stable-masters in the Wold, and you know that. My legs can carry me the distance, and I do not doubt that yours can carry you faster than you are going.”

“I’m not trying to patronize you, uncle.” scowled Sigurd, Osric’s nephew, letting go fully of the armored arm of his mother’s elder brother and shaking his head, showing a look of meek frustration. Osric, his facial expression loosening wearily, turned to him as the pace of the two slowed. “I know, I know,” the Rohirrim grumbled, “It is the fact that you’re right. My leg protests whenever I try to force it into action, no matter what circumstances apply. You are right to worry. But, all of that is unimportant. My woes are no longer your concern, which is why you are here, in Edoras. I assure you, you’ll find the same in the Horse that I found, and t’would do you good to get away from Aldburg for a week or two…or three…” his voice faded steadily, but suddenly rose again and swelled as the two of them caught the vague sight of two figures on the horizon, headed in the opposite direction from them, “And there they are now, I’ll wager! That’ll be Miss Maercwen.”

Sigurd didn’t bother to ask how his uncle had managed to recognize someone from so far away so quickly, and sighed heavily. “You know her, uncle?” he queried, rather glumly. “Oh, yes.” said Osric, his delighted air disrupting Sigurd’s moody one, “I suffered the great shame of trying and failing to summon a poem that could do her young beauty justice.” Suddenly, Sigurd’s deep blue eyes widened with a strange, shocked horror plastered against his gently sloping features. “It wasn’t the-”

Osric cut him off before he finished, sharply, “No, of course not! You don’t think I’d…” his voice died in his throat as suddenly as it had peaked. He looked down at the ground and turned slowly from Sigurd, taking a few small steps forward with his nephew close behind. “I didn’t.” the same nephew acknowledged icily, “You’ve been frivolous with it before.”

“I’m careful enough as it is, Sigurd.” Shot Osric again, becoming incensed for the second time, though he did not turn to his nephew, “I don’t need you telling me not to be frivolous with my words, when you have trouble enough keeping rein on your affections.” Now, as Osric finished, it was Sigurd’s turn to be incensed. The young man, less than half Osric’s age, seemed about to leap at his uncle, as he grabbed Osric’s pauldrons-cloaked shoulder and managed to spin him until the two men, of the same height, faced each other. “You don’t know that, Osric,” he said in a low, meaningful voice, “and I would appreciate if-”

Yet again, Osric severed his words in midair and pulled onward, trying to look mildly optimistic. “Fine. No more of this. We’re here to be merry, nephew, not to sulk about our sins. Let me introduce you to Miss Aylwen and Bethberry. T’wouldn’t surprise me if old Liornung was there as well, since that was his niece…” suddenly, as he paused, a gleeful glint rippled across the musty surface of his eye as a grin peeled over him. “Ah, yes, I should definitely introduce you to Maercwen. I’m sure you’d get along very well with that charming girl and-”

Sigurd coughed loudly, forcing the sound to halt Osric. Though the old Rohirrim still bore the same devilish look, he stopped speaking as the two of them neared the darkened threshold of the White Horse Inn, stumbling as gracefully as they could inside, through the heated air around, managing to work past the first signs of new life in the inn. Osric smiled again, still with some grimness in his look, but it faded as his face and that of his nephew’s was bathed in shadowy light, beaming from above and seeming to make the air sparkle serenly. It had been some time since he’d been in the White Horse, but the last day he’d spent there had been imprinted on him, emblazoned on the stony palette of his mind, as it was a most memorable experience. His meetings, his celebrations, his conversations, all things he felt being relived. This was what he wanted for Sigurd…though he wasn’t as keen to say why.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“No, no, no, no, no, no, NO!” Eorcyn shook his grizzled head and gently removed the harp from his student’s fingers. “You must stroke the middle high string here,” he said demonstrating as he spoke. “And you must stroke it, not pluck at it like you are trying to remove a rotten tooth.” He sighed and handed back the instrument to the young man, his face showing the disappointment that he felt. “Now, try it again. We’ll begin at the chorus – and remember, listen for my falling tone, and then come in with the harmony.” The old man touched his own instrument with his weathered fingers that had come to their second life in the last months. The good food and comfortable rooms that he enjoyed at the Hall had done wonders to restore his youthful vitality, and the constant attention (and adulation) of so many people had given him a great store of self-confidence. He played the tune with an energy that he had not known for many a year, and as he played he hummed the tune beneath his breath. He did not know he did this, and his student dared not tell him for fear his own tone would reveal how much it annoyed him.

If the months since the Contest had restored Eorcyn to his younger days, they had had the opposite effect on Hearpwine. His joy at the decision of the King had quickly given way to the sober realisation that his new role in life was one destined to be full of unrewarding labour. Day after day he sat at the knee of his master, honing his craft and learning all the songs that he could. But try as he might, he was never able to satisfy the old man. He knew that Eorcyn was demanding only that which he believed the younger man could provide, but there were days – more and more lately – that Hearpwine began to wonder at his naïve joy on that morning he was made apprentice to the Bard. Eorcyn frowned at him, sensing that his pupil’s attention was once again wandering, so Hearpwine dragged his attention back to his harp.

They were sitting together upon the porch of the Golden Hall with the whole of Edoras laid out beneath them, glowing warm and joyfully beneath the rising sun of midsummer. Try as he might, Hearpwine could not concentrate upon his lessons this day, and his eye kept wandering out over the roofs of Edoras and toward the high gables of the White Horse Inn. The Inn had become his home, but he spent little time there. Every morning he spent with his master learning his craft, and in the afternoons he worked either with Eorcyn or any of the wandering minstrels or bards who came to Edoras learning all the songs and tunes that he could. One of the first lessons that Eorcyn had given him was that a Bard could never know too many songs and had enjoined him to learn more. To that moment Hearpwine had been inordinately proud of his storehouse of music, but Eorcyn had been unimpressed. “Why my lad,” he had said that first day after the Contest, “until you know twenty score songs as well as your own name, and at least ten score tunes, you will not be fit to sing before the King and his courtiers. You must be able to find a song for every occasion and every mood, and you must not repeat a song above once a season, unless specifically requested to do so. I will teach you all the songs that I can, but you must look to the wandering musicians to know what is current and popular.” And so he spent endless hours, every afternoon, combing the market places, taverns and wayhouses of the city, looking for anyone who could teach him their songs. He very soon matched the totals given him by his master, but Eorcyn only smiled at this, saying “Well, lad, why stop at that? The more you learn in your youth, the more you will have to forget in your age, which should slow the process of forgetting down a bit!”

When his duties during the day were over, he was called upon most nights to accompany his master as he sang before the court. Hearpwine himself was never asked to sing as nobody wished to offend the protocol of the Court by having the Bard’s apprentice perform, but Hearpwine was allowed to play his harp in support of his master. Occasionally, if the gathering was going very late and Eorcyn became fatigued he would be allowed to retire and Hearpwine would take his place. When this happened, though, it was with little joy that the young man took the floor, for he would have been awake since dawn, and playing his harp most of that entire evening. The party from Ithilien had decided to remain in Edoras after the celebrations, which meant that most nights the King would stay up well after the sun had gone, deep in discussion with his sister and Lord Faramir. Just last night, Hearpwine had been asked to sing when Eorcyn retired, and he had been forced to continue until the first cock crow. He had curled up on a bench in the corner of the Hall for but three hours sleep before his master had called him to his lessons.

At the memory of his awakening, Hearpwine could not stifle a mighty yawn. His eyes closed and his hands became tense, forcing him off the tune, which then stumbled to a halt. Eorcyn frowned lightly but was not angry. He was demanding but not harsh and he could see that the lad was exhausted. He smiled at Hearpwine, saying, “The King keeps the night does he not? When did he retire last night? Had you much sleep?”

Hearpwine yawned again and mumbled, “I slept for three hours, I think.”

Eorcyn laid his harp upon the porch and placed his hand upon Hearpwine’s shoulder. “You have been working very hard for me and for your King these three months now. I believe that you deserve a break. Take up your harp my lad, and enjoy this day as you see fit!”

Hearpwine leapt to his feet with the eagerness of a child, a smile of relief on his face. “Thank you master! Thank you, I will see you tomorrow!” And with that, he raced down the hill toward the White Horse, and the comfortable bed in the small back room that Aylwen had set aside as his own.

[Nurumaiel]

Yes, the son of Durelin had certainly been lost, but he had also been found... though not by his mother. Three boys, one about ten and the other two about six years old, had been sitting under a table engaged in a whisper conversation when Loar had scrambled between the chairs and nearly collided with them. The eldest of the boys, called Giefu son of Leofan, drew himself up as far as he could without bumping his head on the table 'ceiling' and looked sternly down at the imposer. "I do beg your pardon," he said, "but we are in the midst of a very secret conversation here."

"A very secret conversation," replied one of the younger boys, who was in fact Deman. He had his arm draped about Fierlan's shoulders but Giefu knew it would not be long before the two began to fight with each other. Fierlan nodded also in agreement with the two statements already made and regarded Loar gravely, attempting to imitate Giefu's stern look.

"What is this secret conversation about?" the new boy questioned.

Giefu studied this newcomer. The boy was tall with Rohirric features, and that meant he was not a foreigner. Giefu personally had nothing against foreigners, but the fact that the boy was Rohirric was a point in his favor. Giefu would never tell what the secret conversation was about to a foreigner, kind though the foreigner may be. It was odd the way this boy had asked about the secret conversation outright, and it was very bold. He obviously expected to be told. Giefu had a sneaking suspicion deep inside of him that the boy was going to be told. He already felt friendly towards him.

"First you must tell me your name," he said gravely.

"Yes," said Deman, "first you must tell us your name." Fierlan felt very contented at the fact that his twin brother had changed 'me' to 'us.' They were all in the secret conversation and there could be no individual assuming the role of leader though they would allow Giefu to play it for awhile as he was the eldest.

"I'm called Loar," the boy replied. "What is your name?"

"I am Giefu son of Leofan," said Giefu, "and these are my brothers, Deman and Fierlan sons of Leofan. They are also twins." This official ceremony of introduction being done, Giefu grasped firmly onto Loar's sleeve and pulled him closer. "Now you must swear never to tell anyone," he said. "You can only tell your Papa and Mamma, but if they don't swear to tell nobody then you can't tell them either. Today my papa let my older brother and sister go out riding and he wouldn't let us go."

"Yes, he wouldn't let us go," said Deman, a look of deep injury appearing on his face.

"So now we are engaged in secret conversation to make a plan to convince him to let us go next time. But we must whisper... there is someone sitting right above us."

****************************

"Fiddle-dee-dee, la-la-lay,
ride up and down this cheery day.
And round the bend what will be seen?
Maybe Edoras' king and queen!"

Maercwen and Gomen laughed as they finished their song, but there was a little sigh from both of them. They glanced at each other in deep understanding. Both were passionately attached to their fiddler uncle and they had missed him terribly since he had left in the early spring. Every time they sang a song that he had taught them their thoughts turned woefully towards him. Yet Gomen was a naturally cheerful lad and soon brightened up, laughing in jest and saying, "But Mae, if we ride upon this road we'll never see the King. Why don't we turn around and go that way? Perhaps we will see Master Eorcyn, Bard of the King."

"He will most likely be within the Hall, though in truth on such a fine day as this no man should be indoors," replied Maercwen. "I hope you will not take it amiss, Gomen, but I would rather continue along this road. It is a sweet road and fair with the summer flowers, though I must say none of them are so fine as the flowers in the garden of our sisters!"

Gomen nodded his consent and they continued on, silent but knowing the thoughts of each other and the bliss of riding out on such a fair day. The sun was warm in the sky and shone brightly against the deep, rich blue of the sky, a blue that should have been made to garments for the fair Maercwen and her fair-faced young brother Gomen, for the blue was the same color as their eyes. The grass swayed in the wind beneath the feet of their horses, and the leaves rustled softly in a mysterious musical response. Keeping rythmn with the singing of the birds was the sound of the horses' hoofs hitting the road as they pranced energetically along, a wholly pleasing note to the ears of the two riders. People passing by called out their greetings, whether they knew the two youths or not. When children emerged from the doors of their houses Gomen would wave cheerily to the boys and blow kisses to the girls, and each would laugh and shout merry hellos. All the children about the Inn knew Gomen, for he was generous with the sweets he always carried in his pockets.

He was becoming quite a young man, Maercwen reflected. He was nearly ten and three years of age now, and soon he would be as tall as she would, and then he would grow taller than she. His face was slightly tanned by the sun and his hands calloused from working in the stables, but there was a certain delicacy in his features that would seem to imply good upbringing and a nobility of personality. His blue-grey eyes were clear and cheery, but with a degree of thoughtfulness and dreaminess in them, very much like his uncle Liornung's eyes. He was skilled with musical instruments of any kind and knew many old songs and tales. Maercwen had no doubt that someday he would leave the Inn to travel the road as his uncle did.

They rode on in silence for a time, and at last Gomen turned his steed, saying, "Let us return to the Inn, Mae." He smiled sympathetically at the downcast expression that came to hsi sister's face. "I know you would like to continue riding, and I fancy Mihtig could go on forever, but Mamma and Papa need us back at the Inn to help them with the work. In these warmer days there will most likely be many travellers upon the road who will seek the hospitable shelter of The White Horse and that will cause for work for those employed in the service of Miss Aylwen."

"I wonder why she never married..." Maercwen murmured, her voice barely audible, as she turned the unwilling Mihtig to follow her brother.

"Romantic as usual, dear sister."

"Uncle Liornung has ever been one to sing love songs," replied she, "and I do think Aylwen would be an excellent wife and mother."

"It is not too late for her," said he. "She is still very young, if you consider properly. As for you, how many lads in Edoras are seeking your attention?"

She blushed slightly and shook her head, saying contrary to her gesture, "One young man, the son of the farmer down the road, calls quite frequently and asks me to go riding with him and such, but it may mean nothing."

"Well, Papa thought that Master Hearpwine was quite smitten with you. He still does think so."

"Oh dear brother, he surely is not," she said, laughing. "If he felt any love for me at all he would pay more attention to me rather than spend such a great deal of time with Eorcyn."

"He does pay very much attention to you, but perhaps you are right that they are not 'courting attentions.' Ah, but I see no blush upon your cheeks, sister. Could it be that you are not in love with him?"

"He is almost dear enough to me to be a brother, but no more," she replied quietly. "Indeed he could almost be as a brother to me now. I do not know." And then she tossed her gold hair and laughed again. "Never, Gomen, never as dear a brother as you." He smiled and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

They arrived at the Inn again in not too long a time, for both their steeds were very speedy and could walk at a brisk pace. The youths unsaddled their horses and Gomen led them away, regretting that he could not go into the Inn. His father needed him to work in the stable. Maercwen bid him farewell and took up her apron from where she had left it hanging on the stable door and tied it about her waist. Casting one last mournful glance at the blue sky, she entered the Inn, but all woeful thoughts disappeared when she saw the old man who had just arrived. She went as speedily as she could while still retaining dignity and grace as befitted a young man, and stopping before him said, "Master Osric," and curtsied. Then, gazing merrily into his face with sparkling eyes, she said earnestly, "It is good to see you once again."

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Aylwen flung open the last window forcefully and then proceeded to return back towards the counter when she heard little feet patter on through the front door and on under the table where an elderly woman sat with a younger man. Aylwen had no time to see what the boy had looked like, and the Innkeeper had half a mind to go off and apologize to the patrons while pulling the rascal out by his or her shirt. But the Innkeeper could see that the first three inhibitors of the space below the table top were children of Leofan's, and Aylwen never had the heart to punish any child. However, Aylwen kept a watchful eye on the children as a woman walked into the White Horse.

The woman did not stop to take a seat, and instead walked right up to Aylwen with a half annoyed, half worried look upon her face. "Excuse me, miss. Did you see a young boy run by here just a moment ago? I seem to have lost him already.” The woman began, her calm voice contrasting with the way in which her eyes darted around the room into all the dark corners. Aylwen smiled, remembering the sound of the feet and looking past the newcomer lady towards the old woman and her young companion.

"Why, I do believe I have seen a little boy run past here. However, I am unfortunate enough to have the sorrowful duty to inform my patrons that they have three, and now four little children beneath their table and scarcely avoiding their feet," Aylwen grinned at the woman while she spoke, and walked from behind the bar towards the table that the children must have thought was hiding them quite well. As she moved Aylwen caught the attention of the young man, who gestured and informed the old woman of the Innkeeper's presence. Aylwen greeted them with a nod and a cheery smile. "Hello, Asad, it is nice to see you again. Jesia, as always it is a pleasure to see you enjoying the White Horse. However, I feel morally compelled to inform you that there are three little creatures trying their hardest not to hit your feet. Keeping this in mind, perhaps it would be best if I pulled them out for you? Gently, I assure you."

The old woman called Jesia laughed, her voice cracking and quickly becoming a wheezing croak. The man Asad took to lying his hand on his grandmother's shoulder, his eyes showing worry for just a moment. The flash of worry disappeared quickly though, and Jesia had stopped her hacking fit. Turning to Aylwen, the aging lady smiled behind a wrinkled face. "No, young Aylwen. I will take care of the young'uns, if it please you." Without giving anyone a chance to answer, Jesia leaned over in her chair, causing it to creak as she bent her head beneath the table top. There, in a curious huddle, sat four little boys. All of them seemed within five years of each other, but Jesia's eyes had failed her before and she dared not venture to really guess. Jesia had no need to grab or speak to any of the children. No, not at all. Jesia flashed the children a big, crooked smile when they all looked to see who had intruded. Her eyes wide and smile wrinkling upon her face, the children screamed at the top of their lungs and scrambled out from under the table. The twins quieted as each was lifted into the air by a gentle arm from Aylwen, and the little boy that Aylwen did not recognize stopped hollering when the new patron had grasped him in his arms. When Giefu realized his was the lone voice, he quieted and turned to see where his entourage had gone off to.

"Is that the little one you spoke of, friend?" Aylwen asked the woman kindly.

Just as Aylwen's voice trailed off, several people sauntered into the White Horse all at once. Osric, with some new companion, walked into the Inn carefully with his aid. Mae entered next, but she saw Osric and went over to the familiar face immediately. When Aylwen was certain that Fierlan and Deman were calm (they dared not look in the direction of the old woman!), she set them down and they went off with their brother. They only turned back to look at the woman that held their new acquaintance.

[Kransha]

Osric was, as usually, pleasantly surprised by the sudden, but delightful appearance of Maercwen at the table he’d forded his way to with his nephew trailing behind. With a youthful spark in his eye, he looked up at her and bowed his head politely. “And it is good to see you, Lady Maercwen.” Slowly, his eyes still twinkling in a more ominous, but devilish fashion, Osric’s white-haired head turned to Sigurd. He prompted the youth to stand and make the proper acknowledgements with a curt and concealed gesture, waving his wrinkled hand beneath the armored hanging’s of its sleeve, but allowing the gesture to remain unnoticed by all but Sigurd himself, who glanced at it begrudgingly. “Allow me to introduce you to my nephew, Sigurd, son of Sigmund.”

Sigurd obeyed, with less than his usual reluctance. He stood from his chair almost swiftly enough to send it up from the floor, standing just a short length taller than Maercwen, and bowed, his head remaining up as he overlooked the girl, puzzling for a moment before he rose to his full height (which, incidentally, was not very great at all), and spoke softly and humbly. “Hello…umm…” he paused, his voice flickering in his throat as he stumbled for the name he’d just heard, which had gone unrecorded, “what was that name again?”

“Maercwen,” she replied, curtsying prettily, with her familiar vivacious dignity which caused Osric to grin and Sigurd to smile openly, “but many simply call me Mae.”

“I see…” again, Sigurd’s voice got no farther than a rumbling noise in his throat as he considered. At last, staggered words managed to empty out, though they had not been properly premeditated, “that is…a very nice name.” His eyes seemed immobile, fixed somewhat rudely on Maercwen’s picturesque face. If his mind had not been temporarily clouded by other thoughts, he might’ve been gratified that she didn’t comment about how rude his slack-jawed staring was. He felt, at the moment, a feeling he was surprisingly used to, and accustomed to, and was not remotely startled by its occurrence of sudden uprising, but the fact that this pang was commonplace had gone from him as he tried in vain to blink.

Osric had been awaiting the statement, or it seemed that he had, and coughed very loudly, a gruff noise which very much distracted his young nephew. Sigurd’s legs tried to propel him sideways to face his uncle, but his upper half remained staunchly in place. Osric continued, though, catching his nephew’s attention more fully. “Sigurd,” he began, his conservative voice bordering on a reasonless urgency, “maybe you should try to locate Aylwen or Bethberry. I'm sure there are many here who you would be happy to meet and speak with.”

“I don’t know their faces as well as you, uncle.” Replied Sigurd calmly, his eyes narrowing as he spoke, “Perhaps Maercwen…” he paused again, shooting a nervous glance back at her, “Mae, could escort me to them, since I do not know the grounds well. That would give you a chance to rest here.” He turned back to her, keeping an exact half of his gaze on his uncle, who looked, for some reason which probably didn’t escape him, like he did not approve of the situation. Finally, after what seemed like a longer time than it was, Osric took a deep breath and spoke. “If Maercwen agrees, though she may have other business to attend to in the inn. In the case that she cannot, you could do the task yourself.”

“Yes, yes, right.” Sigurd stuttered weakly, turning back to Maercwen with a very mild, near unnoticeable tint of red lingering idly beneath his blue eyes, “I have been told you know this inn well, at least by my uncle here, who is usually honest. Would you be so kind as to give me a brief tour?”

[Durelin]

Sighing softly with relief, Durelin gripped tightly the newly found child’s hand, deciding that letting him do as he willed again would not be wise. “Aw, mama! You always come at the worst time! We were having a very secret talk.” Durelin glanced down at the child with a smile, then turned back to the innkeeper, the woman who had just rescued her!

”This most certainly is the little man I so fervently searched for,” she began, smiling at the woman in gratitude, her good-natured smile growing as she continued, “and now I believe you can see why.”

The innkeeper chuckled lightly, a few others in the room did as well, with understanding in their laughs. One of these was the old woman who seemed to be a ‘naughty child’s bane’. “I am Durelin, this is my son, Loar,” she paused for a moment and looked down at her son. “Well wave hello, at least!”

“Hello. That’s my mamma,” he said, pointing over to his mother with his free hand. Durelin suppressed a small laugh, knowing not to encourage him. Not looking at the young boy, so that he did not see the smile playing on her face, she shook her head. “I have another little one at home, a fresh new addition to the world. And then I have a big one at home, as well. My husband did not feel the need to be social today.”

This brought more knowing chuckles. Many of the people around her smiled with kind faces. It seemed Durelin had been relatively accepted, for now. Already, she was beginning to suppress all of her doubts about changing her life so much. It had seemed that following her husband’s wishes, which was her own wish, most of the time, would for once lead her to unhappiness. But she realized that when she said that her family was now in Edoras, it took on a whole knew meaning. These were her people now, and good people they did seem. She missed the usual hobbit that was found in Bree, and the small-town feel of her home, but this city of Rohan was still comprised of people. People just didn’t change that much for any number of miles.

“We come from Bree, a small village in comparison with this great city. I confess to only ever managing with one inn in a town, and intend to keep my life manageable. Expect my patronage regularly, as well as that of my husband. He shall most likely be more of a patron, talking less and drinking more.”

Loar burst into fits of laughter at this, practically falling onto the floor and out of his mother’s grip. Durelin pulled him up straight, but the laughter did not cease. “And what do you find so funny?”

The boy quieted for a moment, and tried to speak, but then laughter exploded out of him once more in a loud bark, and his arm gripped his stomach as he started to double over again. Durelin tugged him up again, and he managed to wheeze, while his face turned red at the effort of not laughing, “You’re talking about daddy drinking. I was just remembering the last time daddy was drinking. He was real funny then.”

Durelin’s hand shot over the boy’s mouth and color blossomed in her cheeks. All those nearby who had heard the boy simply laughed at his antics, but Durelin knew that she had to scold him, as well as keep her hand where it was for a moment longer. The boy loved making people laugh, and loved to laugh himself. Durelin thought it was wonderful, and found her son very amusing quite often, but she also knew that he had to learn when to laugh and when to make people laugh, and, especially, how. This time, he had made people laugh at his father’s expense. Hopefully these people would not pay attention to the words of a boy of only eight, but…if his father heard any chuckles about him…

Bending down, Durelin whispered in Loar’s here. She knew not to scold him in front of others, making a big fuss, and allowing him to get more attention. “You do not speak of your father that way, especially not to strangers. You shouldn’t make people laugh at someone. Your father will be coming down to this inn, and if he hears of a little boy talking about his funny father…”

Loar’s eyes opened wide, and a small noise came from under Durelin’s hand. It was the squeak of a surprised mouse emerging from a boy that was fast becoming a man, at least in physical appearance. A father could reduce any son to a mouse with his wrath, and, in this case, whispers of his wrath.

Forgive Loar, for his outburst,” Durelin said with a small smile of victory, removing her hand from his mouth. “He now remembers himself, now.”

[Nurumaiel]

"I would be delighted to show you about," said Mae, curtsying again. "I hope you will pardon me if I show you only briefly, for I have work in the kitchen. However I consider this also a task of the Inn, to show a new guest where everything is." Before she took leave of Osric she leaned forward and whispered in his ear, "Hearpwine is still in Edoras. Perhaps you will see him this evening." And then she moved off, with Sigurd following her. She showed him the kitchen, the hallway, and other places inside the Inn, and then led him out the door to show him the garden and the stable. Within the stable Leofan and his son Gomen were working, and both stopped and bowed politely to Sigurd when they saw him.

"This," said Mae, "is Sigurd, nephew of Master Osric." Gomen's face lit up considerably. He remembered Osric from the spring when they had briefly met, and he had felt very kindly towards him. As Maercwen told the names of her father and brother, Gomen noticed the way Sigurd stared at his sister. He raised an eyebrow in surprise but said nothing until Mae had moved on to continue the tour with Sigurd. Then he turned to his father and said, "Did you see the way Sigurd stared at Maercwen?"

"I did," said Leofan, with more than a little bit of regret.

"Did he think her very beautiful?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Is she very beautiful?" Gomen persisted. "I know I believe she is beautiful because she is my sister, but I want to know what others think. Do young men think her lovely?"

"A young man will think any girl beautiful, even if she be ugly, so long as the look in her face and eyes portray sweetness, kindness, and modesty," said Leofan. "I realized that your mother was beautiful in face long before I married her, but I was attracted to her from the first when I saw her eyes. They were filled with warmth and compassion, and that was what made her sweet. Her beauty merely added to that, but her beauty would have been nothing without it. Maercwen will always be beautiful so long as she keeps that."

"But surely there must be other girls just as beautiful, if not more so, than Maercwen? Then why do all the young men at the Inn pay such special attention to her and no one else?"

"Well, son, if there were many girls of that age at the Inn the young men would be going to and fro, choosing which ones they liked best. But Maercwen is the only girl of that age at the Inn, so doesn't it sound reasonable if I say she's the most beautiful and charming girl of that age at the Inn?"

Gomen smiled. It sounded reasonable, but he couldn't imagine any girl being more beautiful than Maercwen, even if the Inn were full of girls. And his mother was certainly the most beautiful older woman in the Inn and there were many older woman. No doubt, however, that every other young boy in Rohan thought that of his mother and sister.

Maercwen led Sigurd back to Osric and said a few words of farewell before departing for the kitchen. Breakfast, she said, needed to be prepared, and if they wanted anything they would only need to ask her and she would convince Aylwen some way or another. Maercwen also pointed out to Sigurd which of the many people in the Inn were Aylwen and Bethberry. Passing by Giefu and the twins, she kissed each one of them on the head and made faces at them when they glared at her indiginantly, and then disappeared into the kitchen.

Motan and Mereflod had wandered back from the kitchen where they had given one of the handfuls of flowers to their mother, and then went to Bethberry to give the next group to her, and then to Aylwen. Pausing they realized they had one set of flowers left. It had come about easily. Combined they had four hands and they had picked enough flowers to fill each hand. Now they had some flowers left and no one to give them to. Motan glanced shyly up at the new woman who had entered the Inn, the one with the boy standing beside her, the one who she had heard called Durelin, and approached her slowly. Blushing and making a very sweet little picture, she extended the flower-filled hand out, murmuring softly, "Please, ma'am, these flowers are for you."

[Snowdog]

The midsummer sun was well above the horizon when Hanasían arose. He had been staying at the White Horse off and on since the spring, and had been recording the deeds of those who fought in the war. His room was a cluttered collections of rolled scrolls, parchments, cloths, and other writing supplies he had gained. This Inn was his preferred place to sleep, though he would frequent some of the other Inns about town regularly to find other vets whose story needed to be told.

Last night he had gone about with his twin cousins, Frea and Folca, and they managed to put away a good amount of Snowbourne Stout in the process of the telling of tales of the Battles of the Fords of Isen with some other vets. Hanasían pulled a deep green under shirt, ragged strings hanging from where the arm caps had been, and donned his customary black leather pants and boots, and looked about for the parchments he had wrote out the night before. Finding them in the corner of his room quite crumpled. He looked at one and crumpled his face.

'That will need deciphering.'

Hanasían mumbled to himself, apalled at his slurred, mixed Rohirric and Sindarin script he used the night before. Snowbourne Stout had that way with it when one imbibed too well in its smooth, peaty demeanor. He did manage to find his way back to the White Horse and his room, but he had no idea what became of his cousins. Frea he didn't worry about, but Folca... he had not been right in the head since being clubbed by that Uruk at the Fords. He was fortunate to have lived really, only being saved because of Frea's diligence in getting him out of further harms way and back to Helms Deep. Folca was missing a hand, and spear wounds he had in his side, shoulder, and thigh. He healed pretty well physically, having learned to get by with the one hand, and only a slight limp to speak of. Some say this was due to the healing hand and lore of Hanasian's Dúnedain Chieftain that had come to Rohan by strange ways that are spoken of much elsewhere. But of Folca, he wasn't quite right, and he wouls sufferspells of seizures, or would talk seeming nonsense suddenly only m,aking sense to himself, and seemed to be slowly withdrawing into himself. But it was good last night, and he was laughing and talking well with the help of the ale.

Hanasian hoped they went on well last night, and he stowed his writings of the night before and left his room. He was met not far outside the door by running children, and he danced and dodged them as they sped down the hallway. Hanasian smiled at the growth of new life, mostly unmarred by the war and the events that led up to it. He rubbed his dry eyes and came into the common roon, bustling with the days faire, and he made way to his chair in the near corner.

It was a place he found empty the first day he had arrived, and it seemed to have been granted as 'his place' though he had not really gotten to know too many folk over the last few months. But it was noted that this day he had not rought any of his writing utinsils, and looking rather worse for wear from the night's activities, he only wanted some tea and maybe some breakfast.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine neared the White Horse in a state of high relief. It had been weeks since his master had last given him the freedom of a day and he already knew what he was going to do with it. First order of the day was some sleep. He did not normally sleep well with the sun in the sky, but his exhaustion was such that he knew he could doze away what remained of the morning with ease. After a hearty lunch he would wander the fields about Edoras and stretch his legs somewhat. He toyed with the idea of inviting Mae to accompany him, for he was not by nature solitary, but he immediately realised how such an invitation would be perceived by others – and he was painfully aware of how Mae herself might take it. His studies had kept him away from Mae in the last months, but in that time there had grown between them a warm regard, much like that of brother and sister. He was only a few years older than she, but he felt as though he were her elder. He had not seen much of the world, but he had seen more than she; what was more, as a young man of noble lineage he had enjoyed freedoms that were not available to a serving lass. He sighed somewhat at the thought of the disparities between them. Perhaps if he invited Gomen to accompany him on his walk first, he could then ask Mae without setting any tongues wagging.

Even as he thought this he heard the young man’s voice coming from the stable so he passed into its shadows to find Gomen and his father hard at work. Leofan greeted him cordially, but Hearpwine caught the note of reserve in his voice. Here was one, at least, who thought that Hearpwine’s affections toward Mae were more than filial. He hoped that what he was about to suggest might alleviate those concerns. “Good day Leofan,” he replied courteously. “I have come to seek Gomen, to see if he would like to join me in a walk this afternoon. I have been given my liberty this day and I would fain stretch my legs in the fields about Edoras.” Gomen immediately began to beg his father’s leave to join the bard, but Leofan only scowled and said that he would speak with Gomen about this further. “Very well,” Hearpwine replied, trying not to let his disappointment show. “I shall await your decision.” He decided that now would not be the best time to inquire if Mae could accompany him as well.

He looked in on Hrothgar before leaving the stables, making sure that his friend was comfortably stalled and fed (as always, he was both). As he made his way across the yard to the Inn, he heard a familiar voice come through the door, and even as he came over the threshold he was calling out “Osric! My old friend, how happy I am to see you! You went away ere you had the chance to tell me your full story so that I might set it to song!” As he spoke, he saw the young man who was apparently the old soldier’s companion. Hearpwine moved forward to introduce himself, but his attention was immediately caught by the sight of two more old acquaintances: his fellow bard Asad and his grandmother were at the Inn, for what purpose he could not guess. He called out to them as well. There were several strangers at the Inn, including an unusually large number of children. At the sight of him, several of the younger ones – Hearpwine had never been very good at remembering small children so he was not sure whose they were – called out to him for a jolly song. Hearpwine’s heart sank at the request even as he fought to keep a smile upon his face. He had rushed home with only sleep in his thoughts, but here was the Inn full of old friends and new audiences demanding his attention! He looked about, desperate for some polite way to extricate himself from the children, and his eye fell upon Hanasian. The Ranger, normally so alert and keen, as were all the folk of his race, looked as though he had been stomped on (repeatedly) by a troll with a very bad temper. “My friend,” Hearpwine called out to him, “whatever could be the matter with you? Why look you so ill?” He turned to the children, explaining, “I would sing you all a song, but yon Ranger is apparently in some desperate state. I will see to him first, and then we shall see about some entertainments.” He pulled himself free of the clinging hands and moved toward the table in the corner that had, by common consent of those at the Inn, become the Ranger’s reserved seat. Taking the seat opposite, he asked. “Whatever is the matter, friend? Is it an ailment of heart and limb – or is it the result of some excess that you now regret?” As he said this he smiled knowingly.

[Snowdog]

The bard took a seat as Hanasían smiled at his words.

'Regrets are only spent on that which could have been. If it was some back-barn Rohirric swill then yes it would have bene regrettable, but there be Hobbit-lore in the making of Snowbourne!'

Hanasían chuckled at the fact that an aquaintance of Meriadoc's from the Green Dragon, Hobs Burrowes, had come down to try his brewcraft with Shire hops grown in the highlands around Rohan. Old Eorly partnered with him, and Frea threw in some of his war pension as investment in the venture. Surely a halfling brewmaster would actually teach the old man how to brew a good beer, and last fall's harvest was the first of the Shire hops and he and Hobs worked through the winter to perfect their product.

Hanasían looked at Hearpwine and noted the fatigue on his face and went on,

' No ailment unlooked for grips me now, for it is sometimes hard to get the telling of the Fords out of some, being it was a losing battle. Yet it did buy time...'

Hanasían wondered if the celebrated bard wanted to hear of his old war stories, and so he turned the table back on him.

'You appear to be a victim of burning a short candle at both ends yourself eh.'

Hearpwine yawned while Hanasían spoke.

The door opened and Frea came in, looking fine on the summe rday. Does the brew not ever affect him? He saw Hanasían, but looked over the common room intently. Hanasían knew he was looking for Folca...


Meanwhile, behind the stables in some hay droppings, Folca lay snoozing the morning away.

[Nurumaiel]

Gomen turned pleading eyes to his father as Hearpwine left the stable. Leofan studied him thoughtfully. He knew how much Gomen valued spending time with Hearpwine the Bard. He did not doubt that one day the lad would also take up an instrument and sing before many. He did not cast aside the idea and he intended to let his son follow whatever path he chose, but he could not deny that he felt a pain of regret that his eldest would not help him in the stables. It was not the feeling that he would his son to take up the task of the family for ages past, but that he enjoyed the boy's company and would miss him when the road called. "Son, you know I need your help in the stable," he said softly.

Gomen bowed his head and nodded, "Yes, Papa."

That was his mother. From the first she had been very diligent in teaching her children obedience as a foundation for all other attributes. Gomen had learned this lessons now and showed it so as he humbly submitted to his father's will. Yet the disappointment was clear on his face and Leofan could not help but feel a twinge of guilt. If he considered it, he liked Hearpwine well enough. He often visited his horse in the stables and Leofan had grown accustomed to his face and ways. When the young man had first arrived at the Inn Leofan had had his doubts, especially when he noticed the attentions being played to his eldest daughter, but Liornung had spoken well of the lad and it seemed now that Hearpwine and Maercwen merely considered each other as good friends. Now he would not even mind if Hearpwine did start openly courting his daughter, for she was now a little older and with the attentions of many young men about the Inn she would be more able to discern if she were really in love with one or if she were merely swept off her feet.

He did not dislike Hearpwine. And under normal circumstances he would not care if Gomen went out with him. But Gomen had already been out riding that morning and had left much work undone. If he let him go now the work would continue to grow. Yet could he not make this sacrifice for his son, who so obviously desired to go? It was not often that Hearpwine had time to spare about the Inn; he was almost all day at the Hall with Master Eorcyn. It would not happen every day. An exception can be made. "You may go," he said. Gomen straightened up, his eyes shining. He lingered just a little while to thank his father before hurrying to the Inn.

He found Hearpwine sitting by Hanasían, a man who had come often to the Inn during the spring and early summer days. Gomen had never officially made his acquaintance but they would sometimes exchange passing words. He lurked restlessly in background of the conversation, unwilling to interrupt but eager to tell Hearpwine of the permission. He was relieved when Maercwen came out of the kitchen, drying soap-covered hands on her now rather dirtied white apron. She would know how to tactfully break into the conversation.

She was stooping down in front of Motan and Mereflod, laughing in delight and touching the flowers that crowned their golden hair. She was such a dependable older sister. She was so very friendly to everyone and knew exactly how to act in every situation. Gomen gazed at her admiringly. There were times he could almost believe his sister was the kindest person on earth, but before he could tell himself it was so he remembered his mother.

"Maercwen, Papa said I could go out walking with Hearpwine," said Gomen. She seemed pleased at this, and expressed surprise that Hearpwine was back so early. "But Hearpwine is talking with Hanasían and I fear of being rude if I break into their conversation," the lad continued.

Maercwen put a hand on his head and smiled. "So you want me to do it for you?" she said. She ran her fingers once through his hair and nodded. "Very well," she said. "It's very simple, if you watch." She began to move towards Hearpwine but paused to speak once again with her brother. "I know how much you value your time with Hearpwine," she said, "and I am glad Papa does not discourage you." She said nothing more. She had never told Gomen directly that she expected him to be a bard, but she knew he wanted to and said as much as she could without referring clearly to it.

Gomen watched in amazement as Maercwen politely interrupted the conversation, with grace and charm, notifying Hearpwine in one short sentence that Gomen had obtained his father's permission and then, after begging their pardon for interrupting once again, withdrawing with just as much grace and ease. Gomen thanked her heartily and then cast anxious eyes towards Hearpwine. "I hope he doesn't change his mind," he said in concern. "I was looking forward to it."

"He won't change his mind," said Maercwen, without the faintest hint of laughter at his concerns. Mother never laughed when he was afraid, either. "Just give him a little time to finish speaking with Hanasían. Now I must go hustle Motan and Mereflod into the kitchen to Mamma. She's been wanting them to give her some assistance." She patted her brother's shoulder gently. "Have fun on your little adventure," she said, "and work hard for Papa when you get back."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine watched Mae return to Gomen with the good news that he had not forgotten his offer in the time it had taken him to walk from the stables. He smiled at the boy, wondering why he was standing about so anxiously, and then it came to him Oh dear, Gomen thinks that I meant to go walking immediately, and not after a few hours of much needed rest! His heart fell at the realisation, but his aspect showed only friendly warmth to the lad. “Gomen,” he called out as heartily as he could, “be a good lad and fetch me my walking stave from my room. We’ll have need of it if we are to tackle the eastern hills!” The boy’s eyes sparkled and he ran off to seek what Hearpwine had asked. Mae was moving away as Hearpwine spoke to her brother, so he had to raise his voice to be heard. He affected as much nonchalance as he could as he asked the maid if she wished to join he and her brother in their walk. She paused in her step and looked at him with that maddeningly pretty expression of mild shock and embarrassment and his heart warmed to her all the more. She is comely he admitted, comely and merry, but she is too young at heart to know the full feeling of admiration for a man – she is concerned with boys still. He smiled at her, silently wishing for her a boy who would suit her – and be worthy of her.

Mae made a non-committal noise and quickly left for the kitchen. Whether she intended to join him and Gomen or not he did not know. Shrugging, and laughing slightly under his breath, Hearpwine turned back to Hanasían who was looking a little better for the tea he was drinking. Hearpwine drank off another quaff of the brew himself and then poured out another mug, being sure to add a great quantity of honey to sweeten it. As he sipped this more slowly he returned to his conversation with the Ranger. “Ay, I have been – what did you call it? – ‘burning the candle at both ends’.” He laughed heartily at the image. “An apt expression, and one that I’ve not heard before. Is it from your land in the North?”

Hanasían smiled weakly through his headache. “No,” he replied. “Well, not precisely. It is from the north, and it is from a land that I consider as dear as any other. For many years did my folk protect the land of the Halflings, and while we may have received little recognition or thanks, we were able to add to our own language many items from the great storehouse of words of the little folk!”

“So you are familiar with the land of Shire?” Hearpwine asked eagerly. “I have never been there myself, and I have only met a Halfling once, and that was all too briefly. Still, if I could have chosen to meet only one Halfing it would have been the very one whose hand I had the honour to shake: Samwise Gamgee himself. Samwise the Stouthearted, who bore his master and friend Frodo of the Nine Fingers up the very slopes of Mount Doom to the dismay and downfall of the Enemy. Long have I desired to fit that tale to music, but I have never yet found words worthy of their deed! But tell me, do you know much of the Shire? And have you met any of the Halflings who came from the north to disturb the counsels of the great?”

[Snowdog]

Hanasían shrugged slightly when Frea looked his way, and he quickly departed without words. He worried about his brother. Hanasían worried about him too, but what can you do? There were many who were disabled in one way or anorther from the war, having been fortuante enough to have lived.

He sat observingly as Hearpwine asked the maiden for a walk. Her look seemed to have an effect on the bard as he stirred in his seat. Her reaction and his turning back to converse put a smile on Hanasían's face.

'Aye, no, I have not met any of the famous hobbits who were of renown in the war, or the ringbearer himself. But the tale of Fordo's magical dance still is told amonst pints at the Prancing Pony in Bree.'

Thoughts of the Shire and the unfortunate turn of events that brought hard times upon the land of the halflings sorrowed Hanasían, for if there were a time the Shire could have used a sword or two was when Sarumann and his orcish ruffians invaded its borders. But alas, we were all called to war either here in the south, or in the Mistys of which things could have been much worse for them had it not been so. Hanasían went on telling Hearpwine of the Shirelands, though he had never set foot there, nor will ever.

'The shirelands, are seemingly green and lush from what I've seen from its borderlands. I know their pipeweed and brew are the best, and though most seem reluctant to travel anywhere, I was glad that Hobs Burrowes did get the adventure bug from the Green Dragon tales from the travelers. Did you not meet Meriadoc when he was here in Rohan?'

[Bêthberry]

OOC: Currently at the White Horse

It is midsummer, early morn on a glorious summer day in Edoras, Rohan. It is the 4th Age, year One (1432 by Shire Reckoning) and four years after the events of the War of the Ring. Éomer Éadig sits in the Golden Hall as King of the Mark, with his queen Lothíriel, whom he wed last year.

The current Innkeeper is a Rohan woman, Aylwen Dreamsong, who is currently away. Taking over for her temporarily is the previous Innkeeper and owner of the White Horse, Bethberry, a woman who was an Itinerant healer from The Old Forest, of illustrious parents if rumour holds true.

Cast of characters:

(Durelin_ Dureline and young son Loar

(Imladris) Goldwine the cat

(Kransha) Osric, old Rohirrim soldier
Sigurd, his nephew

(Nurumaiel): Leofan, stable master and his family
Frodides (the mother)
Liorning, her brother, a musician
Maercwen (seventeen-year-old lass)
Gomen (twelve-year-old lad)
Giefu (ten-year-old lad)
Mereflod (seven-year-old lass)
Deman (six-year-old lad)
Fierlan (six-year-old lad; twin to Deman)
Motan (four-year-old lass)
Middaeg (two-year-old lass)
Beorht (two-year-old lad; twin to Beorht)
Drihten (the bonny baby laddie)Leofan, stable master and his family

(Fordim Hedgethistle) Hearpwine, bard-in-training

(Snowdog) Hanasian, itinerant historian

(Memory of Trees) Arrya, an ill-tempered young woman, newly arrived

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Bethberry's post

Bethberry looked at the carefully written notes which Aylwen had left her. They were concise yet complete. In effect, they represented a small handbook on running an Inn and Aylwen's thoroughness brought a smile to Bethberry's face. She was satisfied, in an inexplicable way, to see how well the young woman had handled the many responsibilities and onerous tasks of running an Inn. This calmed her heart which so often these days seemed to find fault with those who had not known the sacrifices and sorrows of the struggle against the dark lord, and of how narrowly Rohan had come to being completely within his thrall?not that Aylwen was one of those. And now Bethberry was to be Innkeeper again, for a time, and not merely owner, as the young woman was called away to attend to urge concerns of her family. So be it. The Healer would once again be Innkeeper and try to maintain a pleasant, sociable face to the patrons. Be more patient, she told herself, with the youngsters such as Mae and Hearpwine and Gomen and Sigurd. Let them do their learning.

She checked over the list once again and went to the kitchen where she conferred with Frodides, who always seemed to have children underfoot but who yet seemed ably and calmly to provide the kind of food and drink which had brought the Horse great renown. Maybe not quite as tantalizing to the palates as the menus of old Froma, the Horse's cook in days long passed, who had his way with wines and ports and spices and fruits, but healthy and tasty nonetheless. Indeed, Frodides' cooking was fresh and flavourful, she knew herbs as well as Bethberry, and her soups were never a thin water but could put meat on bone. No patron ever left the Horse saying his belly was not satisfied, nor his body refreshed, with Frodides' fare. It was hearty fare, as hearty as her manner of raising her young.

Walking back to the Mead Hall, Bethberry immediately saw the young Mae approach the table with Hearpwine and Hanasian--approach somewhat needlessly, it seemed, for their table was full and they wanted naught.

What was that girl up to now? thought Bethberry rather uncharitably. She had not forgotten how the young girl had brought worry to her parents on the day of the Bards' Competition, nor of the perhaps unknowingly forward way she had danced with that young musician Hearpwine the night before here on the very boards of the Mead Hall.

Ai, him! He certainly thought well of himself, that one, yet he had taken gracefully to being passed over for the Competition and by all accounts had comported himself well in his efforts to develop his art. Bethberry had developed a habit of running memories through her mind these days while she attended to work.

Well, I shouldn't blame the girl. He played her a pretty tune and flashed many a handsome smile her way. Remember, Bethberry, Mae is young, said the healer to herself. Let her learn to hear the true tune and not the falsely pleasant.

Seeing the girl run off after whispering something to Gomen, who hovered near the table but hesitated to come forth, Bethberry herself approached the table, the only full table at the Horse this morn, and gently, hand on his shoulder, guided Gomen to join her. She enjoyed talking with Hanasian about the old days, comparing the tales he had heard with her memories of growing up in the Old Forest, and of the skirmishes between the trees and the hobbits long, long ago. And she felt some sympathy with Osric, too, worried about his nephew Sigurd, a worry he had let show on his face but had not yet divulged to her directly. Well, Bethberry, what likely tales can you draw forth from our travellers today if you would but give them a nod and courage to talk, she said to herself as she decided to join the table.

"Hail, stout-heated men. Have you room to entertain me this morn as my work is completed and I would hear what you have to tell of your summer's labour."

.