The White Horse Inn, Act III

[Bêthberry]

The curtain rises on The White Horse Inn, Act III, Rohan's premier Inn and purveyor of fine gaming and characters.

The plot so far:

It is the 4th Age, Year One. This is the year 1423 by Shire Reckoning and four years after the events of the War of the Ring, fourteen years after the events of the previous White Horse Inn.

For the world is changing: I feel it in the water, I feel it in the earth, and I smell it in the air. Treebeard.

Aragorn, ruling as Elessar, and Arwen are King and Queen of the combined kingdom of Arnor and Gondor.

Éomer Éadig sits on the throne of Rohan as King of the Mark, in the Golden Hall here in Edoras, with his wife, Queen Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil, who he wedded last year.

Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, and his wife Eowyn reside in Ithilien, laying the foundations to return it to the garden.

Treebeard and Quickbeam and the other Ents are reforesting Fangorn and the lands that lie eastward are now open to them.

Gimli is become Lord of the Glittering Caves, having brought south a group of Dwarf-folk from Erebor and Legolas has brought south a group of elves out of Greenwood, now called Eyrn Lasgalen in its reclamation. Soon these two will move to dwell in Ithilien.

Erebor and Dale are recovering from the devastations of The Battle of the Dale and The Seige of Erebor, where fell both their kings. Thorin III Stonehelm now rules the Dwarven folk as the King under the Mountain in Erebor while Bard II is King of Dale.

Rivendell is become a ghost town; Lothlorien, a silent forest.

Will Whitfoot is Mayor of The Shire, where years of bounty have returned and the sole Mallorn tree in the western lands blooms.

Aylwen Dreamsong is now the Innkeeper of The White Horse, where Bethberry, the former Innkeeper, still resides as owner, although she leaves the running of the Inn entirely up to Aylwen.

Other ongoing characters of the Inn are: (Please PM Bethberry if you wish your character to be a regular working in the Inn or around Edoras. She will add your character/s here.)

Ongoing characters in the Inn


Aedre, serving maid (Orofaniel)

Aylwen Dreamsong, Innkeeper (Aylwen Dreamsong )

Bethberry, former Innkeeper (Bethberry)

Goldwine, the cat (Imladris)

Leofan, stable master and his family
Frodides (the mother)
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)

(shades of Sam and Rosie! ) Nurumaiel

Ruthven, the village pedlar or rag lady (Bethberry)

Talieasin (?) Imladris


Use well the Inn, Writers of the Mark.

[Bêthberry]

Anyone whose posts can meet the minimum standard for gaming in The Shire may post in The White Horse. Please make sure you are familiar with The Redbook of Westmarch (in The Shire) and The Golden Hall (here in Rohan); these treads provide valuable information about gaming at the Barrow Downs.

No SAVES are allowed in the Inn.

The White Horse Act III is run as an interactive, improvisational game. You can plan events via PM or email but the main point is to take your cue from the posts which precede yours. Please read them carefully so your posts reflect current events, the time, the weather, and who other characters are and what they are doing.

Only the Innkeeper or the Moderator can move the Timeframe foreward.

Gaming at the Horse is open but playing in Rohan games is restricted to gamers who have shown they can can game responsibly and reliably, demonstrating the basic techniques of interactive role playing and writing in clean, clear, correct English. (No chatspeak is allowed.). Please see the next post for the lists of Rohan Game Players and Game Managers.

[Bêthberry]

Anyone can game at The White Horse as long as their posts meet the minimum standard for writing as described in The Shire.

Rohan is the place where gamers build upon the skills learnt in The Shire and prepare to become fully independent gamers in Gondor. (It is still a moderated forum but gamers are expected to be more independent and responsible ) For that reason, we have two levels of gamers in Rohan, based upon the level of successful gaming experience in The Shire. People who have participated responsibly and reliably in Shire games and who have demonstrated at least the potential for creative, imaginative, excellent writing skills are Rohan Game Players.

People who have founded and run a game successfully in The Shire have full status as Game Founder (or Manager) as well as Player. These gamers have proven they can maintain a level of enthusiasm and interest over the duration of a game and can motivate their fellow game participants.

Please note that Rohan games are owned by everyone who participates in them. While the Game Founder (or Manager) has an idea of how the game is plotted and structured, all gamers participate in creating the story by writing it.

For the full list of Game Founders and Game Players, please read the thread
The Golden Hall (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showpost.php?p=313493&postcount=)

[Bêthberry]

Spring equinox is two weeks away in Edoras but more significantly, the month of March brings remembrance of the culminating events of the War of the Ring. The Shirelings might not commemorate March 25 or September 22 but who is to say that the Rohirrim do not as their nation was more intimately involved in the War than was The Shire?

March 10: The Dawnless Day, the Muster of Rohan

March 15: The Battle of the Pelennor

March 17: The Battle of Dale and the ensuing Seige of Erebor

March 25: Sam and Frodo ascend Sammath Naur; Gollem and the Ring fall into Mount Doom. The Passing of Sauron. (See Appendix B to LOTR)

How will the Rohirim mark these events, so soon after their occurence? It is up to you to imagine, Writers of the Mark. Did your character fight in any of the battles? Did you have family or friends fall in the slaughter?

As for opening day of The White Horse Inn, Act III, it is mild, with the snow and ice melting into small rivulets and much mud. Eventually this water feeds the stream which flows out of Edoras into the Snowborne and on towards the marshes of the Entwash. The wind which blows in off the plains has lost its bitterly cold edge but nights are still very chilly.

(For more details about the walled, gated town of Edoras, please read "The King of the Golden Hal," chapter 6 of Book I of TheTwo Towers.)

It is mid morning and the Innkeeper of The White Horse, Aylwen Dreamsong, has been about her work already for several hours. The sun is shining brightly even though the air is cool.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Crisp air filtered through the cracked windows of the White Horse, heralding the harsh end of winter and coming of spring. It was a brilliant morning and it seemed the sun was yearning for a time when it could bring its warmth. Aylwen smiled contentedly as she went about her work in the White Horse.

The day would be particularly busy, for celebrations in Edoras as well as within the Inn would begin that night to commemorate the strength of the Rohirrim in the War of the Ring, not so many years before. Stories would be told later that evening, songs and poetry would be recited as people reminisced about ages and relationships past. There would be dancing and reenacted tales of the heroes from the War. For some it was hard to remember without feeling pain, but for others who had moved on it was a time to show appreciation through the happiness that had been restored.

For Aylwen, it had been fourteen long years at the White Horse Inn. So much had happened and so much had changed as the days had flown by and the years had culminated. The White Horse had been given paint touch-ups and the roof had been repaired, but it all seemed the same to Aylwen. One kind apprentice to a carpenter in town had shaped and painted a new sign for the White Horse Inn, with a white stallion on a field of green. Before the nipping chill of last winter had come, Aylwen had gone out with some of the children to plant the flower bulbs that would grow along the lane leading to the door of the Inn that spring. Looking out the window Aylwen saw the old stable, which had gathered its share of vines the past summer. All the vines had lost their green luster, and had become brown in the winter season. It had been built strong, lasting through long storms and many winters since it had been built. Aylwen still told the story of the day it burned to the ground and the ‘valiant heroes who had saved horses and rebuilt the stable’.

Patrons excitedly ate their food or conversed with their friends, looking as decorations were put up. Children played hide and seek around the tables until a laughing Aylwen told them to take it outside while the grown-ups were working. Looking forward to that night’s festivities, Aylwen continued to cater to the needs of the patrons of the White Horse Inn on that cool near-spring morning.

[rutslegolas]

Harold Brandybuck was for the first time out of his sweet Shire,but he did not regret it as he had mind for travelling all the Middle-Earth now that there was a King in Gondor and the roads were open and no longer controlled by the ruffians.He was standing 4 foot tall and to a Rider of Rohan he would seem only a child or so he thought.

He had journeyed for a long time and at last he had reached Rohan,he was sore and hungry ,he had only little food and his little pony Henry was underfed ,he wondered where he could find a Inn or whether there was any Inn in Rohan.He also wondered how would the people of this land treat him,at the gates stood two tall guards covered in mail of green .

They stooped him asked"What may be your name and your business in this country of Rohan?",and they wondered at this traveller for they had never seen an hobbit before. Harold replied "I am a traveller and a carpenter and am looking for an Inn in this country.",then the guards let him in.

And there looking he found the White Horse Inn and he was relieved he went to its stables and locked his pony in and then went inside and sat in the Common Room looking for someone to chat with.....

[Imladris]

An old man, his feet tripping over his flowing white beard, trudged up the road towards the White Horse Inn. His breath wheezed, ragged breeches ended at his knotted knees, he shivered at the breath of a mild breeze. He leaned upon a wooden cane, a twisted one that wobbled when he walked, and he wiped his nose occasionally with an embroidered hanky. His fingers were stained with blackish ink, and his fingers traced letters in the air. As he plodded along in the dusty street, he muttered to himself, as if he was talking with a friend that was not there. Across his left eye, there was a morbid patch, a banner of rougher times, while the right one was a shimmering, limpid blue that stared, unblinking, at the horizon.

Upon his shoulders sprawled a golden cat with clouded golden eyes and a mangled paw. His tail served as a scarf to save the fragile man from the choking fingers of the spring time wind that searched for warmth to kill and breath to steel. Once every two minutes, the man’s hand would absently stroke the graying fur and the cat, Goldwine by name, would like the gnarled limb with a pale pink tongue.

With a little smile that showed his yellowed face and creased his face with more wrinkles than before, he pushed the door open and blinked at the bustling people. He tried to remember what special event the party would celebrate, but he couldn’t quite remember it. But something hovered around his memory, like flaming balls falling just outside his vision.

He eased himself into his chair and took out a crinkling piece of parchment. From another pocket, he pulled a crystal bottle with a narrow, urn-like neck filled with murky, blackish ink. Taking a slim, goose feather, he dipped the quill into the ink and, with a soft melodious scratching sound, wrote the name Taliesin .

[bilbo_baggins]

Oin had wandered for days, looking for some place to rest. His companion had left him, bereft of all save his life's breath barely resting upon his lips. Ahh! Ponto had had his own problems, it was no wonder that he had left him behind.

He came to Edoras; and, passing through the gate, he saw that sight which he had only heard about through his distant relative, Gimli. He was his second cousin twice removed on his father's aunt's mother's brother... oh, let the women, who are few, meddle with relationships! He was tired.

He found the Inn, the White Horse. As he walked inside, he smelled the clean, crisp air of a well-used establishment. He would enjoy it here.

-------

As he sipped his ale, he saw a few people move through the door, in and out, going about business, in their usual manner. He saw a carpenter hobbit who looked a lot like his friend, Ponto. Maybe he would travel to the Shire one day, and see for himself how Ponto had gotten along.

Now he was merely traveling through on his way to the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, where he was going to work and live. Oh, that he could see them now! Ah, well. He was a few days journey still from them. Siiiip!

[Orofaniel]

The sun was shining outside. Its warming rays were about to melt the ice cubes, which were now lingering around the window frames. Every so often, you could hear the melted ice drip down from the window frames and fall to the ground, making small rivulets. But in order to hear it from inside, there had to be a perfect silence and you had to concentrate. This however, was not a problem for Aedre; she’d already heard it many times. “Ahh…How much it reminds me of spring!” She had said each time and laughed merrily.

It was still cold outside, but the winter was soon to fade away and a new season was about to dominate the country. The warmth would come, and Aedre could feel it already. It was a very comforting thought.

Even though it was early, Aedre had a job to do; there were tables to clean, dishwashing to do, floors to sweep and it didn't really stop there. She didn’t want to complain about how tired and exhausted she was though, because the poor innkeeper had already been up for hours. Complaining wasn’t really one of those things Aedre did either. She had decided long ago to see things in a more positive way; instead of complaining about the lack of sleep, she would be happy for even having such a wonderful job. Aylwen Dreamsong was also a wonderful and caring innkeeper and Aedre was happy to work for her.

Aedre was originally a chef, but lately she’d been working as a servant and a maid at the Horse. When she’d first come here to find a job, for around half a year ago, Aedre had been insecure about applying for a job. She knew that the White Horse Inn had a great reputation, and there seemed to be nothing but nice words to describe the Inn, but she had feared of being rejected. She had tried to get jobs like these before, and it had always been the same answer. The thing that was so great about the White Horse was that it was very close to her home. By this, she had the opportunity to see her parents as often as she liked. This was absolutely the best place to work, and she would always be grateful towards Aylwen for taking her in. Aedre had felt at home at once, which wasn’t a big surprise because Aylwen had always been very polite towards her and Aylwen welcomed her right away.

Without even noticing it herself, she’d been standing thinking about the past for quite some time. She shook her head, hoping that it would take her into the present, and it certainly did.

The employers at the Inn had many things to prepare since it would soon be some very special and important events for the Rohirrim. Aedre was quite curious about how the Inn was going to mark these events, but she hadn't been able to ask Aylwen yet. Even though she didn't know what they were going to do, she wanted to join the preparations. That she knew for certain.

[rutslegolas]

Harold Brandybuck had come newly to Rohan ,a distant country to him,he had found the White Horse Inn to rest himself from the long journey and now he needed some food and some drink he thought,but he did'nt find anyone in the room.

So he went out and in the common room and there he found a woman cleaning tables and chairs,Harold wanted to know where he could get food and also wished to know who this woman was,so he approached her and bowing low he said," Hello ,my lady I am Master Harold Brandybuck from the Shire ,you may not have seen many of my kind in Rohan,but I have journeyed far and long and I have a mind for food and drink,May you be kind enough to show me where it is served.OH! What a most disgracefull hobbit I am not ,I did'nt even ask your name.Forgive my foolishness but what may your fair name be my lady ?",he asked.

The Lady looked at him in astonishment as if she had seen a ghost and replied....

[Bêthberry]

Two women, one elderly, the other of indeterminate age, sat in a small alcove with full glass doors that gave out onto the back of the White Horse Inn. Through them could be seen a row of young apple trees, maybe ten feet high. If one were close to them, one could see tiny buds appearing on the branches, but from the Inn they still appeared like dark skeletons against the sky, branches leafless and budless.

The women's eyes turned back towards the Inn, watching the partons congregate.

"More people from distant lands appear these days, " observed the older woman, her grey hair plaited in thins rounds about her head, her shoulders stooped from toil, but her eyes still bright with shrewd life and wit.

The other woman turned to her, her face now showing a few lines of wrinkles about her mouth and her eyes holding a solemn air of composure mixed with sadness.

"You still find hobbits fascinating, Ruthven?" Bethberry asked.

"Indeed, I still do. They remind me in some ways of Madi--not all, but some."

"I wonder what he would think of your observation."

Ruthven laughed. "He would snort indignantly and tell me my eyes are failing."

Bethberry smiled. "Well, we shall have to get to know more hobbits like this one. I think Aedre told me his name is Harold Brandybuck."

Ruthven did not answer. Instead, the two women sipped their tea, enjoying each other's company.

"I'm glad Oin found the Horse," remarked Bethberry after some time. "He looked a bit forelorn and lost when I first saw him. "

The sun shone through the full panes of glass, warming the women and outlinging their figures with light.

[bilbo_baggins]

Finky came slinking to Edoras; being a Dwarf by birth, he still had dunlanding blood in him that was apparent in some regards. He hoped his cloak would hide most of his giveaways. His real name wasn't Finky, they just called him that; he knew neither mother nor father, nor what his real name was.

Slipping in a group of travelers passing through the gate, he made his way inside the capital-fortress of Rohan. He had been told that there was an Inn about, the White Pony, or Grey Stallion, some colored beast of Rohan.

Finding the White Horse - that was it, the White Horse - , he slipped inside there; even though there did not seem to be any great number of soldiers guarding the entrance, it was wise to be cautious.

Who should he find when he got an ale and sat down, but his friend, Oin Stealthanvil. " 'ello, Oin! It mus' 'as been nought but a bit o' bad luck as kept usn's apart affer that fight."

"Aye, couldn't imagine what else could've." Oin said grumbling, staring at his ale. But then, he always was a grumbler.

"Why'd ye come 'ere, Oin? Thi' tain't na place ye should be, ye're apposed to be in dem Glitterin' Cavy tings."

"I come here ta have an ale and rest; I ain't have need of going to the Caves for nigh two months, as my, um, er, 'relation' Gimli has given me leave to try to find our friend Ponto," was Oin's unevasive reply.

"May I as join ye?" asked Finky.

"Might as well." Oin replied. "I don't know why you would want to, but oh, well....." Siiiiiiip!

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The Innkeeper continued her work at the front desk, calculating revenue and filling out papers. Looking up, Aylwen smiled as the maidservant Aedre continued her work. The Innkeeper was always glad to have such a dedicated worker who didn't whine or complain. Aylwen hoped that the job wasn't too horrible for Aedre. It was tiring, yes. Always tiring. Then Aylwen sighed and corrected herself, remembering how life seemed to get more tiring with each passing year.

As she looked about the Inn, Aylwen also saw Ruthven and Bethberry. Bethberry was the owner and former Innkeeper of the White Horse. Aylwen and Bethberry had known each other for many long years, but Aylwen still remembered the circumstances of their meeting so long ago. Aylwen remembered when she first came to the Inn, and she recalled Ruthven and the little being called Madi. Aylwen laughed at the memories of the little man and his funny way of talking.

Aylwen watched, intrigued, as a little Hobbit man began to converse with Aedre. It was interesting and surprising, to say the least, seeing a Hobbit in the Land of the Horse-Tamers. Other customers went about their day, and in one of these groups came a slightly peculiar man who proceeded to sit down with a dwarf nearby. They began to speak with each other, and all seemed fine despite the sly nature of the man-sized companion to the dwarf. But Aylwen had no reason to suspect anything of anyone…

Noon was fast approaching, and though the sun continued its journey across the sky the air continued to stay cool and did not seem willing to change any time soon. Decorative flowers and banners were going up, minstrels were practicing jigs outside the inn, and many locals waited for the sun to drop and the festivities to begin.

Aylwen’s favorite parts about the March celebrations were the stories about the war that patrons told. Some were bloody and gruesome; others were heartwarming with the relationships between fellow soldiers. Many were sad, others were happy with what had occurred because of the defeat of Sauron. The best part about the stories, though, was that they were never exactly alike. After all, not many people with stories to tell stayed in the Inn long enough to tell them twice.

Snapping out of her reverie, Aylwen got back to work with a smile on her face as more customers entered or exited the Inn.

[Imladris]

With the congenital equilibrium that is so peculiar to our felinity, I remained upon Taliesin’s wasted twisted shoulders. ’Twas strange the revolutions of time that spun the thread of mortal’s lives: long ago, when the kitten’s fur had but shortly left me, I had been here before. But then another shoulders, strong and lithe with the vigor of youth, had born my frosted aurulent aura. Faran: noblest of bipeds. Now all he was was cadaver, the remnants of which will undoubtedly be found in various edacious, beaked beings that follow the trail of vermilion cruor
in times cruel conflict.

Do not ask me the location or the time of day of his death, for I, most ignobly, was cowering within the frail arms of a ligneous cottage within the fortress of Helm’s Deep. It was there that I sullied the sublime intemerate nobility that I once could claim as my own. The shafts of death that winged over the walls should have been as the phantoms of my imagination to me and that I failed was a transgression of such ponderous, colossal proportions that I contemplated the aggregation my beloved throne. But, after cool reasoning, I realized that I could not and that the only thing that remained to be done was to acquire a new master who would become my sole subject. And amid the healing houses tainted with the air of bereavement, I found Taliesin.

A film has formed before my eyes, and all the activities of this inn are nothing but a whimsical blur of motion. No longer do I roam the wooden floors with coquettish grace, no longer seek for milk from a ladies ivory hand. As a layman, I sit upon Taliesin’s shoulders, and as a servant I travel the dusty roads with this man who, over the years, has become my devoted friend.

[Orofaniel]

Aedre had just finished sweeping the floor in the kitchen, when she remembered that she’d forgotten to clean the tables in the common room. She didn't want the tables to be dirty when people were going to eat by the tables. She found her cloth and hurried over to the common room. The room was almost empty. It was quite cold inside the common room, even though it was quite sunny outside. She drew aside some curtains that were hanging in two of the windows so that the sunshine would come in. Aedre stood there for a moment just feeling the warming rays on her skin.

Aedre was lucky, because the tables weren't that dirty even though they had not been washed since....she couldn't quite remember. Maybe some of the others servants or maids have been cleaning, she thought and found another table. This was probably the worst part of the job, but Aedre didn't mind doing it.

Suddenly she heard a voice from behind. She jumped and was about to let out a little scream, but then she turned around and noticed the small Hobbit standing in front of her. "Oh..I'm sorry!" Aedre exclaimed. "I'm just a bit jumpy..." She said and laughed. He didn't say much, just smiled and apologised if he scared her. Aedre however told him that it wasn't his fault; "I'm always like this.." She said and laughed again.

"I am Master Harold Brandybuck from the Shire, I have journeyed far and long and I have a mind for food and drink. May you be kind enough to show me where it is served," he asked very politely while introducing himself. "How lovely! A Hobbit from the Shire, eh?" Aedre said clapping her hands together enthusiastically; just to show how happy she was to finally meet a Hobbit from the Shire. She had heard of the Shire many times, but never been there herself. The suddenly he interrupted her:" Oh! What a most disgraceful hobbit I am, I didn't even ask your name. What may your fair name be, my lady?" he then asked and apologised yet again.

"Don't worry....No need to apologise" She said and smiled. "My name is Aedre, and I'm very honoured to meet you, Harold Brandybuck...of the Shire," she continued smiling even wider at the small fellow. "I'll find you something to eat and drink...don't worry. Just take a seat if you wish..." She said and took the chair...."Here.." She said and looked at the chair.

"So, now as we've been introduced...what can I get you?" She said taking her cloth down, waiting for taking the Hobbit’s order.

[rutslegolas]

Harold had benn new to Rohan and in the White Horse Inn he had found a fair Lady asking him what he would liked to eat.

Harold had a mind to eat but he also wanted to know more about Rohan ,so he asked the fair Lady named Aedre,

"Oh thank you but would you be more kinder by bringing some bread and some meat and some soup if you have and then can we have a chat while I eat or should I say we both eat , why don't you get yourself something and if you don't have much work you can talk with me if you like that is,and tell me more about Roahn and I will tell you more about the Shire.Now what do you say to that my Lady?".

Aedre was most astonished she had really been surprised when she had seen the hobbit and now she was surprised at how hobbits have the energy to talk endlessely and she replied....

[bilbo_baggins]

Oin hadn't really lied to Finky, he wasn't expected at the Glittering Caves for a good month or two. Now with Finky here he could try to find Ponto. Not that he wanted Finky, him slinking around everything he had, snooping where he shouldn't. It was just that he knew he better find Ponto and let Finky bother him, as Finky had sworn to serve Ponto and not Oin.

"Come now, Finky. What has happened to you, since we were last parted?" he asked, not wanting a real reply, more trying to start a conversation with him to occupy Finky's less than average mind.

"Well, a kind man took me in and he had the girl who you said liked Ponto with him; I ...."

"Where was this?" Oin asked, breathless at the mention of Rosie. "When did this happen? Where are they now?" He grabbed Finky and pulled him close, saying, " If you don't tell me where I can find Rosie, Finky, I'll not speak to you again" Finky looked slightly scared and withdrew his head into his shoulders.

"What would it matter to friend Oin?" he said with a wink in his eye, "I thought that Rosie mattered not to either you or Ponto."

Oin released him, partly at the few questionable eyebrows around the room, and partly because he knew he had just let the cat out of the bag; good luck trying to get Finky to tell him anything now....

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine’s cloak bore upon it the mud of all the lands between Edoras and his humble cot far away in the remotest reaches of the Westfold. He had traveled for days to reach the Golden Hall, and his horse Hrothgar was almost as tired as he after their long journey. After seeing his friend properly stabled and fed, he headed toward the front door of the White Horse Inn for a refreshing cup of beer before presenting himself before the King.

He had never been to Edoras, but he knew it as well as if he’d been born and raised there for he had heard and sung, hundreds of times, every song that dealt with its greatness. In his own land, he was acknowledged to be the greatest bard anyone had ever heard. But he knew that this meant little. To be great in a small land was nothing – to be the greatest bard in Edoras, to sing, perhaps, for the King himself. . .! It was an aspiration that Hearpwine had long held close to his heart. When news had come to him of the contest that the King was to hold on the anniversary of King Theoden’s death, he had leapt upon Hrothgar’s mighty back and left upon the instant, determined to reach the Golden Hall before it was too late.

He entered the Inn, and immediately attracted the attention of a number of its patrons, for he was tall and strong of limb, and his skin shone with the vibrancy of youth and health. His golden hair hung down his back in a tight braid and his close-cropped beard shone like freshly-harvested hay. He looked about the room with his keen green eyes and saw the Innkeeper at her books. He strode toward her to ask if she knew about the contest at the Golden Hall. “Contest?” she replied, looking up from her accounts.

“Aye,” Hearpwine replied in his deep baritone. “To select the new Bard for the Golden Hall! All bards of talent are to present themselves before the King on the anniversary of the Great Battle before Minas Tirith and sing of Theoden’s fall. The whole court shall then judge who will become the Bard to the King!”

The Innkeeper said that she remembered having heard about the contest, but that it had slipped her mind. “Do you sing well?” she asked provokingly, but not unkindly; she had obviously seen her fair share of young men from the country come to Edoras with equally grandiose dreams. By way of answer, Hearpwine straightened his back, threw back his head and sang:

“To fires consuming and foes unconquered,
Orcs waving weapons, stained with the blood
Of the Sea-kings, slaughtered by hundreds
Before the stone-walls of their strong city,
Rode the Rohirrim on the red-road of war.
Noble Men of the west from Minas Tirith
Calling to Theoden, that greatest of kings,
Begging for aid, bid him remember
The oaths he had sworn, and send to them now
Strong spears and broad shields.”

A silence fell upon the Inn for a moment as the denizens listened to the strong melody of Hearpwine’s song. For those among them who had known battle, it stirred their blood with memories that rang to the bone. For those who were yet untried by war it raised pictures of horror and glory. When he was finished, the people in the Common Room returned to their conversations and the young man turned to the Innkeeper once more. “My name is Hearpwine, and I come to Edoras to claim my place as Bard to the King! Might I ask your name, so that I can include you in the song that I shall write someday in celebration of my arrival in Edoras?”

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Watching with approval, Aylwen saw Aedre cheerfully greet and seat the little Hobbit. Aylwen was indeed lucky to have such a careful, polite hand to help around the Horse. Aylwen had gone back to her ledger and account books when a young man walked in to the Inn and then up to her desk. He asked Aylwen if she'd heard tell of a contest to determine the King's Bard. They conversed about this for a few minutes, until the man had revealed his intentions of attending and competing. Having an interest in music and song herself, Aylwen countered the man's answer with a question to his ability to sing...

So Hearpwine sang.

Aylwen listened to Hearpwine's song with a broad smile lighting her face. Seeing such young men and sometimes the occasional young lady come to Edoras to chase dreams always stuck a chord with Aylwen for some reason. Aylwen remembered her mother the bard, gone with the War of the Ring. She'd taught Aylwen all she knew, and Aylwen still had the set of panpipes her mother had given to Aylwen on a birthday. The contest had been announced months before, and the date to be set during all the other March festivities. Yes, Aylwen was impressed and hopeful for the young lad.

“My name is Hearpwine, and I come to Edoras to claim my place as Bard to the King! Might I ask your name, so that I can include you in the song that I shall write someday in celebration of my arrival in Edoras?”

At this comment Aylwen laughed cheerfully, closing her ledger books and stacking papers neatly before looking up again at Hearpwine. "Some just call me the Innkeeper, but my name is Aylwen. With such a voice, bold Hearpwine, I am sure that your place does indeed lie next to the King. In any case, I had heard about the contest, and I know it is to be held tomorrow at the Golden Hall. I wish you luck, dear Hearpwine, and perhaps I have been convinced to steal away from the Horse for a short time tomorrow and watch you compete for your place!"

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine laughed loudly, crying out “I am in time then for the Contest! I was afraid indeed that I might be too late, for news comes slowly to my land – good news at least, the bad always arrives as though borne by the great Shadowfax himself! Aylwen, you say. ‘Tis a fair name, and well-deserving a place in one of my songs:

“Aylwen the Innkeeper, fair keeper of ale,
Cup-bearer to many and courteous to all!”

And again he gave voice to his infectious laugh. “But the Contest you say is tomorrow? Then I shall have to wait until then before I can have any beer. It may be a powerful drencher of thirst, but the very worst thing for the voice. Nothing but water shall pass my lips until I’ve had the pleasure of singing before the King! Come, let me have a cup; you seem to know somewhat of music, and I delight greatly that you will come to hear me tomorrow. But for now, let us sit and talk of our songs – perhaps there are some that you can teach me?” So they sat and spoke of the lays that they knew and of the great bards they had heard. Hearpwine was eager to hear everything Aylwen could tell him of the songs and singers at Edoras, for he had spent his life in the retirement of the Westfold where few of the great bards ever came. He coaxed her into singing a few short songs that he quickly was able to memorise; one in particular that took his fancy described the parting of the Lady Eowyn and the Lord Aragorn at the Muster of Rohan. “I’ve never heard that song, but it is beautiful indeed. The Muster,” he sighed deeply, “Alas, I was not able to reach Edoras in time to join the King on his ride into the East, so I have only seen that great event in the songs that I’ve heard tell of it. Would that I could have been there!” His eyes flashed. “Thankfully, I did not pass through the War without any chance of honour. Those of us who arrived too late to fight and fall at the King’s side were sent to defend the northern marches. We slew many hundreds of the orcs who came raiding from across the River, looking for easy pickings among the emptied lands of the Rohirrim.”

“But enough of the past,” he said. “For my mind is full of tomorrow and the glory that awaits me in the Golden Hall! I am always looking for songs to learn, and for people to teach me them. You are, I know, a busy woman, but if you could vouchsafe me an hour or so of your time I believe I could learn somewhat from you. If you are restless about your duties, however, I shall seek amongst the others gathered here.” Hearpwine looked around at the strange mixture of peoples at the Inn. “I daresay there are many here with songs I’ve not heard, and tales yet untold that need setting to music.”

[bilbo_baggins]

Oin knew they had better get under way soon; the other inn peoples had things they wished to do, and most things they liked he could have no part of. The sooner they were gone the sooner they could leave.

"Come on, Finky. We had better get going..."

-----

"...get going..." was what Oin had said. But Finky did not want to leave. He was enjoying the warmth of the Inn.

"Come on, Finky. There'll be other Inns," said Oin persuasively, hoping that Finky would listen.

"Alright then I'll leave without you. See if I care for your health, then!" Oin said, while he stumped out the door.

"Wait," Finky breathlessly uttered, "Wait for your friend Finky, Oin!" Finky rushed outside to catch up with Oin.

"I knew you'd see it my way; there is no other way for you, you miserable stinking varmint."

Secretly, Oin knew that he could not have left Finky in the Inn, he was quite attached to him really...


------


"...why do we have to come back here of all places?(mutter, mutter)..."

"Because master Oin, it is the only nice place for travelers! I like it here. It is warm and the day is still here, the sun shines. Ah!"

"Well, if we could have left today it would have been better. Now you remember that you didn't talk me into coming back, it was the mud at the gate of the city, you miserable creature, understand?" Oin glared at his traveling companion, hoping that any hint of camaraderie did not show through his mask of mutterings.

"Oh, I understand, Oin," Finky said with a sly look on his face as he and his friend stepped through the door, "It was the mud, oh yes, the mud!"

"We will not stay here long, Finky. Only long enough to prepare for the journey to the what-sit-called, the tire... or hire... Shire! That's it! The Shire!''

"I understand, we won't stay long... " Finky slyly winked at Oin...

[Nurumaiel]

A young girl, fair of face as would befit a maid of Rohan, paced up and down in front of the door of the White Horse, gazing anxiously at the little road that led up to the Inn. Nearby her twin brothers, Deman and Fierlan, were sitting astride a bay stallion that was tossing his head and chiding them with his neighs when they became too careless. They cried out to each other that they were brave soldiers in the battle of Helm's Deep and seemed to be enjoying their little game.

"Maercwen, lassie!" A man stood in the door of the stable, dirt and bits of hay clinging to him. He cast a fond, careful look towards the two lads, then put his back to the frame of the door and, folding his arms, fixed an amused look on Maercwen. "What are you doing out here still when you should be inside helping your mother with the baby? And I thought you were going to ask Aylwen today if you could have a job as a serving maid?"

"I am, Papa."

Her reply was short and rather sharp and the man, her father Leofan, looked a bit taken aback. And then an understanding smile came over his features and he also turned to look at the road running up to the Inn. An impatient whinny behind him told him that one of the horses was in need of him. Most likely one of the newest arrivals. Leofan bit back a chuckle when he thought of the little pony belong to the hobbit. Maercwen hadn't seen the hobbit yet, but he hoped that when she did she wouldn't stare too hard.

"Liornung will be here soon," he called to his daughter and slipped back into the stable. For it was true that that was what was bothering Maercwen. Her uncle Liornung had promised to be there that night to sing songs and tell tales, but had not yet arrived, and now that the sun was telling that it was noon the lassie was becoming worried that he would not arrive in time. Leofan was confident that Liornung would be there on time. He knew his little brother liked to make a late entrance so people shouldn't pester him too much beforehand. At least that was what he always said.

Leofan put a hand lightly upon the front of the pony's face and smiled. People indeed. Liornung was obviously referring to all the children who were begging for a tune before it was time. And what a lie it was. There could never have been a prouder uncle than Liornung. Everyone in the family loved him dearly, and he appreciated it very much. Maercwen especially loved how he would stare anyone down who had the nerve to give him the high title of a bard. He said he was a wandering fiddler and so he would be forever. He'd take the little sideroads that were seldom trodden upon and sing for people who would forget him the next day, and he was quite content with it all.

Casting another look outside, Leofan saw that Maercwen had resumed her pacing in front of the door. Chuckling, he ran his hand down the pony's neck and said, "He'll be here."

[Bêthberry]

Hearpwine's song would not leave Bethberry's head alone. Round and round it pooled in her memory; the more she shook her head, the more insistently she recalled it.

Finally, she rose from her desk where she was writing and looked out her window, where the voices of Leofan's family mingled with the song and stirred memories.

Not of the war nor the battles but of the strange combination of events which preceeded Sauron's downfall. Of the strange way that the dark fell on Edoras. It was a story not many knew, more a personal perspective, yet, after all, what is history but personal witness.

That Gondorian, Azaziel, had been so persistent in pursuing his interest in the rebuilding of the stable. reminisced Bethberry to herself.

[Orofaniel]

Aedre didn't quite know how to respond to Harold's very kind invitation, but in the end she managed to say some words. She only hoped that her random words, she’d put together were forming an understandable sentence. "Um..I'm very grateful for the invitation. But I'm sorry to say that I'm still not quite finished with my work. I could, however sit with you for some minutes, and then go back to work. I'll find your food first, of course...." She said and laughed while blushing a bit. She didn't really know if she had turned the invitation down or not, and was anxious to hear Harold's respond. Of course, she would love to hear about the Shire, but the timing was rather bad she admitted.

The Hobbit smiled, and didn't seem disappointed at all. "Then you must promise me that I can tell you about the Shire another time!" He said and laughed merrily. Aedre nodded and laughed as well. "You have my word, little Harold of the Shire." She said turning around, heading for the kitchen to get some food for Harold. “It was soup, meat and bread right? And something to drink?” Aedre asked him. His order had completely slipped her mind, and she just wanted to make sure she gave him what he really wanted.

“Yes, please..” Harold said and started to whistle.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

“But enough of the past,” he said. “For my mind is full of tomorrow and the glory that awaits me in the Golden Hall! I am always looking for songs to learn, and for people to teach me them. You are, I know, a busy woman, but if you could vouchsafe me an hour or so of your time I believe I could learn somewhat from you. If you are restless about your duties, however, I shall seek amongst the others gathered here.” Hearpwine looked around at the strange mixture of peoples at the Inn. “I daresay there are many here with songs I’ve not heard, and tales yet untold that need setting to music.”

Aylwen laughed at Hearpwine’s undimmed spirit and confidence. His seemingly frank and honest persona lit his already beaming eyes. “Of course I could spare time for a fellow musician. Though I am sure that you know more songs than you think yourself to. There are so many! Songs of battle and war, songs of love and songs of hate, there are so many different songs!” Aylwen raised her hands in emphasis. Smiling, she continued her speech. “There was one old man that my mother told me about; he was blind from an old war wound. He sang my mother a song and story that she taught me years ago…” Aylwen stood and withdrew her mother’s old set of panpipes from her belt-purse. Piping the notes she remembered then clearing her throat, Aylwen sang in a clear alto voice the song that she had learned to Hearpwine.

“Though better minstrels far than I
May strike the quiv'ring string;
and bards more worthy of the theme
Thy praises loud shall sing.
Yet I, a wand'ring harper blind,
With sightless, up-turned eye,
By harp and voice to honor Rohan,
My feeble strains to try.

My voice upraised to wild swept chords
I sing thy fertile dales;
Thy frowning mountains, rushing streams,
And all that makes thy wondrous tales.
All these I love and all have seen
Though gone now is my sight,
I can but feel the breezes play
For all the rest is night.

But even yet, it ye'll but list,
To my old harp's best note,
I'll sing to you your country's deeds,
To them my songs devote.
Now guided by my faithful hound
I stray from door to door,
And tell how Rohan has fought and bled,
And tales of old time lore."

After the last note had faded, Aylwen explained the song. "The old man was blind and his back was bent over like this," Aylwen made a ninety degree angle with her forearm and hand by bending her wrist. "And he was led by a faithful young pup with shining, golden hair. The old man stayed in the same in as my mother once, and they spent long hours trading stories and songs. He had a rusty old harp with two of the strings broken. However,” Aylwen continued, her smile becoming a little grin as she tried to mask the fun she was having singing songs to Hearpwine. “If it is a war-time song you long to hear, there are much more suitable songs than the song of that little, frail old man;


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

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

So what say thee, Hearpwine?” Aylwen finished, sitting back down at her desk. She had work to do to help lighten Aedre’s load, and there were still celebration orders to be filled, but Aylwen was having a good time remembering old songs that she had thought were long forgotten. “What say thee to one last song before I go back to my work? One last song and if you wish I will take your order as well. You must be wanting refreshment after arriving in fair Edoras.”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine was delighted by Aylwen’s songs and he paid great heed to both. I can but feel the breezes play, For all the rest is night, he sang to himself to set the lines in his memory. The Innkeeper’s voice was clear and strong and he could see that the guests of the White Horse had a rare treat in her: it was not many an innkeeper who could feed both the body and the spirit. “Wondrous” he said aloud, putting all of his enthusiasm for the music into his tone, “wondrous songs, both! You have a rare talent. Not merely My Lady of Ale, but of Merriment too! The blind bard you speak of, I have heard tell of him even in my distant land. I am too young to have heard him sing, but there are those among my household who still remember him and his golden dog coming to our vale once every few years and singing for his lodging and food. Richly was he repaid, for my people value three things above all else: the bridle, the spear and the harp.”

“Your land sounds like much the rest of Rohan,” Aylwen replied.

“Of the rest of Rohan I am greatly ignorant, for I have only traveled it here and here,” Hearpwine said, touching first his head and then his heart. “Only through music have I seen Edoras and the Golden Hall, explored the great vales and valleys of the White Mountains or ridden across the vast plains that lie between the arms of the mighty rivers. Indeed, before now the only time I have journeyed forth from my land was to do battle in the War, and for that we had to ride fast and hard, taking no time to look about us at the wonders of our beautiful land.

“But, you do me the honour of asking for another song, so I shall give it you. You try me sorely, though, by forcing me to choose between song and food! A hard choice after my long ride, but what the spirit requires the body can endure, so I shall sing first, then beg some bread and water of you.”

Hearpwine fell into a moment’s silence as he thought of an appropriate song. His eyes lit up, and he said, “As I have chosen to nourish myself with music rather than food, I think it appropriate that I sing of a meal –

“The Boar is dead,
Lo, here is his head:
What man could have done more
Than his head off to strike,
Huntsman like,
And bring it as I do before?

“He living spoiled
Where good men toiled,
Which made my mother sorry;
But now, dead and drawn
Is very good brawn,
And we have brought it for you.

“Then set down the beast,
To furnish the feast,
With which we crown his fall;
Let this boar’s-head and mustard
Stand for pig, goose, and custard,
And so you are welcome all.”

He finished with a hearty laugh and then said, “‘Tis something of a silly song, I know, but it tells the story of my first mighty battle, when, as a youth, I hunted and killed a boar of the Wild that had been devastating the fruit in my mother’s favorite orchard.” He laughed again at the memory. “But now kind Aylwen, if my song has earned me some refreshment I would gladly take whatever meat or bread you have to offer at this time of the day. Mind, I do not want any beer or ale to go with it, for my voice must be at its purest for the King tomorrow. Clear water is all that I will drink.”

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

“But now kind Aylwen, if my song has earned me some refreshment I would gladly take whatever meat or bread you have to offer at this time of the day. Mind, I do not want any beer or ale to go with it, for my voice must be at its purest for the King tomorrow. Clear water is all that I will drink.”

Aylwen laughed at Hearpwine's merry spirit. "Aye, Hearpwine. Your song has earned you the refreshment you desire. I dare say your presence alone brings such cheer and intrigue that is deserving of a meal anyway. I will be back in a moment with your meal and clear water!" Aylwen smiled and went into the kitchen to get the promised food and drink herself.

Inside the kitchen, Aylwen nearly bumped into young Aedre, filling an order for the jolly little Hobbit who had been conversing with the serving maid earlier. The plate in her hand was filled to the brim, and held a bowl of steaming soup, fresh bread and meat. "An interesting patron, this Harold of the Shire, is he not?" Aylwen asked with a smile, taking the plate for Aedre while the younger woman filled a mug with ale.

"Aye, quite interesting, to say the least!" Aedre agreed, nodding her thanks to Aylwen and taking the plate in her now free right hand and grasping the mug firmly in her left. Aylwen was quite proud of Aedre's abilities and talent for helping out around the Horse so well. Aylwen propped the kitchen door open for Aedre, who smiled as she left the kitchen. "But he's got a kind heart, no doubts there!" Aedre said before going off to bring Harold his food.

Aylwen went back into the kitchen and prepared Hearpwine's plate, humming the tune he had sung earlier when he had first entered the Inn. When she was finished getting everything for Hearpwine -- including the clean, clear water she'd promised -- Aylwen left the kitchen and its wonderful scents and served Hearpwine his food and water.

"I hope this is refreshment enough, jolly Hearpwine!" Aylwen said as she set the plate and glass before him. "You will enjoy the festivities tonight, I'm sure, if staying here is what you intend to do until you take your leave tomorrow. However, I'm sure the celebrations will be most entertaining no matter where you stay! The March and spring festivals are always the best, full of wonderful tales and songs of remembrance, glory, hope, and adventure."

[Nurumaiel]

Deman and Fierlan were growing tired of each other's company and soon, arguing over whether their battle was Helm's Deep or not, they fell to quarreling. Soon their voices raised to shouts, and a few inside the Inn began peering out the windows to see what was going on. Maercwen was by Mihtig's side in an instant, putting one hand over each mouth. "Hush you two," she said. "You're annoying the guests."

They did fall silent then, so silent that their breathing could just barely be heard. In this almost overpowering silence, a song reached the ears of the three children. Maercwen caught her breath, then shook her head. It was probably the bard that had gone into the Inn. She had heard him singing. But, no, surely the song came from the road that led up to the Inn, and surely the voice was familiar.

Eyes dancing, Maercwen whispered something in the ears of her twin brothers and they scrambled off Mihtig and listened also, tense and ready to start running down the road.

There's a piercing wintry breeze
blowing through the budding trees
and I buttoned up my coat to keep me warm.

And those three lines were enough for the children. With cries of delight they flew down the road, Mihtig trotting very serenely after them. A man, who looked young but was in truth middle-aged, trudging up the road paused and hesitated when he saw them, and almost looked as though he were going to flee, but decided not to. He ceased singing and, laughing, caught the twins as they threw themselves on him with screams of, "Uncle Liornung!" They did not wish to be hugged though, and pulled away from him with ferocious energy, each trying to speak to him at the same time. He nodded absently and took Maercwen's hands, kissing her cheek. "And how are you, pretty little one?" he asked. He did not wait for an answer though, but took the twins by the hand and began bringing them back towards the Inn, questioning Maercwen as he went.

"Is Bethberry still the Innkeeper? Ah, Miss Aylwen is now then, eh? Lovely. I came, you know, just so I might speak with her about playing my fiddle tonight at your little party. Perhaps I might even sing a song or two, if she'll allow me. Where is she, for I must speak to her about it?"

"She is inside, trading songs with a bard," Maercwen replied.

"Ah." Liornung said no more, but blushed very deeply. He had a very deep respect for real bards as he himself was only a 'wandering fiddler,' and he always found himself madly shy whenever in the presence of one. "Well, perhaps I shall go in and listen a bit... tell your father I'm here now, would you?" The twins hastened to do so. "And you, Maercwen, can come with me and if they aren't singing but merely talking we can also talk and I'll tell you tales about the Little Folk and perhaps if you talk to me about the Little Folk I'll be able to come up with a song about them to sing tonight."

[Ransom]

Snippets of songs and the laughter of children drifted up and down the streets of Rohan, carried onwards by the soft breath of the returning spring. Townsfolk and merchants smiled and paused for a moment to listen. Over the years, the White Horse Inn had gained quite a reputation for the number of bards that graced its threshold as well as its excellent service. Another figure heard the joyful noise as he rounded a corner onto the lane that ran in front of the establishment. It didn’t take very long for the local residents to dismiss him as just another Gondorian soldier who was seeking something do in his free time. Unusual, especially this quickly after the spring thaw, but not completely unheard of. His physical appearance did little to dissuade such thoughts. Despite slightly over a decade and a half of service, Azaziel Danwedh still did not feel the need to travel in anything more extravagant than a normal field uniform.

Time had not treated the Gondorian kindly. He suspected that the stress and constant pressure while serving at Osgiliath and subsequently at the Siege of Gondor had caused his premature loss of hair. However, he was only two years shy of fifty years of age, and his family had a history of premature baldness. Rather than display a bare patch of skin on his head, Azaziel had elected to shave his himself bald. Neither his thin frame nor his gaunt face betrayed any excess of fat or muscle—indeed, he had caught a fever in the siege works of Osgiliath that occasionally returned to sap his strength. The siege engineer’s left hand was noticeably larger than his right, and cloaked in a large black glove. It, in turn, rested heavily on the hilt of a well-crafted long sword that hung from Azaziel’s belt.

He opened the door with his right hand before pausing for a moment to survey the sturdy stonewalls of the stables. While he had been recalled shortly after the inn’s owner had left town, the engineer had had ample time to poke around the construction site and suggest a few changes. It had been a curious task, but Azaziel understood the strange dealings that often went on away from the prying eyes and ears of the public. With a short sight, he crossed the threshold and paused long enough to allow his eyes to adjust to the darker lighting. What had Bethberry thought when she had returned and found her unexpected thorn had disappeared? There would be ample time to find out—he was not needed at the embassy for another three days. The soldier crossed the room quickly, singling out the innkeeper while he walked. She looked remotely familiar, even though he had never spoken to her. “Ms. Innkeeper, is Bethberry still in the area?”

Aylwen glanced curiously at the interloper. “She’s working upstairs. Can I help you?”

Azaziel stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment. It was a bad habit he had picked up during long night hours spent pouring over drafts and documents. “Well, could I have a tankard of ale? Fine stuff, if I may say so. Could you, or perhaps one of the servants, run upstairs and tell her that Azaziel Danwedh would like to see her? She’ll remember me.”

The required number of coins changed hands and the Gondorian soldier accepted the still-foaming mug with his right hand. He found an empty table near the stairwell and sat, placing his left hand on the tabletop with a dull, metallic thump. While he waited, Azaziel savored his drink and delved into the memories of the past.

[VanimaEdhel]

Castar and Brytta stopped in front of the White Horse Inn. Deneth stood by her mother's coarse red skirt hem. Today was the first day Brytta allowed her out of the house without a shawl, and the girl basked in the freedom and the returning caress of a spring breeze. She looked up at her mother, awaiting the time when her mother would say that she could run and join the other children that were enjoying the warm weather as well.

"Windheneb said that he would meet you here, then?" Brytta asked Castar. Deneth's father brushed back a loose strand of hair and nodded. "I thought I should get some shopping done. And do you mind if I fit a new dress for Deneth? She just seems to grow so quickly these days."

Deneth wrinkled her nose. If Brytta planned to get her a new dress, she would not be able to play with the other children. She looked to her father, who usually intervened in such matters.

"Oh, I think this dress should pull through for a little longer," Castar said, much to Deneth's relief. "If you want to buy a new one, of course..."

"Really? Do you think it will do? Well, I suppose it may. I can always buy the fabric and fit her later." Brytta turned to her daughter, who looked at her expectantly, "Deneth, I suppose you can go and play, then."

Not leaving her mother with the chance to go back on that thought, Deneth smiled gratefully at her father, then ran towards a group of her friends, leaving her parents standing in front of the Inn. Soon, their quiet moment was broken by a shout.

"Castar!" A dark-haired man wove his way through the crowd. Castar smiled at Windheneb and stood on tip-toe in an attempt to see whether his friend brought another girl with him this time. Sure enough, Windheneb was engaged in conversation with a pretty, dark-haired woman.

"Ah, Castar, this is Deoreth. Deoreth, this is my friend, Caster." Deoreth nodded and smiled. "Well, Deoreth, I must part ways with you now. I hope I shall have the pleasure of your company another day."

This time, Deoreth giggled a little as Windheneb kissed her hand. She bustled away through the crowds, carrying a basket with her. Brytta raised her eyebrows at her husband's friend, but refrained from speaking. Castar kissed Brytta on the cheek, and she blushed a bit, smiling as she left him.

"I see you are the same as always, Windheneb," Castar said, smiling at his friend.

"Oh, and you change?" Windheneb asked, nudging Castar as they entered the Inn. They sat at a table and each ordered ale from a girl that came to them.

"Excuse me?" Castar asked of the girl, "Do you know where Mistress Aylwen may be?"

"I believe she's around, Sir," the girl answered, "If you wait, I'm sure you'll see her."

"Thank you, m'lady," Castar said. When he turned back to Windheneb, his friend was looking at him with a spark of amusement in his eye. "What? We are friends."

"As I said, my friend," Windheneb said, "Some things never change."

"Oh, you stop it," Castar said, blushing slightly. However, he still kept an eye open for Aylwen.

[Orofaniel]

Aedre had warm soup, bread and delicious smelling meat in one hand. In the other she had a cold mug. It was so cold that Aedre thought she was about to slip it any moment now. She hurried over to Harold, who smiled as she approached. She placed the soup in front of him, it was reeking and it smelled delicious. Aedre found herself standing still for a moment, just looking at the food. Suddenly she felt quite hungry herself and at some point she regretting putting down harold’s invitation to eat with him. "I believe this was what you wanted..." Aedre said kindly while waiting for Harold to confirm. He nodded and tanked her; "Thank you Aedre. It smells lovely."

"That is good to hear. I hope it tastes as lovely as it smells..." She said and laughed merrily. Harold nodded and smiled; ”I’m sure it will."

"Is there anything else you want?" Aedre said as soon as he'd finish his sentence. "Well, nothing as I can think of...." Harold started.” Well, it would be nice to have the pleasure of your company..." he said and smiled weakly. Aedre blushed a bit. What a sweet Hobbit, she thought. "We could always arrange something like that...I'll do the rest of my work later on," she said and smiled while she seated. "Well, if you’re too busy... I don't want the Innkeeper over my neck afterwards," Harold said and laughed over his own silly joke. Aedre laughed as well, but then assured him that Aylwen was the most loving and caring employer someone could ever wish for. "I'm lucky to be able to work here..." She said finally.

The two of them chatted for a while, and then Harold wanted Aedre to hear about the Shire; he told her about his childhood, his family and of course about the green fields in the summer. Aedre didn't say anything while Harold explained, she was to busy just imagine what it would be like. When he had finished she was completely speechless, and needed a few moments to collect herself. How could there be such a wonderful place as Harold had told her about? She wondered. Then at the end she managed to say a couple of words;” It must be lovely to live in the Shire..." She said as it was her home, and she was longing for it. Harold noticed this and laughed a bit. "Yes, it truly is.." he said and smiled.

They didn't get any further because there seemed to be people entering the Inn. They were seating at a table, and Aedre felt it was her duty to take their order as quickly as possible. At the same time she didn't want to leave Harold.

However it seemed that Harold knew what she was thinking, because he nodded and told her that she should go and take their order. "I'm very grateful for your pleasant company, Aedre. Thank you very much...for the food as well," he said and smiled. Aedre smiled back at him, and told him that she wasn't the one to thank. "I would love to hear you tell stories about the Shire again," she said and looked at the Hobbit.

"Then lets do so..." he said and smiled while he waved. "Hurry!" he said and smiled. He obviously found this quite amusing. Aedre giggled and curtsied. "If that's your wish, Harold of the Shire.." She said and turned while hurrying over to the other table.

"Hello, what can I do for you this lovely day?" Aedre asked kindly. They greeted her, and then they ordered some ale. "Ale you shall have...in a moment!" Aedre said and turned away.

"Excuse me?" one of them suddenly said, something that made Aedre turned towards them again. "Do you know where Mistress Aylwen may be?"

"I believe she's around, Sir," Aedre answered. "If you wait, I'm sure you'll see her," She continued.

"Thank you, m'lady," the man said kindly. "By all means.." Aedre said and turned yet again. "I'll tell her that a nice gentleman is waiting for her in the common room if I see her..." Aedre said and smiled.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

“Ms. Innkeeper, is Bethberry still in the area?” Aylwen turned towards the speaker without hesitation, and when she saw the customer her eyes subconsiously squinted. The Innkeeper had seen the man dressed in Gondorian livery before; she remembered the man being quite a pest during the rebuilding of the stable. Aylwen had never spoken to him, but then, there is a first time for everything.

“She’s working upstairs. Can I help you?” Aylwen replied monotonously, glancing curiously at the man...Az -- Azzel? Azaziel! Aylwen recalled the name in her mind. The man stroked his chin in a quite peculiar way, until his well thought out response left his parted lips.

“Well, could I have a tankard of ale? Fine stuff, if I may say so. Could you, or perhaps one of the servants, run upstairs and tell her that Azaziel Danwedh would like to see her? She’ll remember me.” I'm sure she will, Aylwen agreed internally. Still, Aylwen smiled and brought the man his ale and proceeded to trudge upstairs to the room Bethberry occupied.

Knocking on the door softly, Aylwen waited until she heard footsteps moving to the door. Bethberry opened it, and they both smiled briefly. Aylwen hated to bother Bethberry... "Do you remember Azaziel Danwedh?" Bethberry nodded at Aylwen's inquiry, so the Innkeeper continued. "He wishes to see you. He's just waiting downstairs drinking his ale."

"If you see him, tell him I will speak with him soon..." Bethberry said after a pause. Aylwen nodded and went back downstairs, where she walked past Aedre. The young girl stopped and turned her heels after Aylwen and stopped the Innkeeper.

"Oh, Miss Aylwen!" Aedre began, the information at the tip of her tongue. "I was asked to inform you of the presence of two nice gentlemen who wish to see you," Aylwen was about to ask their names, but the wonderfully competent Aedre knew what Aylwen was thinking. "I did not catch their names, and did not think to ask. They're over there!"

Looking through the crowd where Aedre had pointed, Aylwen smiled and thanked Aedre as she saw who the 'nice gentlemen' that were being discussed. Aylwen strode quickly over to the table of her two friends, Castar and Windheneb. A smile was growing steadily until she reached their table.

"Well, well, well! If it isn't Castar and Windy back at the Horse!" Aylwen said, laughing and pulling a chair to the table so she could sit next to the men. "How have you two been?"

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine finished the last of his meal and drained his cup of water. Wiping the crumbs from his beard with the back of his hand he stretched out his arms and legs to their full length and allowed himself the luxury of a cat-like stretch that cracked each of his joints. He had been a long time in the saddle, and then he had done little but sit with Aylwen and sing and talk. He needed to work out the stiffness from his bones and warm up his voice a bit more if he were to be in top form for the Contest before the King. He picked up his plate and cup and walked them back to the kitchen himself as his mother had always taught him to do. His family had lands, but not a great amount, and the few servants they employed were better used in the fields and stables than in household drudgery.

The woman in the kitchen looked up in surprise as Hearpwine came in with his own mess, but quickly smiled and thanked him for the help. He deposited the plate where she indicated but asked if he might have another cup of water. She quickly brought him one and Hearpwine drained it in a single deep quaff. It felt good to have clean water from a well rather than having to stoop to suck drink from a creek. Now that he had arrived, fed, drank and sung, Hearpwine began to feel the need of those other civilising amenities that all travellers longed for at the end of the road: a bath and a bed. He chuckled softly to himself as he thought of all the time he had spent with the Innkeeper singing, when he should have also paid some heed to getting a room for himself. There’s more to life than music, I deem he thought. A hard truth, indeed!

He was about to ask the maiden about a room when a small snatch of music drifted toward him through the door to the yard:

"There's a piercing wintry breeze
blowing through the budding trees
and I buttoned up my coat to keep me warm."

Hearpwine’s heart leapt into his throat and he cried out with unmingled joy, much to the surprise of the kitchen maid! Without so much as a word to the startled woman, he rushed through the door and into the yard, looking about him for the source of the music. He ran around the side of the Inn and saw the bard Liornung at the door of the Inn with a young maiden. Crying out in a ringing voice, he rushed toward the older man, his arms already reaching to embrace him:

"The diamonds of the hoar-frost
Were sparkling in the sun.
Upon the falling leaves the drops
Were shining one by one.

"The hare lay on the fallow,
The robin carolled free;
The linnet and yellow finch
Twittered from tree to tree.

"All nature seemed rejoicing
That glorious morn to see;
All seemed to breathe a fresher life -
Beast, insect, bird and tree."

When he had finished he took Liornung in his arms and gave him such an embrace that it almost lifted the man from his feet. Laughing, Hearpwine let him go and cried out, “Of all the joys I thought awaited me here, I had not looked to see you! My dear friend!”

Liornung caught his breath and looked at the young man in shock and surprise. “I’m afraid I don’t have the pleasure of your acquaintance, friend,” was all he could muster.

Hearpwine’s smile was undeterred. “I would not expect you to remember me, for it has been many years since you came to my family’s small estate in the Westfolds, and I was but a small lad then. But your music it was that first moved me to set aside the paths of my family and become a bard. How fitting that you should be here to witness my triumph before the King tomorrow! Come, let me buy you some meat and drink – and then we shall sing the night through!”

[bilbo_baggins]

Oin and Finky had settled down in the Inn to await a proper time to depart for the Shire, and Oin had leaned back in his chair, when he heard a song...

..."piercing wintry breeze" ..."through the budding" ..."button up my coat ...

"Bards!" he said, "Why do they come everywhere? They only sing!" Oin growled and muttered.

"Aye, but aren't the songs they sing very wonderful? I rather enjoy them..." was Finky's reply.

At just that moment, an old, haggard woman approached them...

[Bêthberry]

OOC

Writers of the Mark, please welcome Arestevana to Rohan as a Game Player. She has gamed consistently and reliably in two Shire games.

Arestevana if you nudge, cajole, pester and otherwise hold out carrots perhaps you might persuade one of our dormant Rohan Game Managers to run a game for us.

In the meantime, please join us at The White Horse Inn.

Bêthberry,
Moderator for Rohan

[Nurumaiel]

It would have been hard to say who was more startled, Liornung or Maercwen. Liornung of course was quite startled that a strange young man should come rushing up to him and embrace him, but Maercwen was equally as startled when she saw no flicker of recognition in Liornung's face. She had believed he knew nearly everyone in Rohan.

He was thinking deeply. The Westfolds? Something stirred in Liornung's memory. He did recall a wide-eyed lad hanging onto every word of every song and every note of a tune. He remembered a lad telling him that he too would be a bard. Faint though the memory was, it grew stronger with every moment that passed.

"I almost recall your name," he said, gazing into those eyes which were surely the same. He stood there blankly a moment, then a laugh burst from him and he returned the embrace with great fire. "I do believe it is Hearpwine!" he cried. "Oh, you never let me alone as long as I was at your parent's home. I did know my fiddle could charm the hearts of young lads and lassies, but so well as for them to remember me despite such long years? I am more accomplished than I thought."

"You seem," said Hearpwine, "to be better in your trade, unless my ears hear amiss. I do recall when I first met you that you were almost frightened to sing a song, though you did with all courage you could muster, which was indeed a terrible amount of courage."

Liornung laughed and put an arm about Hearpwine's shoulders, leading him towards the Inn. "My courage has increased most greatly," he said. "I've taken to composing some songs myself. Not very many, mind. I do tend to sing more of the old songs than my own works, but I do work out my own from time to time. The only one who has ever heard me sing a song that I composed myself was a good man who lives here in Edoras. But tonight for the first time to friends and strangers alike they shall hear my own songs. The good Miss Aylwen is arranging a party here at the Horse tonight to celebrate the events of the War of the Ring. And you tell me that you are to become Bard of the King?"

"I fully intend to," Hearpwine replied, confidence written all over his face. "I shall be very surprised if I do not gain that honor."

"As will I," said Liornung. "As will I, for I am not competing. If I were, young lad, you shouldn't stand a chance." Both of them laughed quite loudly and were about to enter the Inn when a devastated expression crossed Liornung's face and he whirled Hearpwine around. "I am a most rude fellow," he said woefully. "In my excitement at seeing you again, and a fine young bard rather than an enchanted little boy, I have forgotten my niece Maercwen." Proper introductions were made, and Liornung most politely invited her to sit with them and listen to their songs. "Now as you have said, good Hearpwine, let us sing this night away in the grand party that is to ensue. And I will see if my fiddle still bears the power of enchanting you."

[Bêthberry]

That old, haggard woman who was approaching Oin and Finky was none other than Ruthven, who walked with a slower pace it is true and who seemed to favour one side. Yet the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth danced as her face broke out into a grin when she saw the two dwarves. Her pace hurried a bit as she held an old brown coat tight, as if keeping herself warm.

"Ruthven"

"Finky"

"Allow me" said Finky.

"No, me," said Oin, rising, pulling out a chair.

"But I saw her first," retorted Finky, jumpi.ng up and grabbing onto the other arm of the chair.

"I saw her second." Oin pulled the chair towards him.

"And it was by seconds." Finky pulled the chair back towards him.

A third voice commented. "But this is a first."

"It is?" held forth both dwarves at once.

"I've never had dwarves arguing over me," chuckled Ruthven, reaching the chair and beginning to sit in it as Oin dragged it over towards him.

The arm of the old oak chair bumped soundly into Ruthven's hip, knocking her off balance and into Finky, who tumbled over, taking the chair with him, but not before he had grabbed the tablecloth and almost brought down the tankards, pitcher and plates upon himself, had not Ruthven caught them in mid air, wavered, and plunked them back down on the table, where they sloshed their ale over Oin.

"This is a fine how do you do," complained Finkey.

"There's nothing fine about it," objected Oin, wiping his pants.

"Sssh now you two, settle down, before Aylwen fines the both of you," suggested Ruthven, taking hold of the chair in her two hands and holding it tightly as she placed it closer to the heat of the Inn's second fireplace.

"I never thought I'd get the mud off me," she said with a remembrance rather more fond than one would expect...

~ ~ ~ ~

Ruthven had been grumbling, perhaps even cursing, the muck of the alleyways of Edoras as she wheeled her small cart ahead of her. The thick mud and the heavy assortment of odds and ends weighing the cart down made rough going. She stopped, sweat plastering her hair and then chilling her when the brisk spring air blew around the corner. It had been another long, hard winter, the worst since the War. Indeed, nothing had improved for the poor of Edoras, although there was new feasting in The Golden Hall. She needed to finish this trip, taking the small wooden cabinet to the fishmonger's wife so she could collect the money owing her. In short, her ebullient mood which the tea with Bethberry had produced was gone. She was, in short, in a mood most foul.

She had grunted as she pushed at the cart, even calling it names, with little success, and that likely had brought the two dwarves around the corner, wondering what the commotion was.

"Here, let's help her with that cart," had said Finky.

"Why," asked Oin, following behind him.

"Why not?"

"We'd be butting in, and we'd best be on our way," intoned Oin.

"I'm not butting in," corrected Finky. "Here, let me take that handle," he offered to Ruthven.

She eyed the two, having seen them earlier at The Horse. Fine lot of good two argumentative dwarves would be, she thought..

"You'll help me with this cart?" she asked

And that was how it had started.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“A party!?” Hearpwine cried, “Ah, that is welcome news indeed. Miss Aylwen never mentioned it to me, but I suppose that’s because I never gave her a chance. All I wanted to do was sing with her. It’s one of my greatest short-comings, I’m afraid. As soon as the music begins, all else goes from my mind. In fact, twice today I’ve intended to ask about a room at the Inn, only to have that thought driven from me by song. The last time was just now as I heard you come up the street, so I shall hold you to account for that!”

Liornung smiled. “If I am to pay the price for your love of music, I fear I shall have nothing left ere long.”

“Never fear, my old friend, the payment shall be in kind. A song in payment for the song that kept me from the bath! One of your new creations will be all that I ask of you in return for my absent-mindedness.” Together they entered the Inn. The maiden Maercwen followed them, gazing at them both with something that looked almost like admiration. Hearpwine was still embarrassed by his manner toward her earlier. My mother would have me by the ear right now, had she seen that. Dashing by a maid without so much as a greeting. In an attempt to make amends, he turned to her and asked if she were fond of music.

The lady smiled broadly. “I love my uncle’s fiddle-playing and singing, sir; and I heard your songs earlier – they were very good.”

Hearpwine grinned and bowed to her. “That is bed and bath for me both. The praise of a comely lady is the purest kind of payment for a bard such as myself. But you needn’t call me 'sir'. As your uncle will attest, my family’s estate is but a small one, and as you can see for yourself I am but a simple man of music seeking his fortune in the world. ‘Hearpwine’ will do between friends!”

She returned his smile, saying, “Then Hearpwine it shall be. And you must call me Maercwen.”

“You honour me; and long may you joy in the Mark!” He turned to Liornung. “And what news of you my old – and learned – friend. It pleases me beyond all words that you remember the boy who dogged your very shadow all those years ago. What roads have you travelled since you last charmed me with the enchantment of your instrument? Tell all, for if I am to write a song of you I must know everything!”

[VanimaEdhel]

"Well, well, well! If it isn't Castar and Windy back at the Horse! How have you two been?" Castar rose quickly as Aylwen came and sat. "Sit, sit!" she said, "No need for formality after these years! I reiterate: how have you two been?"

"No worse for the wear, m'lady," Windheneb said, "Although with Brytta, that wife of Castar's...I do not know. She may have him living in the stables soon. And he would say that he liked it."

"That is not true!" Castar said, smiling, but blushing a bit as well.

Windheneb apparently thought to say more, but decided that he would not embarrass his friend any further for a moment. He took a sip of his ale, then turned his attention to Aedre, who was bustling about the room. However, it was still apparent that most of his attentions were still directed to listening to Aylwen and Castar's conversation. Aylwen followed Windheneb's gaze, and when it alighted on Aedre, she laughed a bit.

"You still like the women that work here, Windheneb?"

"Some things never change," Windheneb said, turning back to Aylwen, "We were just discussing that when you came over, actually."

"Really? What examples did you use?"

Castar cleared his throat, "Well, mostly Windheneb's fascination with creatures far too young for him. I keep telling him he should slow down--"

"Why can't they keep up with me, then?" Windheneb asked, his eyes glimmering with mischief.

"The girl you were with when you met me seemed to be able to do such a thing," Castar said, smiling at his old friend. He then told Aylwen about the girl Windheneb arrived with. Windheneb added details about who the girl was as Castar went along. Aylwen asked after Brytta and Deneth, and Castar recounted a story in which Deneth somehow managed to get her hands on one of the horses, and went riding through the blacksmith's shop.

"That has the taste of something one of my sister's would have done," Windheneb commented. Castar smiled: it did, indeed, sound like something one of Windheneb's relatives would do, especially his sister Kalia. She was still, at thirty, one of the best horsemen Castar ever saw. That probably had to do with the fact that she never married, and therefore never gave birth. This enabled her to keep in shape. If Castar ever had an errand to run, he called on Kalia. When his parents were still living, she rode up to their farm nearly every weekend to verify that they were safe and did not need money.

Castar's parents died roughly five winters ago. He sold the farm and the animals, as he now lived in Edoras with Brytta and Deneth. Castar wondered how Deneth was getting on with her friends.

When Castar came back out of his own thoughts, he caught some bits of Aylwen and Windheneb's conversation.

"--more to life than just pretty women?" Aylwen was saying. Windheneb feigned shock, his eyes growing wide.

"I have been telling Windheneb that for years, m'lady," Castar said, joining in again, "And I have yet to see him listen to me...on any topic, really."

"Perhaps it just takes the right woman," Aylwen said. She rose then, excusing herself, as she saw a matter that needed her attention. After she left, Windheneb ordered another ale from Aedre, complimenting her on something at the same time. Castar did not pay enough attention, drawing back into himself and into contemplation.

[bilbo_baggins]

Oin thought that the woman they had seen earlier in the Inn would do nothing but give them trouble with the way Finky (and maybe himself) had acted about her.

"Here, lets help her with that cart," said Finky, his companion

"Why?" Oin replied

"Why not?" Finky said, seemingly thoughtless to all else but to help the old peddler woman and her cart.

"We'd be butting in, and we'd best be on our way," said Oin, trying to give his voice an edge that Finky could not say no to.

"I'm not butting in," replied Finky haughtily, "Here, let me get that handle," proving Oin's voice tone wrong and making the peddler Ruthven uneasy in the same gesture.

"You'll help me with this cart?" The lady Ruthven asked, raising an aged eyebrow at the strange pair.

"I will at least, but my friend Oin is not a kind one, I'm sorry to say," answered Finky.

"Finky, we really need to go now," said Oin, grabbing Finky's belt to try and shift him.

But Finky just grabbed the cart handle harder. "No Oin, we should help Ruthven to get to wherever she's going,"

As Oin pulled harder, Finky's grasp slightly loosened, and then...

*Splash*

Finky's poor grip had given in, and sent Oin and Finky into the mud.

"Now look what you did, Finky! I just got these clothes cleaned here in town and you go getting them muddy. I could just squeeze your ears off!" Oin said, being very hast and angry.

"Now that we're muddy, we could help Miz. Ruthven with her cart," replied Finky, hoping that Oin would agree. Oin always would give in eventually.

And that continued the drama...

[Nurumaiel]

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

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

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

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

[Bêthberry]

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

Wanted: a singer or minstrel

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

Friends of Aywlen may also offer their words of congratulations.

Apply privately to Bethberry, via PM.

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

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Kransha]

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

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

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

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

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

[Imladris]

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

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

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

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

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

[Nurumaiel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Kransha]

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

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

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

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

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

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Nurumaiel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Nurumaiel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Bêthberry]

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

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

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

He stood up and reached over to help her up.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[bilbo_baggins]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

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

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

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

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

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Kransha]

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

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

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

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

[Bêthberry]

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

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

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

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

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

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

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

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

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

“Sí man i yulma nin enquantuva?

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

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

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

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

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

[Crystal Heart]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Orofaniel]

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

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

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

[Bêthberry]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Bêthberry]

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tastes better than your words!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We are a right mess," observed Oin.

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

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

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

"Right you are," replied Finky.

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

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

[Imladris]

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

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

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

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

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

[Nurumaiel]

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

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

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

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

[Kransha]

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

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

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

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

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

[Crystal Heart]

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

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

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

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[bilbo_baggins]

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

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

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

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

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

[Bêthberry]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

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

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

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

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

[Bêthberry]

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

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

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

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

Their faces darkened and pouts appeared around their lips.

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

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

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

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

[bilbo_baggins]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

[Bêthberry]

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

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

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

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

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

[bilbo_baggins]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

[Mad Baggins]

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

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

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

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

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

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

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

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

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

[Crystal Heart]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Nurumaiel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What about her mother?"

"Her as well."

"And all her sisters?"

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

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

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

"Any, Miss Maercwen."

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

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Nurumaiel]

Fortunately for Hearpwine he had a fellow minstrel (or singer, at least, though Liornung had found himself called bard more than once that day) near who saw the need for rest. "Good patrons of the White Horse," he laughed, "you must not beg us for more songs. Our voices fail and you would have song tonight, would you not? If you make us continue you shall have no more than feeble croakings. And consider that good Hearpwine must sing well tomorrow if he is to become Bard of the King."

"From what I have seen tonight, Uncle," Maercwen said, "'twould be more fitting to say as he is to become Bard of the King."

Hearpwine flushed under her pleasure but said, "Alas, Mae, for the first time I begin to have doubts. If any bard there is half as good as your uncle perhaps my chances shall not be as fair."

A smile flickered across the girl's face and she shook her head playfully. "Do not doubt your talents, Master Hearpwine," she said. "I must confess that I have never met a bard better than my uncle, though if it is because there is no bard better or merely because he is my uncle I do not know. I suspect the latter of being true. Yet, good sir, of all other bards you truly fall second in my heart and mind. I have no doubts that you will gain the honor." She paused a moment before continuing. "Aside from the honor which we shall all rejoice inwe might rejoice that you would then remain here in Edoras." The smile on her face grew wider and her eyes twinkled. "Call for more drinks, I beg you, and rest your voice. Apply yourself to thought, Master Hearpwine, for I expect you to sing the song I requested this night during the festivities."

[Kransha]

“You wish to rest your voice, good sirs,” said Osric to Liornung and Hearpwine, “and well you should. My voice has been found and, if you mind it not, I will take up the ears of your avid listeners while you recuperate. I do not seek to take your thrones, my friends, so I will merely see if I can recall the lore I once knew.” Osric had his chance as some words and ragged verse returned to him after a lengthy hiatus from his knowledge. He could re-learn any of his old ballads at the time he wished, but had not seen the need. The man of Aldburg, scooted his chair further, looking from person to person throughout the light-dappled room.

“An ode of my own is what I have for now. I am no minstrel, friends, but as much a poet as a fool, I assure you.” The aged man’s eyes sparkled with sunny warmth as he laughed in his throat, “When it comes to me, battle tales and feats of heroism shall be the topic of my verses, but for the moment I can only stutter about with poetry. I’ll regale you all with an old composition, a bumbling rhyme I wrote for a more human purpose than glory. So, for wont of a better name, here’s a little something I concocted an age ago, but if they desire it, Miss Maercwen may take it with her from here. I am need of a fair maid for a target, so if you would subjugate yourself to such a blow, even if my words are dire in their course?” he joked.

As Osric chuckled slightly while Maercwen, or Mae as he now knew she was known, gave a polite nod, tempered with a jovial look, “I would be honored to accept that position, sir, regardless of the dangers.” She replied gracefully, stifling a laugh of her own that prompted a smile from her uncle.

“I thank you for that, milady.” He said, still laughing more energetically than he’d thought himself capable of doing. All these young faces, less hardened and stony than the ones he was used to. It was a welcome sight for Osric. The old man, his sagged face lightening up as he reared himself back in the small, wooden chair, rested his rough hands upon his knees, and began a calm recitation. It was not somber, nor was it a happy piece, but hovering somewhere in between. There was no true tune, no notes to accompany it, but it held a meter well enough to go on steadily as a mild hush fell on this area of the room, most ears aimed respectfully at the venerable figure who had suddenly become so engrossed in his words.

“Am I well versed in verse in company?
In clever seasons need I seasoning?
‘Round thee may words make thee in ways many?
Can rhyme and reason seem more reasoning?

And even now I struggle with this line,
For I was never less witty than now.
This moment christened by all graces thine
That seemingly words seem too much to tow.

The reason of this I know not the cost.
But should I hit it right to say it’s this;
That cleverness becomes an item lost
When wits tested within such august bliss.

Given the chance thy beauty to adore,
My princely prose turns to a poem poor.”

As the hush remained upon Osric’s completion, the man brushed a strand or two of grayed hair from his face and overlooked the silent crowd, smiling. Provoked by their unusual quietness, he took the time to speak again. “Not much, I warrant, but t’will serve. If my old head can remember more, I won’t hesitate to go on, but I would have no reason if you’ve tired of these themed verses. Love is something I’ve reflected on, but I shan’t bore you with my ponderings, oh no, we should be merrier this day and eve. Though love is merry, merry is not love, unless the love of food and drink and song and dance. Then you have me, I suppose, and love is as merry as merry e’er was. But, I pray you, let me not rant on like the ancient fool I am.”

[Nurumaiel]

"Ancient fool!" Mae cried, shaking her head in a most vigorous fashion. "Sir, those words could never fit you. When does one become ancient? When one's hair begins to whiten? Nay, if you have lived many years that is one thing but you will only become old if you succumb to it in your heart. In spirit one can be as young as ever they were." She put her head to one side, her mild curls falling to one side of her face and her eyes twinkling playfully. "Come now, can you imagine me ever being old? Yet age will come to me. I hope I will remain a child in heart."

"You always will," Liornung replied. "You don't seem to me any older than when you were three years old singing I'll Tell My Ma."

She blushed and said, "I hope I am a bit older than that, uncle. But you are only teasing me, I see it in your eyes. And as for fools, Master Osric," she continued, returning her gaze to the man, "are we not all fools? Would wisemen sit as we sit now, singing and laughing and dancing? To be wise seems to me a dreary life. Would a wiseman live as my uncle, barely surviving on what money he makes in his wanders? To me it seems that one who was wise would find some work more profitable, yet..."

"Yet I work as a fool," Liornung said quite seriously. "I enjoy being a fool at times. But how did you, little Mae, know that I was as poor as I am? In truth the people of the inns are not so kind as those here and have no ears for music, or perhaps they have no money to spend and seek the fault of my song as an excuse. Yes, I am poor and often go without a meal, though how the money disappears so quickly I don't know..."

"I know," said a new voice. "You spend it all on ale for those who enjoy your music so you might all laugh and sing through the night, and if your music is ill-taken you spend your money on ale to drown your sorrows."

Liornung stood and set aside his fiddle. Striding across the room a look of boyish delight and admiration came to his features as he embraced the man who stood before him. "Dear brother Leofan," he said. "It has been many a month since I've seen you and you remind me to think not only to my nieces and nephews but my brothers and sisters, and my mother and father. Two years it has been since I have seen them. But you... ah, long was our parting in olden days until I chanced to meet your distressed wife, who was after fearing you had been killed in that stable fire. It was because of me that she found you again, for I was so successful in helping her dodge through those swarming crowds. But what a rambler I am, both on the road and in speech! Sit yourself, dear brother, and fill your glass with me." He paused, looked at Hearpwine and Osric and, a little flush coming to his cheeks, amended himself. "Us, I do mean. Fill your glass with us."

"I fear it cannot be," said Leofan, "though I would wish it. There is much work to do in the stable, as there always it, even if the work be but doing what the horses bid. I took this brief moment to come see you once again, for I heard your singing. Fine singing it was, as well."

"Yes, at that of Master Hearpwine, soon to be Bard of the King," Maercwen spoke up.

Liornung introduced Hearpwine and Leofan most properly, likewise to Osric, and Leofan addressed them, saying, "Do not believe what I say about my brother, sirs. His purse is opened more often for works of charity than to indulge in drink himself. In all truth he barely ever drinks, save grand festivities. Yet by his money many a hungry child in Rohan has been filled."

Liornung turned quite red and occupied himself with tuning his fiddle, pretending he had not heard. "Where, Leofan, is your lovely wife? I have not seen her nor heard of her."

"She is most likely in the kitchens helping to prepare for the night's fesitivites," Leofan replied. "I myself must go now, but tonight I will join in the dancing and merry-making." His eyes wandered over the room and fixed on Gomen and a little smile came to his face. "Are you enjoying yourself, lad? I thought you would. And, you, Mae, need not tell me for it is written on your face. But do not let your eager dancing get in the way of your lessons. Bethberry is waiting quite patiently for you, as are your slates. Else you shan't be able to dance with your uncle, or with me, or even with good Hearpwine. Perhaps Osric would also like to dance with. I will not deny you are quite charming, but you are your mother's daughter and so it could not be helped." He smiled fondly at her and then, with a polite nod to all in the room and a fond slap of the shoulder to his younger brother, he left the room.

[bilbo_baggins]

Oin turned to Finky and said,

"That bard is very good. I think he may even have a chance of beating the great Mearcwine if he tries hard enough, and learns some."

"True, he is good. But my eyes and ears are for Liornung. Now there is a chap with his instrument on straight!" replied Finky.

Said Oin, "And Hearpwine is a good bard, too. I near let loose a battle cry at that rousing song of his."

Said Finky, "Aye, indeed. These songs are truly wonderful."

And they both sat back and listened some more...

[Mad Baggins]

Ceryl sat, listening to the minstrel in the corner sing many songs. She spooned a bit of stew into her mouth, savouring the hot food. It was delicious. She sipped her tea and attacked her stew with vigour. When she was done, she drained the teacup and set it inside the empty bowl along with the spoon. She pushed it away and sighed contentedly, her stomach full.

Well, now that I have finished my meal, I should try to have a chat with someone, Ceryl thought. She remembered the mysterious-looking girl that had sat a few stools down and looked around for her. She saw that she was in the same place as she had been before. Ceryl slid off the stool and walked towards her. Just as she was about to touch her on the shoulder, the girl sighed and put her head in her hands.

Ceryl paused, wondering if the girl wanted some privacy. You are in an Inn, she chided herself. What privacy can you get here? She reached out her hand and tapped the girl on the shoulder. She jumped and whirled around, her brown and green eyes burning into Ceryl's own steely grays. Ceryl swallowed and said, "Pardon me for startling you, miss, but I was just wondering if you would like to have a chat with me."

[Crystal Heart]

Eowyn looked up at the woman that had ventured over to talk to her. She smiled.

"I wouldn't mind a nice chat. My name is Eowyn Lightheart. What is yours?"

She stook out her hand to shake hers and at the same time wondered how well she could hold up a conversation. She knew that there were parts of her mind that wandered when bringing back a new memory, but those memories were short and usually didn't make any sense to her.

Even in the split second of speaking to her, her memory flashed back to her accident. She remembered only the pain and the darkness, but now she remembered just one thing more. Laughter, evil laughter. The thought that whoever had abandoned her alone on the ground was terrible enough to bear, but this new fact of their laughter cut Eowyn deep. She just couldn't believe that people could be that heartless, that cruel. Then again if they hadn't been cruel she would still be with them. Sure, she would be just the same way but she would be with people that would take care of her. Maybe they had wanted to get rid of her for some sort of money reason. She didn't know if she wanted to think about that.

She turned her attention back to the woman in front of her.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Aylwen had long forgotten what she had been working on in her ledger, for she had taken up the joyous and humorous task of watching the people in the Inn. She saw old acquaintances reunite and become new friends. She saw perfect strangers become more comfortable communicating with one another. All of this and more could be observed from Aylwen’s spot behind her desk. The sun began to set, making Aylwen wonder where the day had gone. The time had come for her to begin the festivities. The Innkeeper stood from her seat and then stood on her seat.

“Oy, patrons of the White Horse!” Aylwen called. “Up with your heads and down with your mugs for just a moment, please!”

A few more calls and the Inn belonged to Aylwen’s voice. The bards (or, one bard and a wandering fiddler) and all who listened to them – including a couple of dwarves, strange newcomers, and several regular customers – turned their attention to Aylwen. So she continued her speech.

“It is high time for me to get these celebrations started. I’ve decided that the best way to do this is to begin with a very short story. Now, just four years ago there were many brave men – and even a woman, or maybe two – who fought for what they had then and what we have now. They fought in a grand war, which is now called the War of the Ring. I know that some of you,” Aylwen paused and looked at a few of the children that had finished schooling with Bethberry and smiled. “I know that some of you do not remember these events at all. I also know that many of you remember these events all too well. This night is for the remembrance of those we lost and those that we still have with us. Stories, dancing, songs, and memories in commemoration of that war belong within this night more than any other. I leave your attention to anyone that wants to share.”

Aylwen left her spot from atop her chair, and the patrons gave a light clap for her little speech.

[Mad Baggins]

Ceryl took the outstretched hand that Eowyn had offered her. Shaking it, she smiled. As she was about to comment on the girl's name, she heard a voice rise among all the others: "Oy, patrons of the White Horse! Up with your heads and down with your mugs for just a moment, please!" Ceryl turned and saw a woman standing atop a chair, shouting. She listened to the speech the woman gave and applauded along with the rest of the room when it was over.

Now Ceryl turned back to the girl and said, "Eowyn. You share a name with a great warrior; you must be proud." The girl nodded and said something that Ceryl's ears couldn't quite catch. Ceryl pulled up a stool and sat down, smoothing her cream-coloured dress as she did so. Searching for a conversation topic, Ceryl asked, "So, where are you from? I live just a little while from the Horse; my home lies in the city."

[Crystal Heart]

Eowyn looked up, fear strickened her at the woman's question.

"To be perfectly honest I have no idea where I am from. I fell off my horse with some others and hit something hard. I can't recall who they were or parts of my past. I only just realized my own name once again. I do not believe it was an accident that they left me without money, weapons, or any means of transportation," Eowyn said.

She wondered what the other woman would think of her. She probably wouldn't want to talk to someone that had no idea what was going on.

"You said I share my name with a great warrior. I know I knew about this at one time in my life, but please explain to me whom was this other Eowyn?"

Her face flushed in deep embarssement. She had no idea about anything that had happened before the fall and she knew that this was an important fact that she figured that everyone knew.

[Mad Baggins]

Ceryl's heart ached when she heard the girl say that she had no idea where she was from. It would be horrible to forget her family and friends. When the girl asked who the "other Eowyn" was, Ceryl was a bit startled, but then remembered that Eowyn had forgotten everything.

"Well, miss Eowyn, get ready for a long story, but well worth the time. Last year at this time, there was a grand war, as you heard the woman over there say. The War of the Ring. King Theoden was King of Rohan then, but he was old and frail. Then four strangers came and Theoden became strong again! He had a niece and nephew, Eowyn and Eomer. They were brother and sister..."

Eowyn listened carefully as Ceryl told of the great war, and Eowyn's heroic deeds. Her eyes widened as she heard of Eowyn helping to slay the great Witchking, and by the time Ceryl was finished her hands were clasped in front of her and her eyes were shining.

Ceryl smiled, saying, "Well, now you know who Eowyn is. You should be proud to share a name with the bravest woman in Rohan."

[Crystal Heart]

Eowyn gasped lightly. She had no idea that such a woman with such a name ever existed.

"But I am not worthy to share the same name as the most bravest woman in all of Rohan and in all of middle earth. I'm certainly nothing compared to her. I only disgrace her honorable name," Eowyn said softly in disbelief.

She hadn't realized when she had discovered her name only minutes prior that she shared a name with the most amazing woman to ever walk the lands of middle earth. She had no idea that this had happened only years before. She knew that she must have known about it when it had happened, maybe even had helped in it, but she couldn't remember a thing. The War of the Ring as Ceryl had called it wasn't ringing any such bells in her mind. There was no connection for her to make, even after the story had been told. This War now only seemed like an amazing story and nothing more. To these people in this Inn that was there life, possibly had been her life as well at one time, but she couldn't remember a thing about it. She felt ashamed of the fact that she couldn't recall a memory of the War of the Ring and the great Eowyn.

[bilbo_baggins]

Hoping that he would not get too frightened at this solemn moment, in front of these people, Oin stood up and recited a song, in memorium of the War of the Ring:

The War of the Rings was long and hard,
Telling of sadness, death and despair
To hear it well requires a bard,
Which, among Dwarves, are scarce and rare

The War of the Ring
The War of the Finding
The Dwarves do remember
And tell of the Binding

Our songs do remember
The tales of the few
Who battled and fought,
For the sake of the new.

For the sake of all people
Did our fighters prevail,
And hold up the banner
Of victory un-stale

The songs do sing
Of the Dwarf in the Keep
Who fought with the Elf
On the walls of Helm’s Deep

In the Coomb, they fought
In Rohan, Riddermark
Where many men fell,
Staving off the Dark

They fell with pride,
In what they had done,
For none could tarnish
The victory they’d won.

Though my song doth fail
To proclaim the worth and merit
Of the People who earned such
And did not live to wear it.

I sing it for those,
Who fell in the Finding,
In the battles most terrible
In the War of the Ring!!

He knew the song was poor, and ungainly, yet the words he had used brought to his mind all the battles and skirmishes in the War. Some of the people murmured and whispered to each other about the song.

"What do you think?" he asked the small crowd of the bard, the man named Liornung, and the maiden who was right fair. "My song is not as good as yon bard's but what is your opinion?"

[Bêthberry]

A brown and white falcon flew in one of the large french windows at the end of the Mead Hall. In his beak he carried a large scroll, which he dropped at Bethberry's feet. She retrived it, read it, and made the following announcement:

Writers of the Mark,

It seems we have another anniversary to celebrate as well. We are all called to the Party Field in The Shire to celebrate the fourth anniversary of the Barrow Downs forum.

How to get from here to there:

The Long Awaited Party (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showthread.php?t=10646)

A large cheer went up among the patrons of The White Horse. After it had subsided, Bethberry continued:

"Unfortunately, I am called away on some urgent business at Haysend, so I shall arrive at the party ... fashionably late, as the saying goes. But enjoy. Who knows what fireworks will present themselves this year!"

A sparkle in her eye spoke of much mirth as Bethberry sat down, beside Oin, where she could quietly compliment him on his song and ask him questions about himself. She wondered if he hailed from Erebor or the Blue Mountains or if he was one of the dwarves going to join Gimli at the Glittering Caves.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine turned to his newfound friends at the announcement by Aylwen saying, “Ah! ‘Tis a pity that I have sung myself out for the moment, as there is many a song I could give of those deeds and days! But perhaps it is for the best that I can not, for the lay that I mean to sing for the King tomorrow tells the tale of the War in full and I do not want to weary my remembrance of the song overmuch tonight?”

From where she sat on the other side of the room, Bêthberry could not resist tossing a gentle barb at the young man. “A song that tells the tale of the War in full, you say? That must be a very long and remarkable song indeed, to encapsulate so much!”

Hearpwine smiled at the woman and inclined his head. “Quite right, my lady! Quite right. Perhaps I have misspoken again. I should say that the lay contains the full story of Theoden’s ride to War and his fall in battle before the Fell Beast of the Witch King.”

Now it was Osric’s turn to taunt the younger man. “Even that is a tale much longer in the telling than you will have tomorrow, my friend. For those who speak of were products of very long stories of their own!”

Hearpwine through up his hands and cried out, “I admit defeat my friends! I admit it – there is no lay that I can sing which will tell that story in full. But at the very least I can hope that I will be able to bring to mind the full meaning of that day for each who hear it!” Without waiting for a reply he rushed ahead. “Mistress Aylwen has asked for songs and stories. As I have forbidden myself the former, and I am no use at the latter, I appeal to the others here to give her as she wishes. I have already told the tale of my part in the War, small though it was – but what of the rest of you? Liornung, surely you could sing a song of what you saw in those great days of doom. And good Osric, I can tell by looking at you and at the glitter of memory in your eye that your role in those great events was far from a small one. Let us all hear and tell of what we did in the War, so that the memory of those days will be all the sweeter for having been renewed, and we shall favour the light more greatly in defiance of the darkness that is conquered!”

[Kransha]

“Though I fear my tale would bore you, it is a night for such things. I will get this started if I can.”

Osric, seeing that no one else had picked up Hearpwine’s challenge to relate a tale, pulled himself forward and reared up nobly to begin a usual oration. It had less of a literary flourish, since the events he spoke of were as real as the ground he walked upon and those he saw before him, but his gentle drone gained new energy as the almost autobiographical words began spilling out frothily.

“I, like many of my kin, was a simple man of the Folde. As many of my Rohirrim brethren will agree, life was most peaceful back then, except, perhaps, for occasional incursions by some manner of foe, which always seemed to be dispatched in a blaze of glory. Seeking this same glory, I sought out the Rider’s of Rohan, those of the Eastfold, and joined their ranks. They pronounced me their tale-teller and song-singer, even though I rarely sang, and I was thankful I could do but a little to boost their morale as the war loomed. At long last, it had begun. The world flew, as is my memory of it, and we riders under Erkenbrand and his valiant nephew, my own commander, Dunhere, rode to and fro, receiving all kinds of news that we could not make heads or tails of.

“It was at the second battle fought on the Fords of Isen where our confidence first broke. For the first time, I saw many good, brave men fall, those who I’d told stories to and talked with late into the starry nights. That, dear friends, is where I got this unfortunate degeneration from my once youthful step.”

Grinning to himself, Osric indicated his stiffened left leg, still straight as a log and immobile as it leaned on the chair he’d placed in front of him, “Many said I was a brave and courageous rider myself for fighting the battle and carrying a war wound away from it, but it is not true. Like all others, I was forced to flee from the might of wretched Saruman, limping like a cowardly elder in my way. It saddened me to look back and see the bodies of those slain, and saddened me more to see those who were lost, but still alive and clashing steel with Rohan’s foes until the moment they fell. I would’ve gone to them, but alas I had not the strength of will.”

“The battle of Isen was lost, but the war raged ever on. While the battle at Helm’s Deep raged in the west, Dunhere rallied the Rohirrim, I among their number, at Harrowdale. Those days I saw a grandness I feared lost, a vast and stretching wave of horses’ untamed manes and Rohirrim spears that glistened like sunlight itself. We rode thence to a battle grander and more terrible than what I thought I’d seen, on the fields of Pelennor with Rammas Echor’s walls. There, under the white shadow of Gondor’s city and Mount Mindolluin, its pallid shadow cast over us, we fought as if the night would bring no morn.”

His calm air, tempered with new verve, suddenly swelled as he could see it all again. The monsters and the madness, sky and earth, light and dark playing out on Pelennor Fields, all could be seen beneath the palette of his widening eyes and raised lids. His story grew and surged as his voice’s volume overwhelmed the room as much as the old and weakened drawl could.

“I fought as I could, but as far as I know all I did was witness the battle. Yes, I slew many a foul creature and wicked man, but who did not who was there? In fact, I watched more than I fought, forced to battle on foot as well as I could when my steed was shot from under me by the venomous shafts of orcs. The limp gained from Isen was still upon me, but I fought with all the others, since no man would’ve done such a shameful thing as shirking the duty to Rohan and Middle-Earth. I saw those huge, incredible things that the Little Folk call Oliphaunts, those massive, tusked creatures. At first they seemed like heartless monsters purely in the thrall of the Haradrim puppets, but I could see there was more in them, a power and nobility in their eyes as they trampled over the fields. Of course, I could not gawk for long. The black serpent that you spoke of, Hearpwine, and his shadowy master fell upon us.”

Osric halted, catching his lost breath and sucking in much needed air. He took a swift look around and noticed the faces that were protruding forward, looking at him with fixed gazes and wide eyes as they waited with something that might be called eagerness. Fair memories coming to him, the aged man of Aldburg smiled a warmer smile and leaned back, shifting his limp and useless leg to the side.

“Perhaps I should leave it at that.” He chuckled, eliciting immediate protest.

[bilbo_baggins]

Oin was leaning forward, eagerly anticipating the evening’s singings and tale-tellings, which he had so graciously started for them, when Bethberry came over and sat down.

“My friend Oin, I am pleased to meet you! I am Bethberry, and I am someone who people go to when they want questions answered and things like that. I was the Matron of the Inn, once. But tell me of yourself, I am curious. Where do you come from, and where are you going?”

Oin answered the fair Bethberry, “Well, miz. Bethberry, that is a hard question to answer. I come from both the Blue Mountains, and from the Lonely Mountain. My grandfather (or someone like that) was related to Thrain, closely somehow, I’m not really sure, though… But I am on my way (have been for some time, and am happily lazing here) to the Glittering Caves of Aglerond. My, err, um, relative Gimli is waiting for me and others to arrive and start the work there.”

Bethberry replied, “Truly interesting, Oin. I hope we do not detain you from your duties.”

“Oh nay, nay. I am happy to stay for a while and hear the songs and tales brought forth. Truly the songs I have heard so far leave my meager rhymes in the dust. I hope to compose a truly warming verse yet.”

“We are happy to have you here in the White Horse! You are welcome for as long as you may stay.”

Said Oin, “Thank ye, Miz. I’ll be happy to.”

[Nurumaiel]

A little shiver passed through Mae as Osric spoke of the black serpent and she shook her head. "I would hear no more, Master Osric," she said. "Not now. I am not a man, nor as brave a woman as the Lady of Rohan was to slay the fell creature. If men trembled in fear at the sight of it, I tremble in fear at the thought. Speak no more for the moment, not of that." She paused a moment before continuing. "And yet the rest of your story was most interesting, though it would be a lie to say pleasant. You, it seems, Master Osric, would know more than any of us that war is not a pleasant thing." Turning to her uncle, a little smile came to her face and she said, "Uncle, would you sing a song for us? I would not pester Hearpwine further; he must sing well to be Bard of the King on the morrow. Yet you...?"

"Nay, little Mae, not at the moment," Liornung laughed. "It is true I will not sing for the King tomorrow, but even so I cannot sing when my voice is weary. Give me a moment to rest, and I will continue. However..." He picked up his fiddle and looked at her with twinkling eyes. "However, I will play a tune for you so you might dance again. My voice may weary but I will never find weariness while playing my fiddle until trees grow with their heads in the ground. So, my girl, find yourself one to dance with and we can begin. And of course all others in the Inn might dance to their heart's content, Dwarf and Man alike." He flashed a smile about the room before returning his gaze to Maercwen. "Mae, you haven't found a partner yet. I am disappointed in you. What makes you hesitate?"

"Well, uncle, I had always thought it more proper that the lad ask the lassie, not the lassie the lad. And so I will dance with whoever might ask, but I shall not ask myself."

"Yes, I believe those are true words you speak," Liornung said. "Well, I will begin to play and you may begin to dance whenever some man deems it convenient." And, taking up his fiddle, he began to play a most cheery tune, though it was not over-fast. No one moved at first, perhaps because they were shy, but Liornung drew his countence into a most awful expression and cried, "I shall scowl and leer at all of you, and especially you men who should be asking fair lassies right now, until I have at least one pair of dancers. Would you insult my music thus? It will not be the first time, I admit, but I am accustomed to people dancing to my music." There were some stirrings among the guests though it could not be said for certain whether they were moving to dance or not. Liornung chuckled softly and continued his tune.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine downed the last of his water and stood, saying, “Liornung is right. A lass must not go unaccompanied on to the dance floor – and you are right, Mae, when you demand that the lad does the asking.” He bowed deeply and courteously to the maid and said through his widening smile, “May I have the pleasure of a dance with you, my lady?” Mae’s face glowed as she accepted.

Hearpwine and Mae took the floor and soon their feet took up the tune of the fiddle. They swirled about the room in time and those who looked on soon realised that Hearpwine’s talents lay more in his tongue than in his feet. His dancing was accomplished but far from effortless, and he was clearly outmatched by the easy grace and melody of Maercwen. Hearpwine though, did not seem to care and he more than made up for his lack of skill and polish with his enthusiasm.

As they danced, Hearpwine’s voice followed the music in a light hum. “Be careful Master Bard,” Mae said, somewhat breathlessly, “you sound as though you are about to burst into song once more.”

“Aye,” he replied, “I find it a sore trial to move my body to music but not my voice.” The music came to a halt and Hearpwine bowed to Mae once more, before turning to the room and crying out, “Who wishes to dance with this lass? If she will have you, I will be happy to stand aside, for I do not wish to hoard the glory all for myself this night!”

[The Perky Ent]

A smooth wind brushed across Caraedry's dirty brown hair. Rohan was beautiful this time of year. It was a perfect place to write. Caraedry took out a quil and parchment, and began to write.

Edoras, capital of Rohan. Beautiful view. Nice residence. Must investigate.

As Caraedry looked up from his parchment, he noticed an inn with a white horse. It seemed to have a good apeal to the public. A perfect place to sell his books. "But then, this is Edoras. They'll probably know these places. But then, not with my illustrations" Caraedry said as he opened one of his leather books and looked at a beatiful illustration of The Shire. "Well, i didn't come this far!" Caraedry said as he stuffed this parchment into his bag and headed for the inn.

Inside, he noticed that the Inn was packed with people. It was even hard to find a table. After a minute, Caraedry sat down at a table next to several people. Ordering a drink, he opened his bag and started to put his books on display. There were many different places. The Shire, Bree, Dale, and Orthanc were some of the many locations in the books on display. The binding and Gold Caligraphy added a nice touch to his works. As Caraedry took a sip from his drink, he mumbled, "Now, if only i could get some customers!"

[Bêthberry]

OOC

A tremendous game with great synergy and wonderful characterisation of dwarves and orcs has recently concluded in The Shire, Last Hope for Moria.

It was superbly managed by Imladris, who now joins the ranks of gamers with full status in Rohan as Game Manager as well as Game Player. Congratulations, Imladris.

The gamers who successfully completed Last Hope for Moria have also demonstrated excellent gaming habits as well as shown good promise as writers. They now have status as Game Players in Rohan. They are Melisil, Nilpaurion Felagund, Pyroclastic, Saraphim, The Perky Ent, and Will Witfoot. Well done!

Aylwen, a round of the finest ale, please, for our latest Rohirrim!

Bethberry,
Moderator for Rohan

[Imladris]

Taliesin wiped his the foam that clung to his bristly mustache and beard away, and looked about him. Due to his poor hearing, he had missed much of what had been going on in the inn, and for that he lamented. He couldn't remember where he had lost it...which rather annoyed him. He looked about for Goldwine, but he had disappeared among the frolicking, merry folk.

Then he saw a new man enter the building. He began to set up books on a nearby table and, standing with a vague waiting flair, took a sip of his drink. Taliesin, grasping his crooked cane, hobbled his way toward the man and his wares.

Books were neatly aligned on the table, some of which were open to display their elegant illustrations. The man had a fine hand as well, Taliesin noted. Gently he thumbed through the pages, gasping and mumbling words of praise as he saw each grand illustration after another.

He paused, though, at one that showed the walled fortress. He saw the words Helm's Deep in gold calligraphy. The words echoed in his mind, along with the whistle of arrows and the ping of stone upon armour. He shook his head. A black army with fluttering banners of a white hand, gathered before it, like stormy waves crashing onto a rocky harbour.

He picked up the book and, turning to the salesman, said, "What do you ask for these wares so fine, these golden characters in such delightful prime?"

[Saraphim]

The door rattled a bit as it opened again. Strenge entered quickly, then closed it to block out the wind. He stood still for a moment, attempting to gain some warmth back into his slight frame, then made his way to find some good ale.

With a mug of the best drink he had ever tasted, Strenge turned and immediatly spotted someone he knew.

As quick as he could, Strenge ran over to Caraedry, who looked up in surprise at the young dark-haired man who suddenly appeared in front of him.

"Caraerdry!" said Strenge, "Great holy eagles, I never expected to see you here. Well, then again, I never expected to be here myself. But I suppose if there is anyone I might have wanted to see here, you would be it."

Strenge could have babbled in this fashion for the remainder of the day, but on this particular one, he had beer, which he began to drink intermittently.

"Well, then, what are you doing here?" Strenge asked stupidly, then, after seeing the books out on the table, said: "Ah, yes, the old business. How's that going?"

Before Careardry could answer, Strenge had plunged on with another bout of swift conversation.

It took a quarter of an hour for Strenge to have drank enough to become less talkative.

He sat down and asked, in a much less active manner, "How is your business going, anyway?"

[The Perky Ent]

"Well," said Caraedry, "Well, business was pretty good in the shire. Everyone there likes a good story. But i had some trouble in Bree. Those people know their stuff. I'm hoping Rohirrim won't be as educated all over Middle Earth. But, business is good. As i like to say, there's no excitement in sucess! Now tell me, how are you?"

"Well, i can't complain. Just living my life." Strenge said. He had a great grin as a took a sip of his drink.

"Well, while we're here, let's get to business. I remember you bought...ah, was it Tales of Dale or Mystery of Mirkwood? Ah, now i remember! It was Magic and Mountains. That book took me 6 years to make. 2 years of research, 3 years of traveling, and 1 year of actually drawing the various places. It just so happens to be my best seller!" Caraedry said as he pulled out a heavy blue book about the size of a watermellon.

"Is it now? Well, i'm glad a made a good investment!" Strenge said. "Also, I must comment on your drawings of Erebor. Completly fascinating!"

"Thank you very much. Now, what will you be buying today?"

[Saraphim]

Strenge laughed a bit at Caraedry's question.

"Always the salesman, aren't you?"

"Of course," Caraedry said.

"Well here's to that!" Strenge said, and raised his mug in toast, "As to your question, I must say that the book intrigued me so much I've been looking forward to reading about Dwarves some more. I heard you were researching about that failed expedition to Moria, and that seemes to be quite the interesting read."

[Imladris]

Taliesin frowned as another customer approached the table after him and interrupted before the salesman had a chance to answer him. The old man's frown deepend when the salesman promptly ignored him and began to have a friendly conversation with the other customer.

Taliesin pondered about what to do. He wanted the book -- it had triggered something in his memory. But then again, he was afraid to cause a distraction. The Inn was peaceful, and he would hate to disrupt it, causing annoyance to the Innkeeper. But then again, the younger generation must be taught to respect their veteraned elders.

Clearing his throat, he tapped his cane upon the table, and said, "Young man, if I remember right, I was here before this second sight --" he pointed to the other customer -- "and I ask that you serve me first, for he came and interrupted me in friendly verbal burst." He stopped, licked his lips, and scratched his nose. "Once again I ask, What do you ask for these wares so fine, these golden characters in such delightful prime?"

[Saraphim]

Strenge looked up surprised at Taliesin.

"Oh, my. I'm terribly sorry, sir. I didn't see you in my eagerness to speak to my friend here. I'll just come back later, shall I?" the last part was said to Caraerdry, who nodded.

Strenge got up and went back to the bar. Taliesin gave him a glowering look as he passed, and Strenge twitched a bit.

Lovely, he thought, The last thing I need after coming to this new country is and enemy.

Strenge had never been a particularly brave person, and as he sat down at the bar and ordered another drink, he couldn't help but feel Taliesin's gaze bore into his neck. Logic told him that this was simply his inherent paranoia acting up. It was obvious that Taliesin was looking at Caraerdry's wares, but Strenge could not help but twitch self-conscously into his tankard.

[Crystal Heart]

Eowyn sat silently. She had no idea what to say to this woman. She had no memories to share and couldn't remember if she had ever been instructed instructed in proper speaking manners.

She sat upon that stool when something hit her. A whirlwind of memories that just came to her. There had been something in the air, a smell that she remembered. Memories of her childhood came back. Her mother's name, Eowyn as well for she had been named for her mother, her father's smile. Her father, Henry. He had had no sons, just her. She was their heir.

And then she realized why the people had left her for dead after she had fallen. She remembered who they where. They were her father's brother's children, her cousins. They had been angry at the fact that everything of the Lightheart's would go to her when her father died. That she would be the heir of their grand family. She would be the one that made decisions and would own the property that they had been blessed with.

She suddenly remembered her home, every small detail of every room. She had lived right here in Rohan.

"Please, tell me do you know Henry Lightheart or an Eowyn Lightheart, I was named for my mother. I finally remember. I remember this place. I had seen it once, I had come here with our cooks son against our parents permission. I use to drink this ale. I remember this room. I remember it all. I had only come in here for shelter and have received all of my memories. I do not remember the War of the Ring, but it will only be a matter of time. Please tell me if you know if they are alive and well. I must know," Eowyn said quickly, urgently. She had no idea what her cousins would do to her parents if they would leave a young woman out in the wilderness far away from her home to die.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

(Welcome, welcome! Imladris, Melisil, Nilpaurion Felagund, Pyroclastic, Saraphim, The Perky Ent, and Will Witfoot, I offer a hearty welcome to you. Your spots on the Rohan lists are well-deserved indeed!)

Aylwen stood again, moving quickly to the door while voices fought to be heard over those of other patrons. Opening the door, Aylwen smiled at the sight before her. In fourteen years as Innkeeper, Aylwen had met many folk from town and from far away places who had come to stay at the Inn. Standing before her on the night of festivities was a small troop of minstrels from a nearby village along the Snowbourne. Three of them stood before the middle-aged Innkeeper. Aylwen said naught, but stepped out of the doorway and gestured for them to enter. Into the Inn came four minstrels to join in the festivities. Three men and one lady, with their instruments and happiness.

"Friends!" Aylwen hollered above the many voices. "It is my pleasure to introduce you to friends from one river valley, who have come to celebrate, play, and sing many songs for you. I do not wish to pester young Hearpwine into singing before his big day," Aylwen paused and smiled at the young man. "And I do not want to weary good Liornung all night. And so my friends have place here and songs to sing."

"Thank you, Misstress Aylwen," said the tallest of three men, bowing low and removing his dusty and ragged old cap. He gestured to his companions and they began to unpack their intruments and tools on one of the few empty tables. The tall man, with his tousled and whispy red-gold hair and enthusiastic grey eyes turned to address the entire Inn. "Now, Misstress Aylwen has done a fine job of intruducing us so far. I am called Eadman, and these are my good friends," Eadman gestured to two other men, one of average height and rather lanky, the other short and stocky. Eadman motioned to the young lady who was quietly tuning a lyre. "And this is my sister, Eadwen. Still, there is much more to us than just music. Throughout our years and especially after the war, we've been told and explained many a tale. Music and storytelling go hand-in-hand when we are around!"

Some of the patrons laughed or started commenting on this to their neighbor. Others, full of drink already, merely grunted or raised their mugs in acknowledgement.

"Our first tale is my favorite," Eadman began, laughing to himself as he recalled what he would say next. "An old friend came home after the war, and explained to any who had stayed behind what happened to those that never came home. One of the young men had gone off to fight in the war, and his troop of soldiers had set up camp in Anorien. It became home for weeks. It was said that when the young man could not handle the anxiety and worry brought on by impending battle, he would go and sit on one large rock protruding from the ground. He would watch the sun set, revelling in the constance and strength of something as simple as a stone. But when battle did come and friends did die, the young man was lost in battle and never returned. I do not know if it is true, but I was told that when the troops were returning home they found the rock that the lad used to sit on. When they got to it, the lad's dagger was at the foot of the rock, with dry blood all over the blade."

Some listeners nodded, intrigued. Others laughed and pushed the story away, but Eadman shrugged, letting the listener decide whether it was truth or myth. Instead, Eadman picked up a drum that had been kindly set out for him by his shorter companion. Eadman smiled and began, beating the drum slowly and producing a deep, somber sound. The short bard began to play a light melody on his wooden flute, and the lanky man sang while Eadman's sister strummed her instrument softly.

"Over the stone, the old gray stone,
Let me ponder here alone,
Through all weather we go together
Ancient stone, thou good old stone.
Of the many friends I've seen,
Thou the truest friend has been,
Some forget me, some have fled,
Some are false, and some are dead,
Changing never constant ever,
Still I find thee, dear old stone.

Standing here, thou silent stone,
What a world thou must have known!
Deeds of glory, lost to story,
Hast thou witness'd ancient stone.
Here beneath the grass, 'tis said,
Many warriors bones are laid,
Fighting for their land they fell,
None but thou can truly tell.
Secrets keeping, ever sleeping,
Dream'st thou of the past, old stone?"

(Ooc: These characters can be used by anyone if they wish. You can give names to the two men, and can have them play any song or tell any story in your posts. Have fun.)

[The Perky Ent]

"Oh! I'm terribly sorry!" Caraedry said as he looked at the man yelling at him. "Well, this one, Runes and Ruins, is fairly cheap. But this one, my bestseller, Magic and Mountains, is fairly expensive. But then, it is the best!"

"Well, let me see. Wow!" the man known as Taliesin said. "Is that...is that Moria?" Taliesin said. Moria was a rare sight these days, and Caraedry's issultrations were very real.

"Yes it is! It took 3 months to arrange a party to go through. Well, not really through, since the wizard, Gandalf the Grey as he was at the time, broke the bridge fighting the demon balrog." Caraedry said as he flipped a couple of pages to a beautiful picture of Gandalf raising his staff against the Balrog of Morgoth.

There was silence. Clearly, Taliesin was impressed. "I had to go to the shire for details. I arranged a meeting with Sam Gangee, a member of the fellowship of the ring.


"I'll take it!" Taliesin said as he grabbed the large book and tucked it under his arm. Strenge gave a huge sigh and then said, "Now that we've got that out of the way, let us all have a sit and let us make talk." Strenge said as he took a sip of his drink and sat down. "Well, actually, I reckon I'll need to find the Innkeeper for permission to sell my books here, so i better find him...her...whoever it happens to be."

"Ah don't worry about it Caraedry!" Strenge said as he patted Caraedry on the back. "No one notices!" As Caraedry continued to organize his books, he couldn't help but think what would happen if he got in trouble with the Innkeeper!

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry had nodded and clapped in time to the music as Hearpwine had danced with Mae and then she had had been deep in conversation with Osric when Aylwen's friends had begun to play. She had been readied, in part, for his story by Oin's effort to honour his people's contribution. She could see why Ruthven enjoyed this dwarf's company.

And then Osric's story had set her nerves aflame, for she had tred some of the game ground he had, not as fighter but as a healer. She had walked the battle site after the noise and fury and battle, amongst the moaning and crying and twitching bodies, holding hands with those who she could not help until they had passed beyond the circles of this world. Others she had seen removed from the filth and stench and bloody earth of the battlefield to the slow torment of the invalid's bed. Her hands, her aprons, her leggings and shoes had been stained as red as the angriest clouds at sunset after Helm's Deep and for many days. Many of those who had not died in battle succumbed in the after days to blood loss, fever, the swelling and pain of putrefaction. Some, some few, she had been able to help, like Osric, not to repair the damage of wound but to limit its effect. Yes, she understood very well the stiffness in his leg.

The close of Eadman's song brought her back to thoughts of the Inn, now so ably run by Aylwen. She looked around and noticed for the first time Taliesin and Strenge deep in conversation with one whose face was not known to her, an itinerant trader it seemed. A seller of wares, here in the Horse! She excused herself from Kransha's company, promising to return, and hastened over to the pedlar. His table was strewn with books, books the like of which was rarely seen in Edoras.

"We are crowded tonight, traveller, and there are many who would appreciate the rest of table and chair which your books cannot appreciate. How came you here to ply your trade in the Mead Hall? " Her words and her look were not unfriendly but not by any means were they soft. This trader would have some fast talking to do.

[The Perky Ent]

"I am very sorry...Bethberry? You see, my profession is...well...take a look" Caraedry said as he pulled out a book. "Ah, now those are mighty fine, but for tonight, could you put them away?" Bethberry said as Caraedry put back the books into his bag and left his bag on the table. "It's not forever. Just for tonight. If it clears up, feel free to display your wonderful books." Bethberry said, giving a cold yet comforting look. After a moment of silence, Bethberry left.

Caraedry could not have another drink. When he was offered on, his responce was always, "No, I can't. I must work!" So, after talking a little bit with Strenge and Taliesin. Caraedry left the Inn to get some fresh air. He took a walk all across Edoras, and as he was walking, he noticed a small girl brushing a pony. Caraedry felt a warmth in his heart as he asked, "Is this your horse?" The girl smiled and said, "It's mine. When I get older, my brother will teach me how to ride it!" Caraedry smiled, remembering a picture in one of his books, Hordes and Horses. It was a very small book, but in it, was a beautiful picture of Eowyn on a horse. The girl looked just like her.

As Caraedry continued his walk, he eventually left Edoras, and sat down on a field fairly close to it. The field was fresh and had a good view of the city, so Caraedry began to draw. First an outline, then detail, and then he shaded it in.

When Caraedry returned to the bar, he noticed that all his book were where they were, along with Strenge and Taliesin. "So, what have you two been up to?" Caraedry said with a grin. "Doing some background checking." Taliesin said. "How did these books come back?" Caraedry said with some suprise. "I talked to Bethberry!" Taliesin said. "Don't worry. You're now free to sell your books." Caraedry gave a great smile and then bought both Taliesin and Strenge another drink.

[ArwenBaggins]

Reya smiled half-heartedly and clapped as the minstrels danced in circles and played merry music. Her husband had died at the Battle of Pellenor Fields a countless number of days ago, yet her heart had never fully healed. Selinn was half of Reya's life, and once he was parted from her, she was not truly whole.

Her thoughts drifted back four years, to the day the men of Rohan left to discover their inevitable doom. Delaynn was just shy of her first birthday, but as talkitive a baby could be. As Selinn stood in the doorway of their modest home, Reya forced herself to keep a smile on her face. "I will return, anyway I can. We will rid this Middle-Earth of the Darkness. I love you Reya... and you Dela!" He kissed them both one last time, and then mounted his giant steed. As the caravan of warriors rode past, he held up his hand in farewell and disapeared in the mass of large horse bodies.

Word was sent after the gruesome battle that Selinn and dozens of others from Rohan had died in the battle- including the King. "Where is his body?" Reya choked that misty morning, to the guard at her door. The tall blonde man told her that a number of valiant soldiers could not be found admist all of the other rotting carcasses and torn flesh.

Delaynn, her young daughter, twirled and threw petals of flowers at her feet, snapping her back to reality. "Mama, I'm gonna go look at Mister Caraedry's books, okay? Maybe I'll find one dat Papa will read to me when he gets home," The girl was completely oblivious to the fact that her father was never going to come home. She jingled the few coins her mother had gave her and hopped over toward the book-seller.

"Mister, do you have any books that I could read? I'm almost five!" Her dark golden waves bounced in the thick air as she looked up at the brown-haired man. Reya smiled from the booth and scooted toward the edge of her seat, watching her daughter intently. After Selinn died, Delaynn was all she had left.

[The Perky Ent]

In the middle of his conversation with Taliesin and Strenge, Caraedry noticed a cute, little girl walk up to him. "Mr., do you have any books that I could read? I'm almost five!" the girl said, hopping up and down. "Well hello. What's your name?" Caraedry said as he got on his knees to level with her. "Delaynn" the girl said in a tender voice. "Well Delaynn, as a matter of fact, I think I have an excellent book for you!"Caraedry said as he pulled his bag off the table and grabbed a small book. On the cover of the book said, A Child's Guide to Middle Earth. "Thank you Mr. Caraedry! Thank you thank you thank you!" Delaynn said as she paid Caraedry and hopped off.

As the noise of the Inn returned to a jubilant hum, Bethberry spied the book seller, returnd to hawk his wares once again. Bethberry was rather taken aback at his audacity; she knew Aylwen was busy elsewhere, so she addressed the fellow once again.

"I suppose you are accustomed to stealing market stalls, Mr Caraedy?" she observed.

"Well, um, I .... " stammered the man, frowning and making questioning looks towards Taliesin.

Bethberry waited patiently, watching the man's face intently until a slow red spread up his cheeks.

"There are good folk here who are in need of food and rest and relaxation. They aren't keen to be inveigled or dunned out of their money. Perhaps you did not understand this point earlier."

"Um, well, ma'am, um perhaps not. But I do now!" he recovered with an attempt at a grin and charming way.

"Good, then we can strike a bargain. There's room over in the word hoard, an extra table. Three silver pieces will give you use of it for tonight and tomorrow."

She held her hand out to him in a way that made clear he should accept or else find himself and his books out on the street.

"Could I offer you goods in exchange in place of coin? I've just the very book which would suit such a distinquished ..." his voice trailed off as he watched her raise an eyebrow and lower her smile into a firmer, determined pose.

He quickly mulled over his options and then ...

[ArwenBaggins]

OoC:
Bêthberry, I am extremely sorry. Seeing that this was sort of a long-term 'argument', I thought that maybe Perky had your permission to do the whole rant thing. I am willing to edit this post as you see fit. :)

IC:

Dela smiled and hugged the book close to her chest, jumping into the booth and swinging her legs beneath the table. She smiled to her mother and started fingering through pages, looking at all of the pictures and maps. "But where are we suppost to sit? You can't just let people take up space with books!" Suddenly, a scream was heard and the Inn door slammed.

Reya felt her daughter scrambling at the foot of her brown skirt beneath the table, and then all of a sudden had a girl sitting in her lap. "Mommy, why's ever'one gotta be so mean ta Mister Caraedry? He gave me this purty book, an' he's really nice!" Dela ran her pudgy fingers absent-mindedly through her mother's dishwater blonde hair. "I dunno why people don' like books!" Reya shrugged and watched sadly as Caraedry stomped out of the door.

The young girl had an utter fascination toward books. No, she could not read the History of Middle-Earth (or anything with more than five words on a page, for that matter), but she loved to sit near the fire or under a tree and look at the pictures and practice new words. "Mommy? Can I go outside and see what's the matter with Mister Caraedry? I promise I'll be real quick an' I won't let anyone 'nap me," she looked to Reya with bright brown eyes, which painfully reminded her of Selinor. "Please? Please Mommy? Or... you could come too if'n ya want to..." The girl hopped from her mother's lap and kept begging to find the bookseller.

"All right. Come on Delaynn. I'll stand inside and make sure everything's okay from the window," Reya stood as well and lead her daughter to the window.

Dela grinned wide and pushed the large door with all of her might. She saw Caraedy standing a few feet from the Inn, muttering angrily to himself. She had never seen the usually-friendly man so angry. "Mis... Mister Caraedry? Is everything... okay? I'm really sorry that Bêthberry won' letcha put your books on the table...," She stood behind the man, waiting for a hopefully-calm answer.

[bilbo_baggins]

Oin saw the confrontation between Caraedry and Bethberry. Rather effective, that Bethberry. He stepped over to where Bethberry stood, watching Caraedry put his wares out of the way.

"Bethberry, marm. I'm Oin, remember? I saw what happened, and am happy to say that you are definitely a mover. You certainly showed him who runs this Inn. Hehehe." Oin chortled at the sight of poor Caraedry, stooping over and picking up some books that had fallen over, glancing ever at Bethberry standing not far away, like a careful watcher, waiting to make sure he would take care of this incident she had warned him about already.

"Oin, I just don't understand people like that; people that will do anything to sell something. I understand, it's an honest occupation and all, but there are extremes in everything. Caraedry definitely stepped over the line. I don't want to be severe with him, but he is pushing me, oh so close to being rather angry." Bethberry frowned at this and turned to Oin. With a small smile, she said, "Don't worry, Oin. I can handle him. Go and sit, have another ale. Enjoy yourself."

Oin, happy to oblige, walked back to Finky, who was eating some bread quietly. "Finky, I think that we shall see little of that peddler again. I didn't quite like the look of him, too honest a face, as if that could be."

"Aye, Oin. I know right well what you mean." Swallowing his bread, Finky continued, "I hope the Inn returns to normal. I rather liked the tale-telling. Perhaps someone will cheer the place up."

Oin replied, "Aye, that would be good. A little cheer would be appreciated. As my relative would say, 'You'ld find more cheer in a graveyard!'"

Thus, the floor was set for any who would cheer the place.

[Bêthberry]

OOC

Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa!

Let's step back a bit here. The Perky Ent has put words in my character's mouth that are at odds with how Bethberry has handled events and situations in the past at The White Horse. They are, to my mind, completely at odds with her character and manner. Bethberry does not react with anger or haste; nor would she ever dismiss the value of books; nor would she ever condone heavy drinking. (Bartenders have legal obligations not to send characters out drunk and disorderly. ;) ) And now others have picked up on that and are continuing the situation, although I thank bilbo for attempting to restore peace and order. However, as a gamer, I would appreciate the chance to have my character react to this situation in her own words.

Please read the discussion of 'bunnying' in the thread The Redbook of Westmarch in The Shire. There is a lesson for all there about interactive gaming.

The Perky Ent, please see your PM (again!). bilbo_baggins and ArwenBaggins, please be prepared to edit your posts after you see my post about the book uproar.

Thanks muchly everyone. Gamers can post stories about the war, just please do not refer to Bethberry storming and stomping. She's not a bouncer! :p ;)

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The night went on, full of songs and stories about the War. No physical brawls, though, and for that Aylwen was glad. She missed Talan, the sturdy young man who used to help if any such problems did occur. Strangers had become friends, and friends learned about each other. Still, the hour had grown late, children had grown grouchy, and adults grew equally weary. Aylwen decided that the night had gone on long enough, and a final song was due to float upon the air.

“Patrons, friends, visitors!” Aylwen cried, catching the crowd’s attention. “One last song, and then it will be high time for everyone to march on home or up to their rooms and get some sweet rest. Especially Hearpwine, and any others participating in the faire and competitions tomorrow,” Aylwen smiled. “Yes, the night has been full and I think the time has come to wrap things up.” The Innkeeper went to Eadman and whispered something in his ear. When she’d finished, Eadman nodded with a low chuckle. He picked up the flute that belonged to one of his companions, and whispered something to his sister. When Eadman and Eadwen were ready and had a slow, sad tune flowing, Aylwen sung the final song herself.

“Speed bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward, the sailors cry
Carry the lad that's born to be king
Over the sea to skye

Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,
Thunder clouds rend the air;
Baffled our foe's stand on the shore
Follow they will not dare

Speed bonnie boat....

Though the waves leap, soft shall ye sleep
Ocean's a royal bed
Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep
Watch by your weary head

Speed bonnie boat....

Many's the lad fought on that day
Well the rapier could wield
When the night came, silently lay
Dead on Pelennor field

Speed bonnie boat...

Burned are our homes, exile and death
Scatter the loyal men
Yet, e'er the sword cool in the sheath,
Charlie will come again.

Speed bonnie boat...”

When Aylwen finished the song, some clapped, others said naught and merely began to pack up their things. Many went upstairs, others were heralded out by a tired Aedre. Aylwen went to the door as well, wishing all who had visited a cheerful (but exhausted) good-night. When all but Eadman and his friends had left the Mead Hall, Aylwen gave a sigh of relief and smiled to Aedre.

"Aedre, you've done very well today. Rest, sleep well. I'll wake up to open tomorrow," Aylwen assured the girl, who smiled briefly before leaving the room. Then Aylwen went to Eadman and thanked him with an embrace. "Will you be staying with us?" Aylwen asked, and Eadman nodded, handing Aylwen coins enough to pay for rooms. Aylwen thanked him again and showed him the open rooms. When it seemed all was finally done, Aylwen took her leave as well...

The next morning dawned bright and chill, and Aylwen rose with the sun. She had a steaming drink on her desk as she waited for the first customers to wake on that fest-filled morning.

[Nurumaiel]

"Good morning, Miss Aylwen." The voice was unmistakable in its cheeriness. Liornung was sitting in a dark corner of the Inn, his fiddle in his hand and his feet on the table. "It's lovely to see that I'm not the only one awake. I have a sorry habit of getting up very early. I'll be gone today, for I wish to see my friend Hearpwine win the honor of Bard of the King, so I decided I should go exploring a little before daybreak." He put his fiddle up. "It was a lovely song you sang last night, and one that is quite familiar to my ears." Softly he played the tune, the gentle waves of music rolling over the room like the waves of the sea. And the music seemed to be the sea, and the thunder, and the cries of the sailors, and a memory of dead men, and a white sail unfurling in the wind. As the tune finished Leofan and his wife Frodides entered the room, and Liornung sprang to his feet.

"My dear Frodides!" he said, taking her and kissing her cheek. "I did not see you yesterday and it grieved me sore. You did not even come to dance. How sweet it is to see your fair face now!"

"And your face is fair as it ever was." Still she stood tall, and though grey was mid the gold her hair still shone bright, and her eyes were as tender and motherly as ever they had been. Youth's face had left her but her spirit was still young and she delighted in everything yet, most in the sight of her children going here and there and the touch of their little hand's on her own, and their faces upturned to hers, pleading help and vowing love. A smile lit her face now, and she spoke again. "Sad though it be that I must depart from you so soon, it is so. Aylwen will need help with hungry guests clamoring for the breakfast, you not the least of them, brother."

Liornung glanced at Aylwen and, smiling mischievously, nodded. "Oh, yes, in all truth hunger plagues me now and I would desire at least a hot drink to warm my shivering bones. Good Leofan, poor Leofan, you must go out through the cold to the stables and tend the horses. I'll sit and make people warm as I make them dance."

"Gomen shall be joining me shortly," Leofan said, "though I would not keep him from spending time with you. If he so desires he will go with you and Hearpwine today to watch the contest of bards. Alas that little Mae cannot go, for she would, but she is needed to help her mother in the kitchen and with the small children. Bring word to her of how Hearpwine has fared."

"The good man should soon show his face, if I am not mistaken," said Liornung. "If he is as any other bard competing for such an honor he will not have slept at all but merely wondered if he had forgotten any words to his song, or if he would on the morrow. Ah, I see you must go to the stables now. Good luck on your work, and you, dear sister, in the kitchen. I would help you, but I'm too cheerful today for such dismal work." He winked at each in turn as they left before returning to his conversing with the Innkeeper. "Miss Aylwen, might I have that hot drink?"

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine took the stairs down to the Common Room two at a time. He had lain awake a long time last night, imagining what it would be like to receive the mantle and harp of the King’s Bard, and humming the tune to his lay over and over again. He had finally fallen asleep only as the first signs of dawn lit the sky, but he was not tired for his brief rest, so excited was he by the day’s adventure before him.

He cried aloud for joy when he saw that both Aylwen and Liornung were in the room ahead of him, but he could not deny the slight disappointment he felt that Mae was not in sight. The last thing he had said to her last night was that he hoped she could come to the competition this day, but she had declined sadly, saying that she had to work in the kitchens. Hearpwine had promised to speak with the Innkeeper about that. He moved to the table where Liornung sat and heard him asking for hot drink. Heedless and excited as he was, Hearpwine rushed at them with his words, “Master Fiddler, and my good lady Aylwen! Good morning – the best morning! My fate is decided this day!” He gave Aylwen a tremendous hug at this that lifted her clear off her feet. Setting her down he clapped Liornung on the back so hard that his friend was nearly thrown from his chair. Hearpwine fell into a chair saying, “Could I also have something to drink? Water, of course!” But before Aylwen could answer he was on his feet again. “Perhaps I shall fetch it myself. I have been abed all this night and my limbs could use the stretching if I am to be at my best flight this morning!”

He went into the kitchen hoping to find Mae but she was nowhere in sight. He quickly got the water that he wanted, as well as a loaf of bread and a large pat of butter with honey and some cheese. By the time he got back to the Common Room he was feeling much more at ease, but still he talked and moved quickly. He sat down by Liornung and pulled the loaf apart with his hands, passing the larger half to his friend while he said to Aylwen, “You know, it’s a shame that…all those who wish to come to the contest are not able. Surely you can spare some help from the kitchen today and let the interested parties come and here me sing?” He cut a huge wedge of cheese and passed that to the minstrel. “Did I not hear your niece saying, my friend, how much she would enjoy listening to the bards? We should try to convince Aylwen to spare her at least!” Quickly, he buried his face in his tankard and guzzled the water, trying to cool his fierce mood.

[Mad Baggins]

Ceryl awoke, the early sunlight falling through the window glass and shining upon the wooden floors. She arose out of the bed and stepped toward the window, watching the sleepy town of Edoras awaken in the dewy morning. Ceryl opened the window and inhaled the chilly air, feeling it nip at her cheeks and nose. She closed the window and stepped over to the mirror on her wall. She fixed her tangled hair and left the room, meaning to go to her house for a change of clothes and a comb.

A few minutes later, she arrived back at the Horse in a pretty green dress, with a green ribbon in her hair to match. She stepped back into the Common Room and saw only a few people. It is early, she thought. Most people were still asleep at such an early hour. She scanned the room and saw Aylwen at her desk. Deciding to eat in a few moments, Ceryl found a seat at the bar and hopped up onto a stool, smoothing her dress. She watched the early sun fall through the windows and splash upon the walls, turning them a beautiful gold.

[Nurumaiel]

An eager voice spoke up from the door to the room. "Miss Aylwen, if you would but let me go to see Hearpwine this day I would not care to work more than my share when I return." It was Mae speaking, looking lovely in the early morning light. She was clad in a gown of darkest green, and her hair fell loose over her shoulders. There was a rosy color in her cheeks and her eyes sparkled with hope. Gazing upon her in admiration Liornung could not help but think how much the girl looked like her mother... in truth they were nearly exactly alike.

"I would regret sorely depriving you of this day which will not come upon us again," said Aylwen, "but before I give any definite answer I think it would be wiser to see what work needs to be done and who we have who might do it, save yourself."

"Meanwhile I will sit in patience
and refrain from growing over-anxious
until the sun melts morning dew.
My love, I long to go with you!"

Liornung glanced up and smiled. "An old tune I learned when I was just a boy," he said. "I am indeed astonished I still remember the words! I am such a fortunate young man, nothing keeping me back from seeing Hearpwine sing for the King this day. Others have work to do, yet not I, for I am free as the birds in the sky. That is another old tune, from Gondor I believe, or perhaps not..."

"Uncle, you, as I, will never grow old. How you ramble on about absolutely nothing! It is indeed lovely to hear." Mae crossed the room, and, kissing her uncle's cheek fondly, sat on his knee. "If fate will not let me go I will not weep overmuch if you will but let me sit on your knee at your return as I did when I was but a little girl, and if you will tell me the whole tale." She glanced at Hearpwine. "Or perhaps good Hearpwine will tell the tale and we can listen, though I do not deny it would be best to go myself."

[ArwenBaggins]

"Mommy? Can we go to the Inn today.... pwease? Huhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuh?" Delaynn tugged on the dangling sleeve of her just-waking mother; the girl was already dressed- not the best you do, but dressed none the less.

Reya sighed and pulled herself up, brushing a piece of slightly frizzy light brown hair from her eyes. Having a daugter was so much work! And, doing it all on her own, Reya was now facing the pressure head-on. If Selinn wouldn't have died, she would have been able to lead a better, happier life. "Alright... brush your hair and I'll put it in a bun today. Go on Delaynn, we'll get breakfast there."

The little lass smiled widely and nodded, hopping gaily out of the room. Reya laughed to herself and dressed quickly, running a brush through her hair as she entered the kitchen. Dela was alright outside, standing in the bright sunlight and beckoning for her mother. Her wild blonde waves were flying in the wind. "C'mon Mommy!" She yelled, grabbing Reya's hand and pulling her from the house. 'Forget the hair,' Reya thought to herself as they headed toward the White Horse Inn.

Five minutes later, Reya pushed open the large door and ushered Dela inside. The small girl found a table near the window to sit, and plopped into a chair. "Mommy, I'm hungry... can I have some toast?" Reya nodded and lifted her daughter's chin. "I'm going to order us some toast and juice- stay here," Dela nodded and smiled, Reya watching her as she walked off.

[Saraphim]

Strenge woke up with a start, wondering for a moment where he was. Then the memory of traveling to Rohan came back to him, and he sat in bed for a moment calming his nerves. He noticed a draft that chilled his uncovered arms, but realized that it was the window.

It was open. He froze, and his heart began to race agian, worried about intruders. Then he remembered that he had opened the window the previous night because it had been unbearably hot. He also remembered that he had probably been drunk.

Strenge peeled himself away from the bed and shut the window, thinking about what had happened the night before. He vauegly remembered something about Caraedry, but no details followed. Getting dressed slowly to combat a headache, he tried again to retrieve memories of what had happened.

Strenge had a bit of trouble with the door, but he got downstairs without much trouble. He scanned the early-morning crowd to try and find someone who might know what had happened last night.

[Kransha]

Light, very unwelcome light, shined through weakened glass panes in Osric’s room, bathing him and his cramped little bed in a searing fountain of light beams that tore his heavy eyelids open forcefully. He pulled those eyelids wide, his limpid orbs of eyes staring out and closing instantly as the blinding sunlight overflowed into his eyes and head. Shoving a wet palm, soaked with nightmare-induced sweat, in front of his eyes which closed tight, he kicked the thick, scratchy cotton blankets off of him and clamored madly out of the bed. He couldn’t remember the dream which had made his night so long and frustrating, but he was sure it had been very chaotic for him to feel so tired out this morning, though had slept little anyway.

For an old man, he was fast in his place. He had, after the war, not been able to shake the hobbit of retiring at a late hour, or sleeping with his clothes on, which he always did. All he lacked was a comfortably formal cloak, which was neatly folded on a bedside table. He pulled it on with a youthfully energetic flourish, whipping the evergreen cloth around his shoulders, and headed, yanking his stiff leg behind him, out of the room, with another smile on his face as he forget the ill humor of his nightly visit on another, dreamier plane of existence and adjusted fully to the one he was present in at the moment.

He hobbled down, managing his way carefully down a sturdy stair flight and down into the Common Room, where he’d spent so much of last night. As beams of dim light suddenly berated him, mostly candlelight and the first slivers of dawn singing the darkness welling up around him, he flinched slightly and let loose an awkward cough as dustier air filled his tired lungs. He batted the air, as if groping at an invisible opponent, and stumbled wearily over to a larger chair. He promptly stiffened further and crumbled into the seat like so much idle jelly, contorting and twisting until his slumped form fit each and every contour of his carrying vessel. He clawed clinging cottony strands from his unkempt gray beard and leaned back, oozing like fluid into the seat beneath and sighing deeply, thinking quietly of peaceful times and things.

It was then that ancient Osric saw the girl sitting across from him, looking as if she had more verve than ever Osric had had. His luminous smile strengthened weakly when he saw the energetic blonde lass, her hair overshadowing his in wildness as well, practically bouncing in her chair. He managed to lean forward, narrowly avoiding a one-way trip off the table surface as he slumped upon it, giving her a calm nod, which she acknowledged with equal ability, smiling back at the aged Rohirrim warrior.

[Mad Baggins]

People were beginning to flow into the Common Room faster now; there was a tired-looking mother with a golden-haired lass, bouncing with unspent energy. The lass, that is. An old man walked slowly into the room and sank into a chair comfortably. Ceryl's stomach rumbled and she got up off her stool, walking towards Aylwen.

"Miss Aylwen, could I please have a mug of hot tea, and perhaps a biscuit? Thank you so much," she said. Aylwen came to her with the tea and biscuit, smiling, and Ceryl thanked her profusely and went back to her seat. She took a sip of tea and a bite of biscuit and sighed in contentment. The Horse's food was excellent, far better than any other Inn in Rohan (that Ceryl knew of!). She sat happily in her seat, munching the biscuit, drinking her tea and simply observing the others in the Common Room.

[ArwenBaggins]

Reya returned to the table with hot toast and juice for breakfast for the two of them. She noticed that the Inn was filling quickly- and so early in the morning! She sat again at the table, handing a plate to her bouncing daughter; where young Delaynn got all that energy Reya would never know, but she sure wanted some of it.

"Thank ya Mommy," Dela smiled and picked up her toast, buttering it. She took a large bite and then said, "Ya have enough money to get Papa some jus' in case he comes back, right?" she flicked away a lock of gold and kept eating.

It was time. Reya had been regretting it for many years, but it had finally come time to tell her sweet daughter that Papa wasn't coming home. "Delaynn, I really need you to stop saying that. There is something I need to tell you."

"Oh, okay," Dela put down her toast and held her head in her hands, elbows propped on the table. "Whaddya wanna tell me?"

[alaklondewen]

Ælle leaned on the young man that helped him up. “Oh dear, thank you, sir. I am truly sorry for being such a burden.” Reaching out, he searched the empty air with his hand until it rested on his cane.

“It is my pleasure.” The young man replied as he slipped Ælle’s arm through his own. “May I help you to your destination?”

“Would you?” Ælle laughed delightedly. “I would greatly appreciate your guidance to the nearest inn, kind sir. If you would even point me in the right direction, I would be forever in debt to your kindness.”

Now it was the young man’s turn to chuckle. “I assure you there is no need for repayment. I am glad to help.”

With that the young man led his elder through the streets of Edoras and up the hill to the White Horse Inn. Ælle chatted away lightheartedly telling the young man of his travels and the people that brought him here. “Kind folk, I tell you…I shall never forget them.” Ælle missed the quiet smile expressed by the young man.

“Here you are, sir. This is the best inn in all of Edoras. Enjoy yourself, and I hope we shall meet again. Would you like help inside?”

“No, no. I will take it from here. Again, thank you for helping this old man.” Ælle held out his hand and let the young man take it in his. “Now get on with you. I would hate to think I am wasting your day away.” Silently the man slid his hand from Ælle’s and walked back down the hill and into the busy streets.

Ælle turned slowly and felt the door with his hand, letting his cane tap the frame as he opened it and stepped inside. His senses buzzed with the sounds of busy patrons and staff moving around him. He felt someone brush against his shoulder and he called out to stop them. “Would you kindly tell me where I might find the innkeeper of this fine establishment?” Ælle could feel a the person tense with uneasiness as he guessed he, or most likely she by her fragrance, studied his face.

“Yes, sir. She is across the room to your left. Would like me to help you?”

“No, thank you, Miss. I can make it.” Ælle smiled kindly in the young woman’s direction and turned to his left. He moved slowly unsure of what lie around him. His cane, which was a glorified stick a wayfarer gave him many years ago, moved quickly and surely to and fro before his feet as crossed the room. Once it hit the solid surface of the counter in front of him, he stopped. He could smell and hear the those standing around him moving back to give him access. “Excuse me, I do hope I am not interrupting, but I wish to rent a room, and I really must find the innkeeper.”

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Aylwen could hardly deny Mae...it was hard for the Innkeeper to deny anyone of what they truly desired. If Mae truly wished to see Hearpwine participate in the contest, Aylwen would not be the one to keep her from attending. Still, the Innkeeper sighed at the slight inconveniance, for she had already promised Aedre that the young girl could have the morning off. When Aylwen was determined to please everyone, though, inconveniances happened and Aylwen dealt with them despite.

Then the lady Ceryl requested a sort of breakfast from Aylwen, and the Innkeeper snapped from her agreements with Mae and back into the day of work. In town there would be festivities of all sorts, but Aylwen did not despair at having to be at the Inn. After fourteen years of missing this and that in town, Aylwen had become used to her duty in the Horse and resigned to her job and whatever help she needed to lend in order to fulfill said job. Providing the nice man Osric with a warm breakfast when he entered the common room and fulfilling the lady's order for her and her daughter were just a few of the tasks that Aylwen did everyday.

Soon after taking the last few orders, an elderly man wobbled into the Inn, with a cane and misty eyes to add to whatever age he actually was. Aylwen watched on as Mae pointed her out to the man, and the Innkeeper waited patiently for him to reach the desk. When he did, he wasted no time in getting to his point. “Excuse me, I do hope I am not interrupting, but I wish to rent a room, and I really must find the innkeeper.”

"You have found the Innkeeper, sir," Aylwen said, a simple smile lighting on her face. She took the man's arm gently to take the weight off his cane, leading him the short way to the ledger. "You are in perfect luck, sir. Celebrations have been occurring, and we have had few rooms. There is one open on this bottom floor, if you wish a time without stairs. However, I must know your name first..." Aylwen prompted, waiting patiently once again.

[Bêthberry]

The first timid rays of the dawn's light poked into Bethberry's room. They did not find her sleeping, but quietly poised in thought and reminiscence as she watched a spider trace a path over the wooden ceiling brace. She looked up, out her window towards the eastern sky, streaked with red and covered with grey whisps of mist. She rose and took to her desk, as she did every morn, to write in a small, leather-bound book. What she wrote no one knew, although she had once found one of the maids running a finger over the leather binding. The woman had succumbed to the temptation to open the cover and read, but she had been interrupted by the return of the former Innkeeper and had dropped the book as if it had burnt her fingers. Since that discovery, Bethberry had kept the book well hidden whenever she was absent from her room. This morning her thoughts kept her long at writing.

Still, she had finally descended to the Mead Hall, humming to herself the aire "Speed bonnie boat" and sought out Aylwen, but not before she had observed from a distance the singer Hearpwine bound into the kitchen and help himself to some food and drink. That man takes altogether too many liberties, she thought to herself. If Aylwen does not speak to him after the contest about his forwardness, then I shall. Being high strung and nervous is no excuse for impertenance, no matter what charm he has. Yet she nodded civilly to him, as to the lone woman eating breakfast and the mother and child, who looked oddly sombre. Bethberry decided to watch them discretely, should they need another voice at hand.

Oscric was not long to remain the eldest veteran at the Horse. Bethberry watched as Aylwen conversed with another old man who had with grace, precision and some slowness entered the Inn and inquired, apparently, about the Innkeeper. There was something about how he held his head, cocking his ears for sounds and noises, and something too about how the cane he held seemed an extension of himself. Bethberry poured herself a mug of hot spiced cider, took a small seed cake, and then sat to one side to watch him. In the background she could hear Frodides working in the kitchen and her daughter flirting with the patrons. That girl was coddled too much, Bethberry thought. Yet what child has not been, since the War?

[ArwenBaggins]

Reya cleared her throat and tried to sort the thoughts zipping through her head into a farely chronological order. "Delaynn... oh," She sighed and rubbed her temples. How did you explain death to a four year old, even when you found it hard to swallow yourself?

"Delaynn, your father isn't going to come back. Do you remember when he rode of to war with Uncle Elwin and the King?" Reya took her daughter's hands and nodded to Bêthberry, who she saw walk by. The girl resonded with a low, mournful whimper. "And, do you remember when we had Eariel, our kitty? Do you remember what happened to her?"

Dela bit her bottom lip, her eyes distant as she painfully remembered the death of her beloved cat. "Yeah, she got stepped on by a horsie, an' she... died," Dela puckered her lips now, looking up again at her mother.

She knows what death is... maybe it will not be so hard now. "Well, Papa... Papa died too. With... with King Thèoden. He's gone to live with Gaffer Dom and Grandma Eliza. You won't be able to see him again for a very long time," Reya quickly blinked back a tear so that her daughter would not see that she was upset as well.

"But why did Papa have ta leave us? Did he not love us?" Dela's chest was heaving and tears were streaking down her face from her bright brown eyes.

Suddenly, Reya shook her head resolutely and lifted the small girl over the table, cradling her tightly in her arms. "No, Dela. Papa left because he did love us. He wanted to protect us from the darkness- and he did! Oh, your father loved us more than you could ever know," tears now fell down her face again, drawing in a few looks from other Inn patrons. "Papa loved us, and he's looking down on us right now," Reya huggled the girl again, burying her head in Dela's thick sandy waves.

[Mad Baggins]

Ceryl sat, eating and thinking, watching the patrons of the Horse go about their daily morning rituals. Aylwen was helping an old man with a cane at her desk. As Ceryl noted how the man moved with such cautious movements, Bethberry entered the room. She nodded to Ceryl, who lifted her hand in a return gesture of greeting. Ceryl noticed the mother and her daughter talking quietly in a corner, then the mother enveloping the child in her arms. They both appeared to be crying. She began to feel uncomfortable watching the tender scene and averted her eyes.

She began to feel cooped up in the Inn, which was a strange feeling for her. She finished her meal and rose from her seat, making for the door. Stepping outside, she was embraced by the chilly morning air. Ceryl inhaled, feeling the air flow down her throat, cooling her lungs. She hummed a little tune in her head as she watched the world awaken.

She looked to the East, half expecting to see the old blackness covering the horizon like a horrible plague, but she only saw the sun poking up over the edge of the land like a bright torch. Ceryl stepped away from the door of the Inn and stood near the wall, enjoying the dewy morning.

A light breeze lifted her braid and chilled the back of her neck, causing her to shiver. There was a certain loveliness about an early morning, a beauty that you couldn't quite pin down. When the world was waking up and it was completely silent, except for a few birds twittering 'Good morning', it didn't matter where you were. It was as if you were no longer in Middle-earth but in some other world where everything was heavenly and perfect, and where there was always peace.

[alaklondewen]

“Oh dear, here I have gone and misplaced my manners. Please forgive me, Miss. My name is Ælle, and I must say it is a pleasure to be standing in this lively inn of yours.” Ælle leaned once more on his cane as he heard the innkeeper scribbling on a paper. “I am overjoyed to hear you have a room for me, and what of these celebrations?” A friendly and sincere smile flashed across his face as he leaned forward as far as could toward the innkeeper.

As the innkeeper told him of the day’s activities, Ælle thought how beautiful and soft her voice was. Once she finished, he caught himself. “That sounds just wonderful. Thank you, Miss…” Sweeping his hand toward her he signaled for her name.

“Aylwen. My name is Aylwen, sir.”

“Oh, what a beautiful name,” he replied with a chuckle. “Now, I do hate to be a burden, but would you mind showing me where I might have a seat and a bit of food to break this old man’s fast?”

“Certainly, sir. Right this way,” Aylwen took his arm, and he leaned slightly on her still letting his cane flow in front of his feet. Truthfully, he did not need to lean on her quite as much, but her frangrance was pleasant, and besides, Ælle had always enjoyed the company of young women. “Here you are.” The innkeeper helped lower Ælle into the seat.

“Oh, thank you, my dear Aylwen. You have been very kind to me.” Ælle felt around his chair looking for a place to prop his cane. Thinking he had found it, he let the cane go and it dropped loudly to the floor. “Oh dear, what have I done?” The old man bent forward to search for his cane, but was stopped by the hard wooden table that collided with his head. “Oh!” His wrinkled hand flew to his forehead to touch the wound. He felt the warmth of blood swelling from the cut. “Goodness, I have made a mess of things.”

Aylwen hurriedly brought him a towel and some salve to care for the wound. “Sir Ælle, I believe you are as good as new.” Ælle thanked her profusely, but she dismissed them with great modesty. Finally taking his order for breakfast, the innkeeper walked away and left the old man alone.

[Nurumaiel]

Mae glanced at the old man, Ælle as he had introduced himself, sitting alone, for Aylwen had just left him, and continued to gaze steadily at him until their eyes met. She gave him her warmest smile before turning back to her uncle. "Dear uncle of mine, that song you sang is highly inappropriate for the occasion," she said in a mockingly rebuking tone. "I merely wish to go with Hearpwine and see him sing; I love him, of course, but I am not in love with him."

"Don't you wish to ever be married, Mae?" Liornung questioned her, winking at Hearpwine.

"Well, perhaps, if I meet someone who loves me and I am in love with him," she replied, "but I hardly know any young lads about, so busy I am working here at the Inn. And nobody's in love with me. Besides that, I don't need to get married. My parents will take care of me forever and ever."

"You are a spoiled little thing, Mae dear."

Her mischeivous smile vanished and a solemn look came to her face. Slowly she shook her head. "No, uncle," she said. "My parents did not spoil me. It was just that they didn't ignore me ever. They always loved me and cared for me and always showed it. They did not believe that to refrain from spoiling me they had to refrain from loving me and constantly showing me thus."

Liornung laughed and patted her cheek. "Dear little Mae, I'm only teasing you. I should know that my brother wouldn't spoil you. My mother and father raised me the same way, and if I had been married I would have raised my children that way."

"Oh, uncle, you're young yet. Don't worry, you'll still be married." Mae slid off her uncle's knee and skipped over to Aylwen. "Oh, Aylwen, say you'll let me go, please do! If you don't, however, I'll endure it gracefully and work just as hard, so you needn't fear refusing. It's just that I should dearly love to go."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine’s face flushed at the mention of “love” between Liornung and his niece, and he made himself busy with his plate as they talked of marriage and young men. He was not sure why the conversation should make him self-conscious…yes, he though Mae was a bonny girl, and he enjoyed having her eyes upon him when he sang…but all bards enjoyed the attention of their audience, and she was so completely and innately moved by his music that it was impossible not to respond with warmth. His mind went back to their dancing together of the night before, and a slow smile crept across his face at the memory…

He felt Liornung’s eyes upon him and he looked up at his friend, and then away quickly. He could feel his friend’s smile grow wider, and fancied even that he could hear a chuckle. He looked about for something or someone to distract the minstrel from his teasing, but at that moment Mae commanded his attention as she skipped (ever so prettily) to Aylwen asking if she could go to the Contest. Before he could stop himself, Hearpwine spoke out. “Aye, Mistress Aylwen, she should be at the Contest. It’s clear that no lass enjoys music more than Mae, and my own performance cannot help but be improved by having here there to hear me!” As soon as he had stopped speaking, he heard what he had said and flushed even more deeply than he had before. Desperate now for something to turn Liornung’s smiling eyes away from him, he called out to the blind old man at the table near theirs, still rubbing his head from the assault practised upon it by the table. “Master Ælle, is it? I hope you are not too keenly hurt?”

The old man moved his head toward Hearpwine and assured him that he was fine. “You, sir,” he said, “have a fine voice. Are you a bard?”

Hearpwine’s face broke into a huge grin at this as he cried out, “Aye, sir, that I am! That you could tell so from simply hearing my voice, though, is a wonder to me – and a great pleasure!”

The old man smiled. “Not such a wonder, young master bard,” he replied, “when you consider that you have been talking about taking part in the Contest of the Bards before the King today. You could only be a very fine singer, or a very foolish man.”

Hearpwine burst out laughing, and was delighted to see that Mae was smiling too. Inspired by this, he turned to the old man once more. “Well said Master Ælle! Well said. I am a bard indeed, and although I should save my voice for the Contest, I stand debt of a song to a lass here” and, somehow, he found the courage to look at Mae as he said this, “so you can listen to me sing and then pass your judgement if I shall win the Contest this day or not!” He turned to Liornung to ask if he could accompany him, but his friend already had his fiddle beneath his chin and was smiling from ear to ear. Hearpwine began by humming the tune, which the fiddler soon picked up and within moments had made his own.

Let it be a dance we do.
May I have this dance with you?
For the good times, and the bad times too,
Let it be a dance.

Let a dancing song be heard.
Play the music. Say the words.
Fill the sky with sailing birds.
Let it be a dance.

Every body turn and spin.
Let your bodies learn to bend
Like a willow in the wind,
And let it be a dance.

A child is born. We all must die.
A time for joy, a time to cry –
So, take it as it passes by,
And let it be a dance.

Let it be a dance we do.
May I have this dance with you?
For the good times, and the bad times too,
Let it be a dance.

The morning star comes out at night.
Without the dark, there'd be no light.
Yet, if nothing's wrong, then nothing's right.
So, let it be a dance.

Let the sun shine. Let it rain.
Share the laughter. Bear the pain.
Round and round we go again,
And let it be a dance.

Let it be a dance we do.
May I have this dance with you?
For the good times, and the bad times too,
Let it be a dance.

Hearpwine finished the song, as he always did, with a laugh. The singing had done much to calm his mood and regain his natural good spirits and confidence. He gazed at Mae as he finished and bowed low to the room as Liornung let the melody settle and fade.

[Nurumaiel]

Maercwen applauded Hearpwine's song with a cheery smile, and then she turned back to Aylwen to await an answer to her request. Liornung took Hearpwine's arm and led him towards Ælle's table, murmuring softly, "You're so amusing that way you gaze at her, Hearpwine. I really hadn't noticed it until now, and I don't think she notices it yet."

Hearpwine flushed deeply. "Perhaps it would be better to save your breath for a song today," he said, and Liornung laughed loudly, saying, "Quick tongue you have still, lad. I say it only to tease you."

"And I spoke only for the same reason," replied Hearpwine with a smile. "I mind when we contested in that way when I was a boy. So much we did together though you stayed only for a short time!"

Liornung patted his back fondly before turning to address Ælle. He bowed very courtesly. "Master Ælle, would you allow us to breakfast with you? Soon we must take ourselves away to the Contest, but we would be honored to sit with you in the meantime." Ælle gestured most courtesly and they sat. A relentless light was in Liornung's eyes and he winked at Ælle as he spoke to Hearpwine once again, "Come, come now, lad... I want you to tell me honestly. Would it make a difference if it were Mae watching you at the contest, or would you do equally as well with some other village lass?"

[Bêthberry]

"Mae," spoke Bethberry not harshly as the girl flounced towards Aylwen, "because we desire to do things is not always the best reason for doing them. Consider Aylwen's need here at the Inn before you take advantage of her good heartedness. We will likely be busier here at The Horse today and will have need for all hands."

The girl frowned at the woman petulantly and strode off to see Aylwen. Bethberry watched her go, worrying that the girl lacked the maturity needed to balance her looks and attractiveness. To fall for a man for a song, well, that was an old story, yet a perilous one. She did not wish to see the girl hurt.

"You're a spoil sport, Mistress Bethberry," called out Hearpwine to her half-heartedly conveying a frown that would not stay put upon his face.

"Am I now? Or rather just cautious? I have mended the broken bones and bound the bloody wounds and healed the sore pain of those who chose something more than their own pleasure," she replied. "I do not deny the dance but merely remind that someone must pay the piper." She grinned at him. "An Inn that cannot feed its guests is an Inn that cannot pay its entertainers."

"Hearpwine will have no need of employment here,' Mistress Bethberry interjected Liornung. "He'll be paid by the Golden Hall 'ere this day is finished."

"Will he now," she grinned back. "Then there will be plenty of opportunity to hear him sing in the future. But enough of this." She turned to the old warrior.

"Master Ælle, before these musicians have every one dancing up a storm, I should clear the floor for them." She bent down to retrieve his cane that had fallen and which he had not been able to find when it fell to the floor.

He half rose to convey his thanks and Bethberry placed the cane in his hand, for his sightless eyes had been unable to take it from her hands himself. It cannot be said that he minded the touch of her hands or that he withdrew his too quickly.

[bilbo_baggins]

Rising before Finky, Oin stepped out into the Mead Hall, hoping to catch a bit of breakfast or meal before the day's happenings.

Seeing Hearpwine and Liornung already plying their trade, and of course, their instruments, he was instantly cheered by the vigorous song they played. Nodding his head to the rhythm, he obtained a loaf of bread and some water.

He also was an amused witness to the obvious flirtation of the minstrel with the young girl. Oh, that the Dwarvish women would fall for those who thought better of them. Ah, well. The world is as it is. He could see rather plainly the affection between them. It was well noted by all the Inn-goers, and many could not help but titter.

Then, Bethberry admonished Hearpwine for stealing the girl's heart so, and rather humorously too. Oin noticed her pick up an old man's cane and return it to him. It seemed that the old man was blind.

Walking over to him, Oin was about to say something when he saw the lingering touch of the man's hands and slight reluctance to withdraw. Doing a hurried about-face, Oin just barely kept his dignity intact. Oh, it would have been embarrasing indeed to step in right there. Rather embarrasing. Any moment shared with joy by two people is best not disturbed, as Oin knew from personal experience.

When his friend Ponto and Rosy, who was obviously in love with him, had been talking, he had once stepped up to them and asked why they were always talking together, and alone at that. No, he had not been naive, only a little clueless. Ah, yes. Rather embarrasing, that episode. He did not wish to repeat such an incident. This Inn deserved better from him.

[ArwenBaggins]

Reya rubbed Dela's curls once more and pulled away. "Here... how about a peppermint stick?" Reya reached into the pouch hanging on her belt of braided rope and pulled out a stick of red and white sticky candly.

"Thank... thank ya Mommy... but I don' think I can eat it now. I'm really sad 'bout Papa," tears dripped constantly down Dela's rosy cheeks, her eyes puffy and her bottom lip puckering. "I'm really, really sad," Dela pushed the candy back and buried her head in her mother's shirt.

Reya closed her eyes and tried to block everyone else out of her mind- she was suprised that no one had come by and asked what was the matter. "Delaynn dear, it's okay to be sad, just try not to believe that Papa is always with us and loves us now and forever," yes, she was finding it hard to believe herself, but she could not let Dela think that she wasn't strong. "Please... stop crying Dela," Reya pushed back tears as well; she really wished that there was an easier way to do this.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

"Mae," Aylwen began, pulling the girl away for a moment. Aylwen hated to see Mae whimper or whine, but understood Bethberry's better judgement in wanting Mae to learn. "You may go off with Hearpwine while he competes. But, the minute his last note fades, you must run back here. You will not stay to find out how he has fared, or if he has achieved his goal. That is my suggestion...to wait and work while the King deliberates. More excitement, I assure you, and working will get your mind off whether or not your friend Hearpwine has become chief bard. We can all celebrate when he comes home!" Mae nodded at this, however slowly. Aylwen turned back to face Hearpwine. "Now, off with you! You will want to get there early to practice and see your competitors. It starts mid-morning. Off with you both!"

Aylwen watched with a sigh as Hearpwine rose. Liornung did as well, leading Mae out the door. Aylwen looked to Liornung and shrugged. The Innkeeper smiled weakly at Liornung before she went to go and get Ælle's order. When she retuend with his plate she set it down gently, but even with the slight shiver he looked up from his cane and into Aylwen's eyes. The Innkeeper awed at the funny milky...misty...color for a moment before looking away so as not to be rude.

"I was never afraid of losing my sight. I was only afraid of becoming blind..." Ælle murmured, taking Aylwen aback. Such a strange thing to say... Aylwen thought.

"Is it not the same thing, Master Ælle?"

"There is every difference in the world," Ælle answered distantly. "Losing the use of my eyes taught me a different way of seeing. I could not see someone, but I could touch and see that they were real. See the life. If I were blind, I would not know the difference between believing and seeing."

"Forgive me, Master Ælle, but what brings you here to Rohan...to the White Horse?" Aylwen asked, incredibly curious.

[alaklondewen]

Ælle looked kindly in Aylwen’s direction, delighted in her attention and curiosity. “Well, Miss Aylwen, I know you are busy today, so I shall keep my story short for now, but I hope I will be able to tell you many tales if you do not mind listening to an old man’s ramblings.” He could hear her softly chuckle, but she uttered no protests, so he continued. “You see, Miss Aylwen, I lived here in Edoras many, many years ago. I have since traveled here and there with whoever would have me, and after many springs passing, I have returned to my home to rest for a while.”

“Do you have family here, Master Ælle?” Aylwen inquired from across the table.

“Oh dear, no. I have outlived my family, miss.” Ælle became silent momentarily and a small smile reflected his warm memories of his young wife. “It has been many years since I walked in Edoras, and to arrive at a time of celebration!” The old man laughed and clapped his hands. “This is really quite a treat for me.”

“I am glad you are enjoying yourself, sir, and I am also pleased that you have chosen to stay in our Inn.” The innkeeper spoke with sweet kindness.

“And thank you, Miss Aylwen, for your kindness.” Ælle then smacked both of his hands on the wooden table and said in a voice rich with merriment, “Now, are the musicians still around and about? I would dearly love to hear another song.”

“I am sorry, Master Ælle, but Hearpwine and Liornung have already left for the competition.”

“What a pity,” the old man shook his head. “I shall certainly request a song upon their return.”

“I am sure we will hear their songs whether we request them or not,” the innkeeper laughed softly and touched Ælle’s arm. “I must leave you now, sir, but I am sure we will be able to speak again very soon.”

Ælle nodded and moved his hand over the table until he found his plate and utensils, and then the old man began to eat his wonderful breakfast in silence.

[Nurumaiel]

The Inn might have begun to seem strangely empty without the two men and their songs, but 'new' arrivals were not long in coming. The door to the Common Room was opened and a young boy stepped in. Those who had been at the Inn the previous day would have recognized him as Gomen. He looked about him thoughtfully, considering everything and everyone he saw. He paused the longest on the little girl sobbing gently into her mother's gown, and after careful deliberation he made his way towards the two.

"Good morning, little girl," he said, smiling a little shyly. A tear-stained face turned towards him. He hesitated a moment before speaking again. "I'm sorry about whatever is wrong, little girl." He reached out and patted her head gently. "When you feel a bit better you can come talk with me, and you can meet my sisters." He gave her another comforting smile before moving on.

There was an old man seated at a table, eating breakfast. His eyes were dull and unseeing, but his face glowed with warmth and friendliness. Gomen moved towards him slowly, the beginnings of a smile creeping along his face. He suddenly found himself desiring to make the acquaintance of this man, but he wasn't quite sure how to do it. He would wait and see if he were noticed. Sooner or later he would surely build up enough courage.

Sitting upon the nearest table to the old man's, Gomen smiled favorably upon everyone in the room, pausing on Aylwen and Bethberry. "Good morning," he greeted them, his voice cheery. He had known Aylwen and Bethberry since he was very little and he held them very dear, though he would not say so to anyone.

Deman and Fierlan were entering, arguing over some little cake they had received from their mother during their stop at the kitchen. They saw Gomen but paid him no heed as they continued through the room. Their voices rose in heated anger several times, but by the time they reached the door they had their arms about each other's shoulders and were talking in a most amiable fashion. As they opened the door they were halted by Bethberry's voice. "Deman, Fierlan, where are you boys going?"

They turned to face her with cool, composed faces and spoke as one. "We're going to the stable to see our papa," they said. When Bethberry nodded her consent they went out, their faces obviously showing that another argument was brewing between them. Bethberry gestured Gomen to the window, saying, "Just make sure they do go to the stable; I wouldn't trust those lads to remember what they set out to do as soon as they see something exciting."

Gomen hurried to obey her, smiling at the old man as he did so, but he realized immediately after that that was of no use, for the old man could not see the smile. He would have to be courageous enough to speak, unless the old man noticed him without seeing. The latter would certainly be more ideal.

Deman and Fierlan made their way to the stable successfully, though they almost decided to go off in pursuit of their uncle and sister. Fierlan, however, had cast a meaningful look in the direction of the Inn and said something (most likely something concerning Bethberry and their mother), and they continued on into the stable. Gomen shook his head in a despairing fashion before returning to his chair near the old man.

[ArwenBaggins]

At last, a ray of hope shined through the sadness. Reya adjusted her daughter so that she could see her face, and then she said, "Why don't you go and talk to that young man and his sisters? I think his name is Gomen," at first, Dela was hesitant at her mother's sudden willingness of her leaving, but she shrugged it off and wiped her eyes. "M'kay. I'll be back soon."

Reya watched her Dela, who was now trying to regain her calmness, hop over to Gomen. Then it hit her- was she being overprotective? 'No, it can't be. I love Delaynn, and I don't want her to get hurt. That is all. She is all I have left! She shook the thought away and took a sip of her warm milk.

Dela found Gomen with his eyes closed, seemingly relaxed. "Mister? I feel a lil' better now!" She tapped his shoulder twice, a smile now on her face.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Edoras was a sea of colour and activity as the whole city turned out to commemorate the victory of Gondor and Rohan over the forces of the Eye on that memorable day four years ago. The throngs that crowded the streets had been swelled by the hundreds of people, like Hearpwine, who had made the long trek to Edoras to help celebrate this day. At every corner and in every square and yard, it seemed there was another bard singing of that day, or a storyteller holding those about him rapt with his spell. There were puppeteers depicting the great battle for the benefit of the younger children, and many a scarred veteran doing the same for those children’s parents. All the buildings that they passed were decked with the banners and pennants of the families who held them or abode within. Some of them bore still the blood and stain of their service in the field of battle on that day, but their soiling was as a mark of greatness upon them – token of the deeds that had been performed.

Hearpwine still held Mae’s hand but he barely felt it, so engrossed was he by the sights that surrounded them and the visions that filled his mind. Already, he could see these same crowds thronging to hear his lays and clamouring for more a year from now, when, compelled by his King, he would stand forth in the great yard before the Golden Hall and sing of the deeds and death of the Rohirrim, and of the doom that came to all on the bloody fields of the Pelennor. His feet hurried past the sights and sounds and his hadn pulled all the more insistently upon Mae to follow him. Twice she gasped and begged his leave to stop so she could watch the entertainment, but the young bard was heedless as wood. Finally, Liornung, who had been scrambling to keep pace with the younger man, rushed ahead and placed a restraining hand on Hearpwine’s shoulder, crying out, “My friend, my friend! The Contest has not begun already, there is time to enjoy this day and look at what other feats are being performed in honour of it.” Hearpwine stopped his mad rush, but it was clear to the other two that he was loath to do it. He faced them and his eyes blazed with a light much like the kind of madness that sometimes comes over warriors in battle. He made to speak, but the instant his eye fell on Mae where she stood panting from their rush and rubbing her hand where Hearpwine’s overeager fingers had crushed it, his retort died on his lips and was replaced by his usual, gentler manner. “I beg your pardon, both, my friends!” he cried. “I was not thinking of you – indeed, I was not thinking of anything save the Contest. It is a fault of mine that I hope I can make up to you by the end of this glorious day. But bear in mind: I have ridden for four days and nights to reach Edoras in time to claim my place before the King, the thought of arriving late now…it is enough to drive me to distraction!”

Liornung laughed and clapped his young friend on the back. “Fear not, Hearpwine, I promise you by all the strings on my fiddle that we shall have you in Meduseld before the Contest begins. But Mae is young, and I have been long away from Edoras – we both desire to see what our people are doing this day in celebration. And you, who have never been out of your land in the westfolds, you must not deny yourself this chance to see the noblest and most courteous of our people at their best!”

“Yes,” Mae said quietly, looking at Hearpwine with the same pleading expression that had won over Aylwen, and even Bêthberry, “let us take the time to watch at least one puppet show or listen to a single story!” Her eyes roved about the crowds and saw afar off a field where the lists had been drawn for a show of horsemanship. Her eyes blazed, “Look!” she cried, “a tournament is about to begin! Come, uncle and good Hearpwine, we must attend to that at least.”

Mae would have run off to watch the horses that instant had not Hearpwine taken her gently by the arm and held her back. He smiled at her, but spoke to Liornung. “You are both quite right. I was heedless and foolish. But please, allow me first to gaze upon the Golden Hall for I have only seen it in my songs and dreams. When I arrived in Edoras yesterday morning, the sun had not yet gained its advantage of the Mountains and all was dark and grey. Please, I implore you both, allow me but once to look upon the Hall where I shall reign as bard of Rohan, and then I promise you that all the time we have before the Contest begins will be spent in whatever merriment you wish.”

Liornung smiled knowingly at the young man, but Mae was clearly disappointed at not being able to immediately rush off to see the display of horsemanship. But because of their love for this young man they agreed to his request. They moved up the hill once more, although not at the rash pace that Hearpwine had earlier set, and were soon within sight of Meduseld. They arrived just as the sun rose above the Mountains, filling the valley with her golden rays. The thatch upon the roof of the Golden Hall flamed with the light and the polished wood of her beams and gilt of her adornments flashed and glittered like gems. High above the Hall flew the pennant of the King, and in a circle about it were the standards of all the Lords of the Mark who attended upon the King this day.

Liornung looked to his friend to gauge his reaction and was surprised by what he saw upon his countenance. “My friend,” he said with incredulity, “whatever could be amiss? You look as though you have travelled far to see an old friend and found only an empty house and a cold hearth!”

Hearpwine was silent for a long moment as he gazed that the Hall. When he spoke, he did so in muted tones so that Liornung and Mae had to strain to hear him above the rising sounds of the crowds about them. “It is lovely, as lovely as I had dreamed. But now that I behold it for the first time in the waking world it seems, somehow…smaller.”

[Nurumaiel]

Gomen opened one eye, and then, upon seeing the girl's face, let the other one open and returned her smile with great friendliness. There were still stains of tears on her face, and sadness lingered on her brow, but she seemed sociable and open to the friendship he offered. Taking his feet from off the table, he took one of her little hands in his and with his free hand dug around in his pocket, bringing forth and handful of little sweets. Placing these in her hand he said, "Here, have some candy."

She embraced the offer with another smile, and he gestured for her to sit down beside him. She did so very gracefully and sat with her little legs dangling over the edge of the tall chair. She munched slowly at the candy. It's taste was sweet but was bittered by her grief. Gomen gazed at her with sympathy yet did not question her as to what was wrong. He would not do that. If she wanted to tell him she would, and then he could express his sympathy in words. Until then he would merely comfort her with friendliness and kindness without pressing her to speak when she may not desire to.

A young girl wandered into the room, dressed in a pretty frock of blue that matched splendidly with her large eyes of the same color. She had a little cake in her hand; apparently she had made the same stop at the kitchen as the twins had. Behind her came another girl, smaller in stature but with features the same. She held two cakes. Both of them made their way slowly and thoughtfully to Gomen, studying the strange girl with no little curiosity. The younger girl's eyes lighted on the candies and she turned to Gomen. "Give me some too, Gomen."

He laughed and brought forth another handful of candy from his pocket. "Here you are, Motan," he said. He looked to the older girl. "Mereflod, do you want some?" he asked. She shook her head, gesturing that she had her cake already and that was enough. Mereflod would die before she spoke with her mouth full.

With a complete and utter lack of shyness Motan placed herself by the strange girl's side, smiling in a friendly fashion at her companion in eating candies from Gomen. "My name is Motan," she said. "What's yours?"

"I'm called Delaynn," the strange girl replied.

"Oh," Motan, who was only four years of age, said. "That is Mereflod, my sister. She is seven. And then that is Gomen, my brother, who is twelve. And my mamma is coming."

Indeed she was, and she came into the room then, her eyes gazing fondly at her children, and with fondness also at the new little girl. Frodides held the baby Drihten on her hip, and the little one gurgled with excitement when he saw Gomen. The boy smiled and eagerly took his little baby brother, touching the little gold curls fondly. Frodides took Delaynn's hand and smiled gently in her face. "Hello, lassie," she said. "Where is your mother?"

"She's over there," Delaynn replied, pointing towards her mother. Frodides nodded and, saying to Gomen, "Watch over the baby," approached the mother. Stopping in front of her, she spoke very politely. "Good morning to you. My name is Frodides, and I thought for as long as you are in the Inn I might make your acquaintance."

[Kransha]

As old and as withered of bone and form as Osric of Aldburg was, still he plunged wholeheartedly into the meal set before him on a polished platter. After the dragging length of a minute’s span had passed, he reared up like a braying steed from the plate, letting it vibrate meagerly as he slammed a satisfied fist on the table and fell back, sagging fully backward into the cradling palm of his seat. He sighed gently, scratching the clinging strands of foot from his unkempt beard with a hand wrapped loosely in a leathery, fur-cuffed glove. He extracted each of his gnarled digits from the glove and pulled it off smoothly, laying it on the table top as, with his other fidgeting hand, he lifted the quivering tin tankard from beside his empty plate and raised it to his lips. He sipped it with nobility at first, but soon began to guzzle the tasteful fluid, letting it spill into his mouth and wash away the troubles of his sore, ragged throat. His tongue burst out from the wall of his teeth to lick up every last residual dot of the morning ale that might have alighted on his beard, but found none, hearing his soft breath well up and grow in volume ominously inside the tankard before him.

New arrivals had come, which was only to be expected upon another day of regal festivities. Osric’s face puffed out into a glowing smile as strands of people began to drift like smoke through the ready and ever-full doorway of the Horse. He searched the room wistfully, his dry lips drifting apart as he was lulled into a calming stupor while looking about. He saw men, young and old, some who’d seen barely the number of cold winters to be called a young man, vivacious boys and girls frolicking through the inn and those whose playful tones, high of pitch and with a fervent melody within, could be heard seeping through the windows and door. There were aged folk as well, who’d all taken their respective places in the room. There were only a few, and one in particular, who was staring out with a blanker look, who caught the brunt of Osric’s drowsy gaze, but he shook off a remorseful look and continued in his optical business in the Horse.

Osric at last let his eyelids droop after fixating his gaze on the Horse’s threshold and staring profusely at it for a time. His aged eyes, turning in unison, bobbed up and down as he scanned every surface in the common room, analyzing his surrounding through a blurred vision, tinted with a colorful lens set over each deep orb by the impending festivities and the decorations they entailed. Pushing himself up from his chair, his stiff leg arching uncomfortably beneath him as he dragged it over so he could stand, wobbling before he regained his stock steadiness, he began walking through the room. At last he found his needed target, the innkeeper, Alywen. He fitted towards her with as much speed as his rusty, manually maneuvered limb would allow him and waited for her to turn and see him. Despite the possible chaos of the day ahead, she seemed flawlessly serene. Osric did not know the ways on innkeepers, guessing that this calmness might be some clever façade, but he did not guess at the methods of Miss Alywen, for he thought his mind would spend too many needed hours trying to accurately decipher the matter.

“Good morning, Mistress Alywen,” he said politely, loosing a curt bow before he continued, “I trust you slept well?” She looked at him, grinning mildly with that same calm, respectable, but gentle air that she always had held when Osric spoke to her, and replied with jovial dignity while Osric looked on, wondering how she held up such a composed stature when the world around her was so hectic, “As well as can be expected on such a night, I suppose. And you?”

“The same, madam.” Osric nodded dutifully. He paused for a bare moment and then rolled back into speaking in a lazy, tired drawl manufactured by the resonating tranquility of morning as it was slowly washed away by surrounding hustle and bustle, “Alywen, I do believe I saw that lad Hearpwine here this morning, but now I see him not. Has he already headed off to ‘scope out the competition’?”

Alywen glanced at him again as she’d been about to turn away, seeing from his unattended face that he’d already eaten and did not require her service. A look appeared slowly but with delicate swiftness upon her features, which told Osric that this was not the first time the question had been posed that day. But, she bore it easily and smiled in response as she spoke. “Indeed he has, but he will return and we will all surely hear more of him, and from him as well.”

“Oh,” the aged Rohirrim nodded in understanding, “I had suspected as much.” He turned from her, having known the answer before it was spoken to his query. He admitted with some vague reluctance that he still yearned with a thundering hope to hear the songs and lays of Hearpwine and Liornung, the two bards who’d left for to seek a future. If the job was found by either of them, that would mean their continual stay in Edoras, and frequent trips to the White Horse Inn, where Osric would be sitting, perhaps a pipe cupped in his mouth and a tune on his lips to wile away the time until one of them had mustered the vocal energy to delve into the musical realm again. Thinking merrily of such things, Osric returned to his chair and set himself down carefully upon it, leaning back and taking a deep breath as his chest heaved.

[ArwenBaggins]

Reya sat the cup down on the table a turned to the newcomer, motioning that she have a seat. "Pleasure to meet you Frodides. I'm Reya; I saw that you and your children have met my daughter Dela," as Frodides sat on the bench across the table, Reya continued politely, "Your children are quiet cute," she smiled and looked over to the children, wiping a lingering tear off of her face.

Dela contently put another sweet into her mouth, looking over to Gomen. She saw the slobbering baby and caressed his hand. "Gomen, watcha brother's name?" rubbing her damp brown eyes on the sleeve of her blouse, she looked at the smiling baby boy.

"His name's Drihten," Gomen answered, fingering his golden curls.

The girl then turned to Motan and Mereflod, reaching into the pocket of her oversized apron. She pulled out a large maroon tulip and a white daisy. "I picked these this morning, out of my Pa...Pap...Papa's garden. Here, you can have them," again, she tried not to cry as she mentioned her father. She wanted the girls to have the flowers, and hoped they didn't take it the wrong way. "They're really pretty, but I's gotta lot of 'em, so it's okay if I give you two one. Oh, and you can call me Dela; my long name is Delaynn, but my Mommy calls me that."

[Saraphim]

Strenge shivered as he looked around from his seat in one corner of the common room. He was wrapped tightly in a thick cloak, and had a steaming cup of tea in his hand, but that barely stymied the cold air from seeping into his skin. His headache had mostly vanished, but his eyes would swim if he looked around too quickly.

At long last, someone brough him a warm plate piled full of delicious amenities. Strenge dug in quickly, trying to soak in as much heat from the warm food as he could.

Over his spoon, he watched the customers meander about on thier early-morning chores. He would have liked to strike up converstion with one of them, but Strenge was much too shy to introduce himself.

He wondered where Careardry was again, but decided that he must still have been sleeping.

He finished his meal and leaned back with his tea, finally beginning to warm up.

[Nurumaiel]

Frodides saw the tear but said nothing. She felt the way her children did; she would not make the woman obligated to tell the cause of her sorrow. Rather, she replied to the compliment with a face full of pride. "Indeed, aren't they lovely?" she said. "Oh, I suppose you think it is awful of me to say thus... a mother should not accept praise to her children without making some attempt at modesty, but I would rather appear proud and vain than tell a lie. I am proud of my children and I do think they're lovely. I tell them so often... but never in a fashion that would make them vain." She let her eyes wander to her children, and she gazed at them contentedly for a moment before speaking again. "Your daughter is also lovely. What is her name?"

Over in the group of children, Motan and Mereflod were delighting over the flowers and helping each other to place them in their long golden hair. When both were satisfied, Mereflod turned to Delaynn, saying, "Your Papa has a garden?" She spoke in an entirely oblivious way; she didn't know what Dela had just learned about her father. "My Papa doesn't have a garden because he works in the stable. I would like to have a garden, though."

Motan put another delicious sweet in her mouth, her round face very thoughtful. "Well, Mereflod, maybe you should ask Miss Aylwen if we can have our own garden. Maybe Delaynn will help us with it. Maybe I should ask Miss Bethberry if we're going to have lessons today." She ceased to speak her wandering thoughts full of 'maybe's', but did not cease to think them. She hoped they would have lessons that day, because she dearly loved lessons. Standing up, she put the remainder of her candy in her pocket and pattered over to Bethberry, tugging her sleeve. The woman looked down, and a kind light kindled in her eye as she surveyed the innocent little girl. "Miss Bethberry, are we to have lessons today?"

Mereflod had also slid off her chair and had gone to Aylwen, who had been speaking with that old man that had been talking with her uncle the day before. Now, however, Aylwen was not occupied and Mereflod did not have to fear of interrupting any conversation. "Aylwen," she said with complete and trusting confidence, "might Motan and I have a little garden to plant flowers in? Dela over there gave us these flowers - " she touched the flower in her hair " - and said they were out of her Papa's garden. Our Papa doesn't have a garden, but maybe we could have one. Would it be all right?"

Gomen was watching Dela with a friendly smile as the little girl tickled Drihten's toes, delighting in his hearty chuckles. He held the baby out to her. "Would you like to hold him, Dela?" he questioned.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine’s attention was wrenched from the Golden Hall of Meduseld by a sudden clamour that rose up the hill like a slow tide. Mae was already looking down from the base of the steps where they stood, her eyes bright with excitement. “Elves!” she said gaily, pointing toward the retinue of Fair Folk who came toward them, as though Hearpwine could miss them. There were about a dozen Elves, all of them mounted on the swift-footed horses of their kind. They were all of them dressed in the green and brown hues of the folk of Mirkwood – Eryn Lasgalen, as it was to be called now, Hearpwine reminded himself – and they bore upon their brows circlets of silver. They sang as they rode, and as is the way with Elvish music it seemed to whisper to the very hearts of those who heard it, wiping from before their eyes the sights of the waking world and giving rise to fair visions of green lands now long gone under the waters. Hearpwine gasped at the beauty of their singing, and he felt tears upon his face as the music cut him to his very soul.

Snow-white! Snow-white! O Lady clear!
O Queen beyond the Western Seas!
O Light to us that wander here
Amid the world of woven trees!

Gilthoniel! O Elbereth!
Clear are thy eyes and bright thy breath!
Snow-white! Snow-white! We sing to thee
In a far land beyond the Sea.

O stars that in the Sunless Year
With shining hand by her were sown,
In windy fields now bright and clear
We see your silver blossom blown!

O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!
We still remember, we who dwell
In this far land beneath the trees,
Thy starlight on the Western Seas.

Liornung could see how the music affected the younger man so he moved closer in order to lay a steadying hand on his shoulder. Hearpwine turned a face to him that was torn between joy and sorrow. Liornung smiled, knowing already what Hearpwine would say, but knowing as well that the younger man would have to say it or break his heart. “Such singing, my friend! I, who have heard the timeless voice of the Lady Galadriel, had thought that I would never be seized by such wonder again. But I was foolish to think so! Yes, this music is naught compared to the lay She sang for me beneath the moon, but it is still as the sound of running water compared to the beast-like roars of my harp!”

Liornung laughed. “Nay, do not doubt your skill my friend. You have not heard much Elvish music in your brief life. Like a man used only to water, you cannot be expected to withstand the sudden onslaught of wine!”

Hearpwine was about to respond when Mae commanded their attention once more. She was pointing into the group of Elves and crying out wildly, “Look! There’s a Dwarf! A Dwarf rides with the Elves!”

Liornung and Hearpwine stared at this strange sight, wondering what to make of it, but the rumour that passed through the crowd soon resolved their questions. “‘Tis Gimli and his companion Legolas, the Prince of Mirkwood” they heard from one quarter. “Nay,” replied a voice somewhere near at hand, “What are they doing here? I heard that they were to keep the day at Helm’s Deep.” “And that they did,” replied a third voice, “but now they are on their way to Minas Tirith to see the King and pay their respects. They are all great friends still you know…” The voices continued, but the three friends paid them no heed as they strained to catch a glimpse of the two heroes of the War. Gimli the Dwarf rode behind his friend Legolas on Arod, the horse who had borne them both through the horrors of the Paths of the Dead, and to Glory in the East. Hearpwine could, without thinking, recall at least a dozen of the songs that had been made in praise of them, and as they passed he could not help but cry out,

Swiftly the friends with oaths at their heels,
Pursued their foul foes across Rohan’s fields,
Never forsaking the friends that they loved,
They hunted the monsters who fled them like dogs!

At the sound of his clear voice rising above the cries of the crowd, the Prince Legolas turned to find the singer and smiled upon him as they passed. As the Elf’s eyes took in Hearpwine’s companions, he heard Mae sigh beside him in a way that made him feel, if he had to put a word to it, jealous.

The retinue stopped at the base of the short flight of stairs that led to the Hall, Gimli the Dwarf muttering to himself as he clambered down from Arod’s back, and they went up to the porch. There was a brief and undoubtedly very formal ceremony as they asked for admittance, but Hearpwine was too far to hear what they said. The doors swung open and they disappeared inside to be greeted by the clear ringing of trumpets and the delicate airs of harps played by skilful hands.

As the last member of the party disappeared and the door closed, the crowd that had gathered to watch the Heroes moved away to take in the other entertainment of the day. Mae was pulling on Hearpwine’s and Liornung’s hands insistently, reminding them of their promise that they should watch the contest of horsemanship. Liornung laughed and encouraged Mae to lead the way, but Hearpwine followed along behind in subdued manner. Who else from among the great would be in the Hall this day to hear his singing!

[ArwenBaggins]

Dela's mouth opened slightly. Gomen asked if I wanna hold da baby! She nodded politely and giggled as the boy put the young one in her own still-small hands. "He's so cute! I wish I had brothers an' sisters..." Gomen nodded slightly and Dela reluctantly gave the baby back after one last caress. "I gonna go see watcha sisters are doin', okay?" Without waiting an answer, she skipped over to where Mereflod was standing near Alwyn.

Just as Mereflod finished asking her question, Dela approached. "Good Mornin' Miss Alwyn," all sadness had left the little girl for at least a little while. Deciding that she didn't want to be left out of the conversation, Dela stood as straight as possible, flattened the creased hem of her skirt, and said in an airy tone, "My Daddy's garden is tended real nice- I go out ever'day and water all his pretty flowers for him," Dela paused for a moment and tears welled once more in her eyes. "'cause he can't do it no more."

She lowered her head and kicked her feet around. A tear dropped onto the dusty floor. Can't let'm think I'm a cry-baby! I'm a big girl! An' Daddy's here right now, anyways. He's not really gone. Straightening up again, Dela looked at Alwyn, and then at Mereflod, as if nothing was wrong. Maybe they would not catch what she said... or maybe they could help her not hurt inside anymore.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Aylwen looked down to Mereflod and little Dela, a smile lighting her face as she thought about the wonderful things the children could plant and grow. Bethberry would not mind, and even if she did Aylwen had already decided on a good spot for the children to plant their flowers.

"Of course you can have your own garden!" Mereflod and Dela cheered at Aylwen's decision, jumping up and down together. They stopped when they saw Aylwen's face, seeing that she had more to say. "There are a few conditions though. You must take care of your plants, and not make the responsibility become someone else's. Though, Dela has said that she waters her father's plants every day. Anyway, if you do let the plants die and do not take care of them, this fall or next spring you will have to dig up any weeds and clean up the plot I give you. Promise?"

"Yes, yes!" the two chorused, and Aylwen led them outside. Turning a corner, Aylwen showed the two children a little plot of slightly dried dirt on the east side of the Inn. Just across from it were the stables, though the plot was far enough away to prevent any horse-trampling.

"It is not very big, but if you prove you will take care of your current plants, soon you may have more dirt to plant in!" Aylwen said, smiling as the Mereflod and Dela examined the plot.

[Nurumaiel]

"Oh, Miss Aylwen, thank you so much!" Mereflod cried, gazing in rapture at the little plot of ground. And then an odd look came to her face and she shook her head sadly. "But I'm afraid I have no seeds to plant," she said.

Dela giggled a little. "I have some seeds back at home," she said. "When my Mamma and I go home today I'll get them and bring them back tomorrow, if she takes me here again." Mereflod's face glowed with delight and she thanked Dela, as well as Aylwen again, and then she turned back to the Inn, saying that she was going to fetch Motan and Gomen.

Inside the Inn Motan was still questioning Bethberry about lessons, and Gomen was sitting at the same table holding the baby. He expressed delight when he heard about their little plot of dirt for their garden, but politely denied their offer to go see it, telling them he had someone he had to meet. He gave them both a handful of candy and begged them to go out to the stables and make sure the twins were causing their papa no trouble.

"The twins are my brothers," Mereflod explained to Dela. "They're very wild and get into a lot of trouble. Ask your mamma if you can go out to the stables with me to see what they're doing. You can meet my papa, too, and my sister's horse called Mihtig."

Gomen eased himself closer to the old man called Ælle, gazing wistfully at him and wishing the man could see back. He had hoped the noise of the children talking would have drawn his attention, but Ælle had not seemed to pay any attention. He was finishing his breakfast now, obviously enjoying it by the look on his face. There was the other old man, Osric, but Gomen had already met him. He would talk to him later. Now he wanted to meet Ælle.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

“I can make it seem bigger and better, if you wish it, lad,” A woman in a booth nearby called for the young man’s attention. With him was a young lady, and beside her was a man that didn’t look too much older than the boy that had spoken. The three companions looked to where the voice came from, and their brows furrowed when they saw who had spoken.

The woman looked far older than she had sounded, with bags beneath her black eyes and grey streaks flowing through her waves of black, curly hair. A colorful cloth pulled back the long black and grey locks, showing more of her golden-brown skin and keeping hair out of her mysterious black eyes. Several golden hoops hung from each ear, and jewels lit up her calloused hands and thin wrists. Her hunched, small body was covered with a red dress made of some strange fabric that could make cotton feel hard to the touch.

“I do not know what you mean,” the younger man spoke, his voice never quavering. The woman laughed.

“What is your name, boy?” she asked, her dark lips lifting into a smile.

“Hearpwine,” he replied, gaze stony and unwelcoming. “And yours, miss?”

“Jesia, I am called. Hearpwine, I can see in your eyes that there is much that you desire,” Jesia looked around the market and then back to Hearpwine and the girl. “What are your companion’s names?”

“This is Mae,” He motioned to the girl. “This is Liornung.”

“I see…” Jesia mused. She took Hearpwine’s hand, fiddling with his calloused fingers. Hearpwine tugged away at one point, but Jesia kept a firm grip on the young man’s hand. “Now, why are you wandering around Edoras, when you have a performance for the King to get to?”

“How did you know that I am performing for the King?” Hearpwine asked warily, and Liornung furrowed his brows. They looked ready to desert the old woman. Jesia smiled, letting Hearpwine have his hand free of her grasp.

“There are some things that your eyes cannot hide, and your nervousness is easily detected by one that knows what to look for.” Jesia explained. She continued quickly so as not to lose their attention. “Now, I might have something that could help you for your performance. Something for your throat and voice.”

“I do not think I know you well enough to trust you to give me something for my throat. I do not know you well enough to be certain that you will not give me poison or something that will make me croak like a toad before the King,” Hearpwine explained flatly.

“Well, then a good luck charm could not hurt!” Jesia growled, pulling something from behind her booth. When Jesia reached over her booth this time, though, she took Mae’s hand in her own, placing the object she had withdrawn in the palm of her hand and closing the girl’s fingers over the object. In Mae’s hand was a small silver circlet, meant for a wrist. Scribed into the innards of the bracelet was a blessing in a language unknown to young Hearpwine or Mae, but Jesia could not say whether Liornung could read it or not.

“Thank you, we better be going,” Hearpwine murmured, turning away from the booth and leading Mae and Liornung away. Jesia chuckled.

“Enjoy your competition…” Jesia whispered, watching as they left and then turning around in her small booth. On the other side of the booth stood a young boy, not yet ten and seven years of age. His skin glowed a dark bronze color, and his unruly black curls blew in the breeze as he tried to sell trinkets to other customers. When the boy was finished selling, Jesia called the boy.

“Asad, you should warm up and prepare for your song. You have some decent competition for the spot as bard. I could see it in his eyes…” Jesia warned the boy, who nodded respectively to his grandmother and left the booth to find a place to prepare.

Exeunt...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The contest of horsemanship seemed to drag on forever, but Hearpwine had promised Mae that they would use the little time they had before the competition to watch. His mind turned back again and again to the strange woman and her oddly prescient words. Now that he reflected upon it, his demeanour – not to mention the harp slung at his back – would have been ample evidence of where he was headed this day, but he remained on edge still. Something in her manner had nudged his confidence. Until this moment it had not occurred to him that he might fail before the King. He was not so foolish as to believe that only he could win the contest, but he had been confident that his performance, whether it won him the garland or not, would be one that all of Edoras would remember for many a year. His vision of the King’s eye as he wept, and the feel of the King’s hand as he clasped Hearpwine’s shoulder by way of recognition, had always been before him as a palpable certainty, as sure as the next sunrise even to a small child. But the woman’s words had brought home to him for the first time how common, how hopelessly ordinary, his desire might be. How many other bards were about Meduseld this day, all of them with the same certain idea of how this morning’s contest would end? And how many of them were older, more accomplished and wiser bards than he? Hearpwine stole a sidelong glance at Liornung and felt immediately ashamed of the tinge of resentment that had accompanied that look. Fool! he cursed himself inwardly, Now you are jealous of your friend? Fearful that he might take the floor himself? Blush, blush indeed at your shameful thoughts! They do not become you.

His attention was called back to the ring by an outcry from the crowd as the horsemaster who stood in the stirrups at a full gallop, shot two arrows faster than they eye could follow through a small target more than fifty paces from where he rode. He dropped down to his seat once more and with a quiet command stilled his horse to perfect immobility. Hearpwine joined in the general clamour, the blood of the Rohirrim that flowed in his veins stirred to quickening by the sight. Beside him, Mae clapped and cried out for joy, and even Liornung, who had seemed to love the fiddle more than all else, cheered the master. The next rider entered the ring but Hearpwine could wait no longer. “Come,” he said to his friends, “I must be at the Hall!” He had expected Mae to beg for a few minutes more at the ring, or at the very least to cast a last longing glance backwards as they walked away, but she turned eagerly and followed Hearpwine up the hill. The silver bracelet glittered on her wrist as they went. Seeing that the young bard was lost in his own thoughts, she turned to her uncle. “Do you think this will work?” she asked him, touching the bracelet lightly.

Liornung smiled and shrugged. “I do not know. My head tells me not to trust in the bangles of wandering peddlers, but there are more strange things in this world than most realise. Do not place your faith in it…but do not cast it away either!”

They soon reached the great door of Meduseld where there way was ceremoniously barred by two guards. They were dressed in the full armour and cloaks of the King’s Guard and armed with long spears. One of them stepped forward and demanded, “Who seeks entrance to the Hall of King Éomer?”

Hearpwine enjoyed such pomp and ceremony. Indeed, the dramatic nature of the performance that he was expected to act before the doors of the King thrilled him like a fine tune. “I am Hearpwine,” he replied, “son of Æthelstan of the Western Marches. I come to play for the King in earnest of his request that all who would be his bard appear before him this day and prove their worth! My companions are the wandering bard Liornung and his niece Mearcwen. Liornung does not seek the contest this day, much to the relief of those who do!” He looked sideways at his friend and winked at him.

The guard looked Hearpwine up and down before replying. This time, his tone was more friendly and conversational. “You are very young, Master Hearpwine. There are already many bards in the hall of greater renown who vie for the garland this day. I have heard rumour of you this morning from those who heard you sing at the White Horse last night, but do you think you can best those gathered within?”

Hearpwine smiled broadly and replied, “There is only one way that we will find out, my friend, and that is for you to allow me to pass! When I have done this day’s work I will return and tell you how I have fared!”

The man smiled and indicated that the door be opened. Hearpwine bowed low and asked the guard his name. “I am Wulfstan, son of Beortnyth,” he replied. “I look forward to seeing you again master bard!”

The three friends entered the Golden Hall and were instantly taken aback by its glory this day. The large Hall was filled almost to capacity with a press of gaily dressed and noble people, whose very talking set the hanging pennants and banners waving above their heads. A low fire was burning in the middle of the hall and along both walls all the braziers and torches were lit, filling the Hall with light. At the end of the Hall sat the King and his Queen. At his left were Legolas and Gimli, looking very fine, and upon his right hand sat a noble lord of Gondor and his lady. The lord talked quietly with the King, but the lady’s eyes were fixed upon the door to see the new arrivals. The Contest was about to begin, and she was eager to see the bard. Her hair was like gold, and her face, though beautiful and merry upon this day, was noble and stern. Her memories of this day, like all of theirs, were of glory and victory, but there was also a deep and brooding darkness upon this anniversary for her, and while it could not overshadow the joy of the day, it lay upon her like the shadows under a field of white flowers. And thus it was that the three friends beheld the Lady Eowyn in the Hall of Meduseld.

Almost as soon as they had taken their places in the crowds, the King stood and called to all those gathered. He began with a rather lengthy speech noting all the lords and great people who had come this day, and welcoming the contestants. “Today,” he said, “we are here to decide who will become the Bard of the Golden Hall. We have called upon you from all corners of our kingdom to play for us so that we might decide who will do the Hall honour for years to come. Most of you I know already, and you are all mighty singers. Some of you are known to me only by reputation, and some,” and here he looked openly at Hearpwine, but his expression was one of openness and kindness, “are strangers to me. Only one can win the laurel this day, but all shall reap glory!” The King sat and his chamberlain came forth with a large basket, filled with many scarves of different colours. He bid all those who wished to sing before the King to come forward and take a scarf. Hearpwine’s heart fell when he saw how many men, and even a woman or two, stepped forth. As he took his scarf from the basket he saw from the corner of his eye a familiar face – it took him a moment to remember where he had seen it, but soon it came to him. It was the same youth who had been at Jesia’s booth. He smiled inwardly as he realised what her interest in the Contest had been.

When all the scarves had been claimed, the Chamberlain went to the Lady Eowyn and bowed before her. In his hands he bore a cup which he held to her. She took from it one of the many coloured chips of wood that it contained and handed it to the Chamberlain. He examined it and turned to the assembly, calling out, “He that bears the crimson scarf: stand forth!” Hearpwine looked down at the blood red scarf in his hand and his heart skipped a beat. His feet reacted more quickly than his mind, and before he could even realise what was going on, he was bowing before the throne. He rose and the King met his gaze. “What is your name, master bard?” the King asked.

So flummoxed was he by the sudden attention of the great crowd that the young man forgot his courtesy and answered rather too simply. “Hearpwine, my King.”

King Éomer smiled and urged the young man on with, “And where are you from Master Hearpwine? And what lay shall you sing for us to celebrate this great day?”

Hearpwine flushed at his own clumsiness and sought to recover his composure. “I an son of Æthelstan, my King, of the Western Marches, and this day I shall sing a lay that I have composed myself of King Theoden’s death.” A rumour of surprise ran through the crowd. It was rare for a bard to sing something of his own composition, and it was bold to sing of such a subject before the people who were gathered in the Hall this day, who had seen Theoden's fall with their own eyes. The King’s eyes widened slightly in surprise and his eyebrows lifted. “Well then, Master Hearpwine of the Western Marches. You do this Hall an honour. Let us hope, that you do it credit with your music as well. Begin!”

Hearpwine touched his harp, nervously at first, but as he ran through the familiar tune his fingers found their accustomed grace and his mind ceased its whirling. He closed his eyes and allowed the music to flow over and through him, willing himself to lose himself in the melody. Without thinking of it, the song began, almost as though it were singing itself, using his voice.

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd
Among the mountains by the Pelennor;
Until the King’s eored, man by man,
Had fall'n in shadow about their lord,
King Theoden. Then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Lord Eomer uplifted him,
And bore him to a green hill nigh the field.

Then spake King Theoden to Eomer:
"The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep--the men I loved. I think that we
Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Edoras, as in the days that were.
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone.
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die."

So saying, from the battlefield he half rose,
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
As in a picture. Him Lord Eomer
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not words;
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
And rising bore him thro' the place of death.

But, as he walk'd, King Theoden panted hard,
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King,
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quick!
I fear it is too late, and I shall die."
Then saw they how there hove a dusky bier,
Dark as a funeral scarf from end to end,
Beneath them; and descending they were ware
That all the field was dense with stately forms,
Golden-haired and golden-clothed, like a dream
Lady Galadriel: and from her rose
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.

Then murmur'd Theoden, "Place me in the bier."
So to the bier they came. There Galadriel
Put forth her hands, and took the King, and wept.
And she laid his head upon her lap,
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands,
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,
And dropping bitter tears against a brow
Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white
And colourless, and like the wither'd moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;
So like a shatter'd column lay the King;
Not like that Theoden who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro' the lists at Edoras, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

Then loudly cried the bold Lord Eomer:
"Ah! my Lord Theoden, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.”

And slowly answer'd Theoden from the bier:
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May those who follow me make pure!
But now farewell. I am going a long way
To the land of my great ancestors;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

So said he, and Eomer groan'd, “The King is gone.
He passes to be King among the dead.”
Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, but faint
As from beyond the limit of the world,
Like the last echo born of a great cry,
Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice
Around a king returning from his wars.
And the new sun rose bringing the new year.

The last low note of the tune hung about the Hall and then fell into a silence that was so complete, that Hearpwine fancied he could hear the slight heartbeat of Maercwen behind him.

[Nurumaiel]

Liornung's brow was dark and his eyes troubled as he took Maercwen's arm and began to lead her away. "Come, little Mae, 'tis time for you to return as Miss Aylwen requested," he said gently. "I will escort you there; I do not think it safe for a young woman to wander these streets alone." He murmured a few words of explanation in Hearpwine's ear and the young man nodded with a bit of regret. Liornung and Maercwen, after proper courtesies to the King and all in the hall, began to make their return to the Inn.

As soon as they were outside Liornung paused his niece and took her wrist, fingering the silver bracelet. Then slowly his hand dropped and he sighed deeply. "Take it off, Mae," he said.

Her eyes widened and she looked up into his face with surprise. "But, uncle, you told me not to cast it away!"

"I have changed my mind," he said, "and there is nothing more to say about it." Maercwen looked doubtful but nevertheless took the bracelet off her hand and gave it to her uncle. He took it, gazed thoughtfully at it for a moment, and then pressed it into her hand, bidding her to put it in her pocket but not put it back upon her wrist. She grew more startled. "You avoid the thing as if it bore a curse!" she cried. "Can you read the inscription? Is this thing evil?"

"I cannot read it," he said, "and I do not know if it is evil, but I would not have you wear it now. The boast that a mere circlet of silver could change one's fortune does not seem a true thought." He smiled in an odd way, as if there were thoughts of sadness inside him. "I do not believe in luck, nor any charm that is said to bring it." He began to lead her away again, but she was not content with what he had said. She saw he was deep in thought and was not paying very much attention to her. The way he had ordered her to give him the bracelet was odd, for he had encouraged her to keep it not long ago. She did not understand her uncle at times, but there was nothing that could be done about it. She did, however, desire to know more about the bracelet.

"Uncle, I desire to know what the inscription says. If it would not displease you, perhaps I might take it back to the old woman and beg her to tell me how it reads."

He pulled himself away from distant thoughts and looked at her in some confusion. He had not clearly heard what she had said. "What is this you ask, Mae?"

"To go back...?"

"Ah yes, of course. I see no harm in it. Stay there, however, until I come fetch you. I'm going to go back to the Inn for a brief moment. I recall I left my fiddle in the Common Room and I don't desire anyone bungling into it and breaking it." He patted her head gently and moved off into the crowd.

Odd that he should consent so willingly, but he surely knew what he was doing. She looked about her, trying to gather where she was and which direction the old woman was... Jesia she had been called. As the walked lightly in that direction, gazing about her with deep interest, she puzzled more over her uncle's doubt about the bracelet. When she thought back to the meeting with the old woman she could not see anything dark in it. Such folk as Jesia were always about in marketplaces, selling little trinkets they claimed to be enchanted yet were mere nothings. The woman had also been polite.

"Ah, I do see it is you again," croaked a voice from somewhere behind the girl. She started and turned, and then relaxed with a smile when she saw Jesia. "Your name was Mae, was it not?"

"Maercwen," the girl said, "but most call me simply Mae." She hesitated a brief moment, and then, putting her hand into her pocket, brought forth the circlet. "Miss Jesia, my uncle gave me permission to return to you and bid you tell me what these words say. If you would?" She held forth the bracelet.

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

Liornung stepped into the Inn, smiling at the delighted cries of his nephew and nieces, and the little excited gurglings of the baby. He kissed each in turn, bestowing a friendly smile upon the girl they were sitting with, and moved to his fiddle, taking it down from the chair it was upon and sending Mereflod off to put it in a safe place. He smiled as he sat beside Gomen. "I was quite afraid someone might have injured it seeing as it was there all alone," he said. "I hastened back as fast as I might."

"Where is Maercwen?" Aylwen questioned.

"She asked permission to go back and watch the feats of the horsemaster," he replied. Then the careless expression on his face turned into one of distress. "I do apologize, Miss Aylwen," he stammered. "I had quite forgotten that you desired her to return immediately after Hearpwine's song." He stood to his feet and made for the door. "I'll go and bring her back now. Again, my apologies."

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

Liornung looked about him in confusion, his eyes not even glancing towards the tricks of the horsemasters as they brought forth cries of delight from the spectators. He had moved through the crowd many times, calling Maercwen's name, but he had not found her. It was impossible to believe, but Mae was not there watching. A frown flickered over his face. He could not imagine the girl being so disobedient, but it seemed there was nowhere else for her to go except back to the Contest. He would go see.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The mood was somber, the hall was silent. Too silent. No one dared clapped, but silent nods and smiles of approval spread all around for Hearpwine. Perhaps the young man thought that the lack of cheers meant ill of his performance, but Asad knew that the audience had been captivated by his song. In truth, Asad had little doubt in Hearpwine's song winning him the spot as Bard. Asad had been the memory master of his family, reciting and recalling all familial songs and tales since he was young. It was tedious work, to say the least, and Jesia thought that Asad ought to try his luck...

...but Asad had little confidence in singing after Hearpwine. After all, the young bard had taken the crimson scarf. Asad knew what Jesia would say about him having the crimson scarf. In his heart Asad hoped that he was chosen far enough along that folk forgot how wondrous Hearpwine's performance had been. Then Asad knew that Hearpwine's song would never be forgotten. Never. Asad snapped from his thoughts as Hearpwine bowed away and the Lady chose a new chip of wood.

"The minstrel that holds the royal blue scarf, come forward!"

Asad cringed as he looked at the scarf clutched in his hand. It was a doubly ill omen - having a blue so deep in color and being chosen second to Hearpwine. But Asad stood forward, for it was his time.

"What is your name, young one? Where do you hail from, and what song do you play for us today?" The King asked mildly, and Asad wondered if his mind still lingered on Hearpwine's melody.

"I am called Asad, from right here in Edoras, my King," Asad replied calmly, glad for his good composure even if he had no chance of beating Hearpwine. "I was too young to go to war, and had to sit and wait for my family and my King to return from the war. This song is of anxiety and hope for a new future in waiting for my King to come home."

The King nodded, and Asad bowed before playing a quick tune on his pipe. When this was done, Asad started his song.

"Let rogues and cheats prognosticate
Concerning king's or kingdom's fate
I think myself to be as wise
As he that gazeth on the skies
My sight goes beyond
The depth of a pond
Or rivers in the greatest rain
Whereby I can tell
That all will be well
When the King enjoys his own again
Yes, this I can tell
That all will be well
When the King enjoys his own again

There's neither Swallow, Dove, or Dade
Can soar more high or deeper wade
Nor show a reason from the stars
What causeth peace or many wars
But all's to no end,
For the times will not mend
Till the King enjoys his own again
Yes, this I can tell
That all will be well
When the King enjoys his own again

For many years this royal crown
Hath been his father's and his own
And is there anyone but he
That in the same should sharer be?
For better may
The scepter sway
Than he that hath such right to reign?
Then let's hope for a peace,
For the wars will not cease
Till the king enjoys his own again
Yes, this I can tell
That all will be well
When the King enjoys his own again

Though for a time we see his hall
With cobwebs hanging on the wall
Instead of gold and silver brave
Which formerly was wont to have
With rich perfume
In every room,
Delightful to that princely train
Yet the old again shall be
When the time you see
That the King enjoys his own again
Yes, this I can tell
That all will be well
When the King enjoys his own again

Then fears avaunt, upon the hill
My hope shall cast her anchor still
Until I see some peaceful dove
Bring home the branch I dearly love
Then will I wait
Till the waters abate
Which now disturb my troubled brain
Then for ever rejoice,
When I've heard the voice
That the King enjoys his own again
Yes, this I can tell
That all will be well
When the King enjoys his own again..."

Asad finished, piping the same tune from the beginning before trailing off and bowing to his King. When he finished, he turned away and stood next to Hearpwine in the crowd. His voice was soft as he spoke to Hearpwine.

"Sir, the Kings words rang true when he said that you honor this hall this day. I was honored to hear your song," Asad complimented, serious in his words and tone.

---

"Miss Jesia, my uncle gave me permission to return to you and bid you tell me what these words say. If you would?"

Jesia laughed. It came out as a deep, low chuckle. Jesia had known that Mae would come back. That is why I gave it to her, and not Hearpwine. Jesia mused, feeling clever for just a moment, though sometimes in her aging years Jesia thought that cleverness would never be found. Mae was still young enough to be enchanted and captured by an intriguing mytery. Though Jesia did not know Mae, in her heart the old woman hoped that Mae kept this trait.

"Well, my dear, it says something in my tongue," Jesia began to explain, as Mae handed her the circlet for a moment and Jesia examined it again in her old weathered fingers. "To some it brings hope, and to others it brings confusion or dismay...The inside reads thusly:

He who sings scares away his woes..." Jesia read, before returning the bracelet to Mae.

Mae smiled. "Why did you give this to me for Hearpwine?"

"His confidence was faltering; I could see doubt in his eyes. But I could feel his strength and the refuge he found in his music..." Jesia explained. "Mae, I would appreciate it if you told Hearpwine this meaning."

[Nurumaiel]

Maercwen studied Jesia carefully. No, she could see no evil in the old woman's eyes. What concerned her uncle so? "I will tell Hearpwine thus," Mae said, taking the bracelet back and looking at it with some interest. "I still do not understand what this circlet is, though. I would beseech you to put it more clearly."

Jesia shook her head. "If you have a mind to think, use it," she said. "I have explained it clearly enough, but you have not given yourself time to muse over what I might mean." Maercwen nodded doubtfully and slipped the bracelet back into her pocket. Jesia's eyebrows raised slightly when she saw this. "Why do you not wear it, Mae?"

The girl blushed slightly. It seemed very foolish, what her uncle had said, but she did not want to disobey him. "My uncle bid me not wear it." She blushed more at Jesia's chuckle. "He was doubtful about it... I do not believe he thinks it holds some curse, but he does not like it." She would have said no more, but an urging to question further fell upon her. "Do you have any idea of why he does not like it?"

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

Asad's song ended, and Liornung nodded approval as he stepped into the Hall once again. He saw Hearpwine standing by the young man who had just sung, but he did not let his stare linger there long. His eyes moved over the Hall, seeking Maercwen... and not finding her. He grew worried. Perhaps she had been at the horse events but he had not seen her? Impossible. His eyes were too good to miss her, and he had searched the crowd many times. Where else could she be if she were not here? Could she have gone back to the Inn? No, he would have seen her in that case.

He moved skillfully through the crowd in the Hall, hoping not to attract the attentions of anyone but Hearpwine. He touched the young man's shoulder softly, but hesitated when their eyes met. Was it wise to tell him now when he was so concerned with the Contest? "Good Hearpwine, I beg you not to fret yourself," he said, "but I cannot find Maercwen. I do not call upon any action from you, but I thought it unjust to refrain from telling you."

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine’s attention was immediately seized from the kind words of Asad by Liornung’s news. Knowing already that Mae was not in the Hall, Hearpwine could not help but look about him for the sight of her face. Asad noted his distraction and quietly asked what was amiss. The next contestant was taking the floor and tuning her harp, and the people about Hearpwine and his companions looked at them with stares clearly meant to quiet them. Not a few of the faces he saw were openly shocked that the two men who were causing the disruption where those who had just finished singing! To avoid their stares, Hearpwine moved to the back of the Hall to speak with Liornung privately. Much to his surprise, the young man Asad joined them.

Hearpwine was abrupt. “When did you last see her? Did she get lost in the crowd?”

“I parted from her in the crowds about the fairgrounds.”

“And you did not go with her?” Hearpwine tried not to let the note of panic overtake his voice.

Liornung shook his head and cast his eyes to the floor, saying only, “My mind was on other matters. When I returned to the Inn I remembered that Mae was supposed to return to Aylwen, but when I went looking for her, I could not find her in the crowds."

Hearpwine's brow furrowed. "Why did she want to go about alone like that? Did she wish to see more of the horsemasters?"

Liornung's face lit up with sudden remembrance. "The bracelet!" he said. "She was curious about the bracelet the old woman gave her. Perhaps she went back to speak with her of it!"

Asad’s face creased with a slight frown. “If the lady did speak with my grandmother she will be sure to know what’s happened with her. Let us go and ask her where Mistress Maercwen has gone.”

Hearpwine and Liornung protested that they did not want to drag Asad away from the contest, particularly after he had sung so very well, but he was insistent. As their disputation was beginning once more to earn them some pointed looks they made for the door and slipped out as quietly as they could. As they stepped into the sunshine a wisp of the woman’s song came to Hearpwine like the scent of a fine flower on the morning breeze, and his heart longed to turn his feet about. But the duty he felt he owed his friends, and the worry that he felt for Mae in his own heart, drove him onward. They paused to speak quickly with the Guard Wolfstan. They asked if he had seen Mae and described her quite closely. “Nay,” he replied, “I have not seen her since she left the Contest with Master Liornung. You should return to the Hall and wait there, she is bound to turn up.”

“No,” Hearpwine said, “we are quite worried for her. We will look about Edoras for her. Should she come here, though, will you tell her to wait with you until we return?” Wolfstan nodded, a slight smile playing about his mouth. At this reassurance, Liornung, Asad and Hearpwine ran down the steps of the patio and moved into the crowds.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

"Well, dearie," Jesia contemplated what answer to give young Mae. "Perhaps he fears what he does not know..."

"My uncle fears nothing," Mae interrupted, with a slightly stubborn tone in her voice. Jesia smiled at Mae's protection of her uncle. She was a smart girl.

"Well, then he is a smart man. For nothing in life is to be feared, only to be understood. Maybe this is why your uncle dislikes the idea of my bracelet. Perhaps he does not understand it. If he wanted to understand it, he could, but methinks your uncle is gathering bundles of sticks to build a bridge that he will never cross. Now, Mae, where is your accompanament? I do not think it is a safe thing for a young lady like yourself to be out alone."

"You sound like my uncle," Mae scoffed, but she hid the sudden worry in her eyes well. Jesia wondered if she'd forgotten to get back to her uncle or back to Hearpwine.

"I said he was a smart man, and so I am glad to be likened to him."

---

As the three men worked their way through the crowds, Asad grinned back towards Hearpwine. "I hate to draw you away from your victory, friend!" Asad called back, then furrowed his brows as he turned back to the crowded path before him. Friend? Asad wondered at the words that had come from his lips. I hardly know him! Then Asad thought about these musings for a moment. Perhaps it is just a strange connection...

"Do not be too upset, I do not think I will miss much," Hearpwine replied tersly. While Asad could see the gratitude in his eyes at the compliment, Asad could also see the worry and upset nature that had overcome him since leaving the Hall. Do not doubt yourself, good Hearpwine! Asad cried inwardly. My grandmother saw something inside you, and I can see the passion and determination in your eyes!

The group quickly reached the booth where Jesia worked day in and day out. Asad hopped the flimsy wooden gate and tapped on his grandmother's shoulder, for she was turned to the opposite street and lane of crowded traffic. When she turned around from her customer, she grinned at her grandson and put her hands in a firm grip on his shoulders.

"Asad! How did you do?"

"Grandmama! Where is the girl?" Asad asked, and gestured to Liornung and Hearpwine. Jesia bowed to the worried men, and stepped out of the way to reveal Mae on the other side of the booth. Her eyes were locked on the bracelet still, until she looked up and saw her uncle and Hearpwine.

[Nurumaiel]

Liornung sprang forward with a cry of joy, delighting that Maercwen had been found. She put out her hand and gave the bracelet to him. "Here, uncle," she said, and nothing more. He took it and fingered it carefully before looking up at her. "Why did you return here without seeking my permission first?" he demanded.

"I did, uncle, and you gave it." She stared up at him in bewilderment and he passed a hand over his brow, saying, "There has been some confusion here, I think. Never mind. We will clear it later."

"Uncle... Jesia says you fear this bracelet because you do not understand it. Is this so?"

Liornung gazed thoughtfully at the bracelet, running his finger over it. "I told you already, Mae," he said. "I do not understand it. I do not fear it, either. I merely do not like it. I told you... I do not believe that a mere trinket can change man's fate. Besides, your parents would not approve of such enchantments. Let us leave it at that for now. Did you learn what it said?"

"Yes, and Jesia has bid me tell Hearpwine as well." Mae turned her eyes to the young man. "'He who sings scares away his woes.' That is what the inscription says."

"And very true, Mae. Nevertheless I do not like a niece of mine dealing in enchantments."

"I see." Maercwen touched it and frowned slightly. Then, sighing, she took it from her uncle and held it out to Jesia. "Will you take it then?" she asked. "I would not disobey my uncle."

[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 (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showthread.php?t=10735) 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."

.

[Kransha]

Osric, though he knew that the previous innkeeper who spoke now had not requested his oratory pamphlets, saw the opportunity to state his ploy and grabbed it without hesitation. He leapt to his feet, far too fast for a man with a useless leg, and managed to step into Bethberry’s scope of vision completely, raising a cupped hand with a sidling movement and began briskly. “Actually, Lady Bethberry, upon the matter of summer labor, I was hoping to speak to you about that subject briefly, for I have a more self-serving agenda this day.”

Her keen, deep eyes turned to him with moderate contentment, and she might have replied, but his quick wit and inner requirement spoke for him, forcing further words from his sore throat. He continued, constantly gesturing furiously for no apparent or sensible reason, though it seemed to be at least slightly effective.

“My nephew, Sigurd,” he rattled on, his speech droning but full, “has accompanied me from Aldburg to this city for a purpose unrelated to his or my enjoyment. As a boy who has now become a man, albeit a young one, I have been trying to seek employment for him. His mother assigned me the task, as she has seen too many years to gallivant across field and country searching for an occupation for her son, and I have been considering what manner of labor would be best for him. Then, as it happened, I was struck with the memory of this enchanting place and thought that it might be auspicious to find some enterprising activity for him in a place such as this, one where I could be sure amicable folk would be to educate him in life’s ways. I know not if the White Horse requires any laborers, but you, a woman of wisdom and knowledge of these lands that I lack, must know of some manner of charge I can give him that would be rooted here, in Edoras.”

Here, at last, the ancient Rohirrim paused, taking several sharp breaths and panting meagerly, his eyes that had been fixed on the uninteresting floor turned finally to Bethberry, seeing a look of polite understanding on her expression. He could not tell what her reply to his many queries would be, as her features portrayed no real emotion that he could detect. His dealing with her had been few indeed, and the last one he recalled was only a vaguely settled memory within him. Again, he did not wait to discern whether or not she would speak before diving back into his own words headfirst.

“He needs a teacher, Bethberry,” he said, now with weariness and overly obvious frustration, each syllable spouted to quickly to be considered by listener or speaker, “or rather, he needs teaching, for he is a brash youth, and has never been well schooled in his childhood. He is a stout lad, strong willed and otherwise, so he would serve for many purposes. If you could do so much as suggest a charge for him, I would be exceedingly, nay, eternally grateful. I can no longer teach the boy, nor can his mother and teachers have long lost hope for all save austere reprimand. He is not as unruly as he sounds, for he has matured and has a hearty, willing arm ready for whatever orders issued him.”

As he drew to a dazed close, he realized with some notion of confusion and horror that even he could not recall half of the things he’d uttered, for he had been preparing for this for such a time that every planned and contrived manner of speech had been fused unwholesomely into a singular mess. It was irrelevant now, though, since his end was complete. Now, he could only hope that Bethberry had words of wisdom in return. He had his reasons for such desperation, as deeply rooted as the gnarled digits of the tallest, greatest trees.

Meanwhile, as all this occurred, Sigurd had summoned up both courage and curiosity to pursue another course. Getting up more slowly from his own sturdy seat, the youth had made his way around the tables of the inn until he’d drawn near the young man who his uncle had singled out from the crowd earlier, the man he knew of only from his uncle’s heavily exaggerated tales, Hearpwine. He saw her, in fact, returning from some conversation with Maercwen. A very bare flicker of annoyance darted up in him as he considered what he might have been speaking of, but it concluded speedily as he found Hearpwine discoursing with another man.

“You are Hearpwine, the legendary bard, yes?” said Sigurd eagerly, his eyes twinkling with polite brightness reminiscent of the sly spark that glinted continually in the starry gaze of his uncle. He had interrupted one of them, which one he did not know, but he had severed one sentence nonetheless. Despite that, his excited gaze persisted as he looked upon the man.

“Indeed I am, though I would not say ‘legendary.’” Hearpwine laughed jovially, shooting a mildly apologetic look to his compatriot, Hanasían, as if he was able to speak on behalf of the inconsiderate Sigurd interrupting their conversation. “And you, you are he who was with Osric?” He extended a light-hearted hand. Sigurd’s hand, trembling foolishly, shot out to grasp Hearpwine’s and shook it vigorously.

“Yes.” He responded swiftly, “I am his nephew, Sigurd, son of Sigmund. It is a great pleasure to meet you.”

[Nurumaiel]

Leofan ground his teeth together in anger but remained outwardly calm as he strode to the Inn. Gomen had fetched Hearpwine's walking stick and given it to him, and then seeing that the bard was still engaged in conversation had returned to the stable. A young woman had come then, and she had struck him for no apparent reason. Leofan's blood had surged within him, but he had said nothing until the girl had left. And then he had comforted a stunned, sorrowful-looking Gomen in the best manner he could while staring at the horse the girl had brought. It was rather injured, to say the very least, and he was surprised that the girl had just left it there without speaking to him at all about it. Perhaps not everyone knew how good he was with horses, but he would expect one to have a certain amount of confidence in the knowledge of a stablemaster. She was young, however, and perhaps it could be slightly excused.

Her youth was no excuse for striking Gomen. The boy had struggled valiantly with his tears and had succeeded in keeping them back, but he had been deeply hurt. His first thought when he saw the girl was that she was very pretty. She had very large, lovely eyes. Gomen was not yet old enough to admire a girl with the intentions of perhaps courting her, but he could not help but admire beauty as he would admire the beauty of his mother or his sister, or perhaps the beauty of Aylwen or Bethberry. The girl had brown hair cut rather short, but which brought out the fair characteristics of her face and complimented her eyes. He had been standing there, admiring her with all his boyish will, when she had cursed him and struck him across the face. Leofan had seen the look of shock that swiftly spread across his son's countenance, and then change to hurt and sorrow. The girl had not given him another glance but had swept out of the stable.

She was standing at the bar now, a broken cup in her hand. Leofan did not approach her immediately but calmed himself a little more. He did not want to clearly show how uspet he was. He could not do much about the way she had treated his son, except speak to Bethberry who was temporarily serving as Innkeeper, and he was loathe to do that. He did not consider the matter great enough at the moment to cause such trouble. If it ever happened again, he would then speak, but for now he would grimly let it go by. He would not, however, allow the horse to remain unattended by its mistress in the condition it was in, and he intended to take her out even if he had to drag her. He doubted it would come to such extremes, for he had seen the look of love that passed in the girl's eyes when she looked to her steed, but he would surely show her exactly how careless she had been to merely leave as she had done.

"Excuse me, miss," he said, and as she turned he touched his forehead politely. "You came into the stable with your horse not five minutes ago, and I have not heard your name."

"Arrya," she replied briefly.

"Then, Miss Arrya, I must request you to come back to the stables," he said. "Your horse, I have noticed, is seriously injured and it was careless of you to leave him in such a condition. I am the stablemaster, Leofan, and if you need any assistance in caring for your mount you may ask me. However regardless of that, I bid you return to the stables and suitably care for your horse, with or without my aid."

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

Gomen watched his father leave the stable and then slipped up to the loft, where he buried himself in the hay and let the tears run down his cheeks. He had been a stableboy at the White Horse all his life and never before had anyone struck him. The mark on his cheek pained him but it pained him more that the action had actually been carried out. He hoped his father would not return for awhile yet; he did not want to be seen crying. He rubbed at his eyes vigorously but it was no use. Helplessly he abandoned himself to his sorrow and wept.

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

Maercwen returned to the kitchen rolling up her sleeves and looking rather mournfully at her mother. She said nothing, however, and began to wash dishes. Frodides pursed her lips and paused in her own work to study Mae carefully. Something was on the girl's mind; that much was clear. Frodides often worried about her eldest. Maercwen was old enough now to be attracting the attention of the lads and Frodides doubted the way she had raised her daughter. Suppose Mae married some wicked man who would not care for but rather cause her much pain?

"Maercwen darling, something is troubling you," she said gently. "You don't need to wash those dishes yet. Breakfast is not quite over and more dishes will be coming soon. What causes your distraction?"

The girl looked down in distaste at the rejected dishes and ceased from washing them. She glanced sternly at Motan and Mereflod who had been reaching up to steal some cakes while their mother was not looking, and they hastily withdrew their little hands. "Well, Mamma, I am merely disappointed," she said. "Hearpwine is taking Gomen out walking later, and he asked me to come along. I have already guessed what your answer will be."

"I would not refuse you for the sake of the walk itself," Frodides assured her, "but I must refuse to let you go because there is still work to be done and you are needed to do it." She gazed thoughtfully at the look of devastation that came to Maercwen's face. At times she wondered exactly how her daughter felt for Hearpwine, but always had Mae fervently denied having any feelings of love for him. She seemed to be quite in earnest, but Frodides could never tell if she were too much in earnest. "I apologize for denying you the pleasure, Mae," she said.

"Think naught of it, Mamma," said Mae, but the disappointment was still clear in her eyes. Frodides sighed and continued on with her work.

[Bêthberry]

The sound of a cup breaking drew Bethberry's attention away from the rather extraordinary disquisition of Osric. She was about to attend to this new woman, who was apparently calling to someone, when Leofan appeared, in some manner a bit disturbed about some event. She moved to excuse herself and speak to him when he raised his eye to her, nodding and shaking his head towards her before taking the young woman back to the stable. Realising she could discuss the matter later with him, she turned back to Osric, who was pulling at Sigurd's arm as if to draw attention away from Hearpwine and towards Bethberry.

"Osric, that is a mighty speech for one with a sore throat," she wryly observed.

He nodded and his face reddened, but he looked somewhat pleased.

She looked over at him without speaking for some time, waiting for him to continue. He coughed and pulled on Sigurd's sleeve some more. Hearpwine looked up and sat back in his chair, ready to observe this little drama, some of the tiredness in his body coming back into his mind. Blushing with all this attention, Sigurd finally looked up at his uncle.

Osric looked back at his nephew and with his eye winking tried to give the boy a hint to speak up to Bethberry.

The boy looked at his uncle and saw a half wink, half grimace.

"What's wrong with your eye, Uncle?" he asked, wanted to talk with the young Bard and not the older, somewhat austere woman who was observing him, who did not have the attractions to his mind of the young Mae.

"Nothing, nothing,' hastily replied Osric, who was running past all manner of idea about how to proceed, having used up all his ideas in his previous address to the woman.

Discretly hiding a smile, Bethberry turned to the boy.

"Your uncle has made a request for you. Would you like to make a similar request of your own or would you prefer to leave me in suspense about what you want?" she said, not unkindly, but clearly deciding to have a bit of fun with this situation, as a way of testing to see how the boy would react. It was the easiest way she knew to test his character in order to determine if she could use his help at The Horse, and, as the morning was somewhat idle, it was a way also for them to pass some time.

So, all four adults, Osric, Hanasian, Hearpwine and Bethberry, turned their gazes upon the hapless lad.

[Kransha]

Sigurd looked around, blinking incessantly, trying to figure out exactly why he’d been singled out. He kept feeling a tug on his elbow, but ignored it, even after he realized that the stray hand was Osric’s. He began to piece together the situation, and it all became clear. He’d been clearly prepared for this by old Osric days ago, how he was to beseech a job from Bethberry of Aylwen in the White Horse, or on its grounds. He considered, looking contemplative as Osric continued looking anxious (and continually massaging his sore throat as if it would actualy do some good, though it almost certainly wouldn't), Bethberry smiled politely, and Hearpwine and Hanasian exchanged emotionless glances and inaudible mutterings.

At first young Sigurd had been harshly opposed to the idea of being thrust into employment by his uncle, but this had been in the more tender years of his youth, and he had had other, more brash commitments. As he’d left Aldburg with his uncle, he’d been only slightly against the proposal Osric had lain so carefully before him. Now, he was unsure of where he stood on the matter, but realized that the whole idea seemed far more desirable, but for only a few reasons, which had been presented to him but recently. First, the atmosphere that his uncle had spoken of was legitimate and fair, a grand establishment compared to the stable jobs in Aldburg and the other small towns in the Wold. Secondly, the people were indeed, as he’d been told, good and true folk, as far as Sigurd could deduce. Lastly, with some relevance to the last point, being commissioned at the White Horse would allow Sigurd to receive some education in the ways of song from Hearpwine, in the ways of life from Bethberry or Aylwen, and, of course, in anything else that was required, from Maercwen.

“Yes, Bethberry,” he said at last, “I know of the request he has made, and it is a much mine as it is his.”

Osric seemed as if he’d readied himself for some horror, but now only stared at the empty space between Sigurd and Bethberry, utterly confused. Sigurd had never showed an affinity for being concise, or being helpful in any matter, as was his common attitude. It was not like him to just give in, which is what he seemed to be doing. He gawked, stupefied as he stood and heard Sigurd continue.

“I seek employment here, as my uncle has no doubt explained to you in great detail.” he began, his expression of bewilderment metamorphosing into a bizarre and reasonless glee as he recited, word for word, the speech given him by his overly oratory uncle on the eve of their departure from Aldburg. “As said, his sentiments are my own, voiced well by him, no doubt. If you could supply me with that labor that I, in my youth, so readily require, I, my uncle, and all those living who hold some bond of blood with me will be grateful. I know that here I could find an experience unlike many others, and under the tutelage of you and your most esteemed ‘colleagues,’ I would profit greatly. And, I assure you, my services would be as great as I can make them, and I would not shirk whatever duties you assign me. What say you?”

Bethberry did not respond immediately, as Sigurd knew she wouldn’t. It wasn’t a simple question, or so he thought. He now took the time to glance at his uncle, only to see his colorless face and limp lower jaw, seemingly misplaced. He stifled a laugh, knowing exactly how this sudden lack of discontentment on his part had probably affected Osric. “Uncle, is something wrong?” He murmured quietly, but just loudly and forcefully enough to stir the Rohirrim from his befuddled stupor.

Osric managed to re-adjust his hanging jaw, scratching at his neck nervously to alleviate the sudden pang that had arisen more prominently there. “No…not at all.” He murmured, still dazed, his eyes not meeting those of his nephew, who was not even trying to hide a very smug grin as he awaited Bethberry’s response hopefully, expecting a favorable response as Osric began the same.

[Orofaniel]

Aedre admitted to herself that she was weary and sad by Aylwen's absence. However, she wouldn't let anyone else know. There was certainly room for Aedre at the Inn even though Bêthberry would be the Innkeeper while Aylwen was away. Bêthberry was a kind and wise woman, and she knew of course, that the Inn would be perfectly run by her as well. It had indeed been Bêthberry who'd run the Inn before, and she was after all the owner. Aedre had naught to neither worry nor miss because Aylwen would be back soon enough.

The morning was as beautiful as can get; the flowers were blooming outside Aedre's window, and the colours were flattering bright. The morning had brought with it a few drops, so some of the leaves were still wet. Soon, however, the sun would take care of that, with its warming rays.

The colourful scenery outside encouraged Aedre; Her mood was pleasant and joyful; no worries, just joy. She figured the day at the Inn would be just as any other day, but she'd never thought ill of it. Indeed, how she liked working there. What more could one possible wish for, she did not know. Nor did she ever think she would know either, because this was absolutely the perfect place for her. As these thoughts swirled in her head she hurried into the kitchen. "Ah, good morning," she said as she saw Mae and Frodides washing the dishes. They seemed like they were in a good mood as well, but not just as happy as Aedre. She didn't know it was caused by the huge amount of dishes that were standing in front of them, or if it was caused by the thought of even more dishes to come when breakfast was finished. Maybe it was both, Aedre couldn’t tell by just looking at them.

"Good morning to you as well, Aedre," Mae said as she stopped washing for a moment. Her face was joyful and gay for a moment there, but the face expression fell steadily – and then it was gone. Frodides nodded and smiled. "It's beautiful outside today, isn't it?" Aedre said as she stabled some of the clean dishes. "Oh yes, indeed. It's very beautiful," Mae confirmed. She looked at Frodides, as if she was longing for something. Frodides looked at her a bit stern, but not as if she was angry. Aedre narrowed her eyebrows, because she knew that something was going on, but this time as well, she couldn’t tell by just looking at the two women in front of her. Aedre isn't the kind of person who doesn't ask about the things she is curious about, she is quite the opposite.

This situation was no exception, and Aedre the humble maid, couldn't hold her tongue this time either. "Now, what is going on?" she asked. Her curiosity had turned into suspicion. Who could blame her? "What do you mean?" Frodides asked her as she curled her lips. "It's nothing," Mae interrupted. But it looked as if the girl regretted what she'd just said and continued; "Hearpwine asked if Gomen would go for a walk with him, and he asked me to come along as well," she said casually as if she didn’t really care. Aedre grinned;" Oh, how lovely! You lucky girl...out on a fine day like this - with such a great lad as well," she added afterwards. She smiled, but soon noticed that Mae hadn't finished.

"No, I told her she couldn't go if there is much work here at the Inn," Frodides said and looked at Aedre. "Don't encourage her," she whispered. "I'm sorry dear," Aedre said to Mae, with great compassion, because she truly felt sorry for her. To deny a young girl outside on a day like this? That was simply not the way it was supposed to be, Aedre figured.

"How about; I'll do some extra work?" Aedre said suddenly. "I mean, no one offered me a walk, so I have nothing else to do!" Aedre laughed merrily. She looked at Mae: her eyes brightened up, but she said nothing. Then Aedre turned to Frodides. "What say you?"

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine turned back to Hanasían and picked up their conversation where it had been interrupted by Sigurd. He smiled at the young man’s impetuous energy and at the way he struggled to recover himself and live up to his uncle’s undoubtedly high, if oddly expressed, expectations. “Nay,” Hearpwine began again, “I did not meet Master Meriadoc, for I never came to Edoras during the War. I arrived too late for the muster and had to content myself with skirmishes upon the northern marches. When the War was over I was ordered to remain with a small band of Riders on the frontier and guard it against any incursions from the remnants of Mordor. I was only able to join the rest of the Rohirrim when they brought back Theoden to his Hall. On this journey I met many folk who have lived in my imagination since, including the Halflings. But of all the greathearts of the Shire, only Master Gamgee spoke with me at length.” They talked for a while longer about the Halflings and what they knew of their doings and ways, which was little for Hearpwine, as all he knew was from the few songs that mentioned them. Hanasían had more knowledge of the little folk, but as he had never travelled in their land much of what he reported was rumour.

As they talked, Hearpwine sensed an odd sadness, or perhaps an unfulfilled longing in the Ranger. It was strange enough indeed to see one such as him in these lands in these days, as most of the Dunedain had gone to Minas Tirith with their lord and spent their days in Gondor and to the lands south and east of their kingdom. But added to the strangeness of his mere presence was the fact that Hanasían still wore the robes of a Ranger and not the cloth of a royal retainer of Gondor, nor the sign of any other higher rank. Finally, there was the quill and parchment that was an almost constant companion to the Man, although they were not in evidence this morning. Hearpwine found him intriguing as a result of these, but knew not how to question the man about them.

Another yawn overtook him and his eyes near watered at the strength of his fatigue. He smiled in apology to his companion explaining, “I slept but three hours last night, and that was fitful enough for I was constantly being awoken by the King’s own dogs: they had taken a liking to my beard and were constantly licking at it.” He laughed at the memory. “I am too weary to be anything but abed…” He suddenly remembered what it was that had kept him from his sleep. Gomen! he thought. By Hrothgar’s mane, I forgot the lad! He looked about the Inn for a sight of the boy but he had disappeared. Hearpwine was stung with shame for having let his promise to take him walking slip his mind so easily. As luck would have it, at that moment the door to the kitchen opened and from where Hearpwine sat he could see Mae speaking with someone. He caught her eye and waved to her, indicating that he wished to have a word. She quickly looked at whomever she was speaking with and, wiping her hands on her apron, came toward him.

Hearpwine turned back to Hanasían in order to explain. “I’ve just remembered that I promised to take young Gomen with me on a walk outside Edoras this day. He seems to have grown weary of waiting and disappeared. I’ll just ask his sister where he has gone.” Mae was soon beside their table, and looking a bit uncomfortable to be there. She said that she did not know where her brother had gone, but that she would find him and say that Hearpwine was ready to go for their walk. As the lass turned away, Hearpwine asked if she had obtained permission to join them. Mae blushed, saying “I was just speaking with my mother about that when you called, Hearpwine. I do not know, but perhaps you and Gomen had best plan on going alone…” Hearpwine felt a tinge of real disappointment but did not let it show. He knew what people were beginning to think of he and Mae and he did not want to set tongues wagging any more about the girl. It was one thing to be a man and have people speaking of you – it was entirely different for a comely young lass.

Mae left them and went in search of her brother. Hearpwine turned back to his companion, and said. “We may not have long to speak, now, before I am dragged out of here by young Gomen, but I must ask to know somewhat of your story. I had thought that all the Dunedain were gathered in Gondor with the King Elessar, and that you had all been elevated to the ranks of knights and lords. How is it that you are here as a Ranger of the North, seeking to record what others have to say about their lives?”

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry caught sight of Aedre scurrying into the kitchen and thought of the errands she needed to ask the girl to do that day. She ran over the list which Aylwen had left her in her mind, trying to figure out how she could excuse herself her in order to talk with the girl without being rude.

She caught the words, "it is as much mine as it is his" and suddenly realised she was missing part of the conversation. She looked up at Sigurd as he began a long, heroic and obviously practised request. She began to stare at his mouth, which was forming words of length and eloquence far beyond that of the Rohirrim youth of the day and she found herself unconsciously searching for a metre or rhythm to their expression, silently counting the syllables of each word. Finally, Sigurd ended with the refrain,

" And, I assure you, my services would be as great as I can make them, and I would not shirk whatever duties you assign me. What say you??"

In her mind she was recalling the strangely contradictory words of his uncle just previously, something about his parents loosing hope and Osric needing to use severe reprimand on the boy. It was the strangest, most bizzare supplication she had ever heard in her life and she couldn't for a moment begin to think how she would reply.

Maybe I should let Aylwen sort this out, she idly wondered, before thinking that would be rather lazy of her to do. She watched Oscric scratch his jaw and out of the corner of her eye she caught Hearpwine desperately trying to sifle a grin by picking up a tankard and hurriedly hiding his face in the bottom of it. She found herself unaccountably needing to scratch her upper lip, as if likely to be overcome by a sneeze and she looked over towards the kitchen wondering if Frodides would appear and bring an end to this current scene with a request about the day's meal plans. But no Frodides was forthcoming, indeed Bethberry could hear murmers of words from the kitchen.

She looked Hearpwine directly in the eye and then Hanasian before raising her eyebrow at Osric. She thougth a bit and then turned to Sigurd.

"My lad," she said, "perhaps you could tell me what duties you would shirk should I assign you any."

And she attempted to make her face appear as bland as possible as she made this not quite entirely innocent request.

[Snowdog]

The talk of the Shirelands and halflings carried about some, and their habit of smiking pipeweed was seemingly slowly catching on amoonst the Rohirrim, and to a lesser extent, the Gondorians, but the high prices for the good Shire brands prevented it from being too widespread. Hanasían wondered if ol Hobs figured some good money could be made by selling some on the side. No, he didn't smoke, which was considered strange by other hobbits, and his love of brewmastering held sway over him.

Hanasían thought of the north while Hearpwine had turned his attention toward Mae and considered his impending walk, while Bêthberry was tending to Sigurd work request. Hearpwine did say to Hanasían,

“We may not have long to speak, now, before I am dragged out of here by young Gomen, but I must ask to know somewhat of your story. I had thought that all the Dunedain were gathered in Gondor with the King Elessar, and that you had all been elevated to the ranks of knights and lords. How is it that you are here as a Ranger of the North, seeking to record what others have to say about their lives?”

Hanasían thought silently for a moment at this. He could not speak of a council that King Elessar summoned three of his Dúnedain Ranger kinsmen, Haladan, Amunden, and himself. It was not spoken of by any, and to each it was unofficially known as the Council of Stealth. After a brief discussion among the four Dúnedain, they went to a small meeting chamber where Éomer Éadig, King of Rohan, and Faramir, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien were having a discussion of their own. Soon they were joined by Farasan, a renowned Ranger of Ithilien and lieutenant to Faramir, Frea, a lieutenant of Rohan, and Berogon, a trusted captain and acting emmisary for King Bard II of Dale. There were no servants about, and two of King Elessar's guard stood outside the door. The whole council lasted maybe an hour, but what was asked, said, thought about, and argued upon among these Men were enormous. Then Frea, Farasan, Amunden, Haladan, and Hanasían were dismissed for a time while the Lords of Men talked some more. When we were again summoned to the council chamber, the questions asked them were of their plans and of their families, and what was asked of them was also enormous and would be life changing. In the end, Frea opted out as did Haladan, who had a wife and had just gained word of the birth of his son in the north. So Hanasían, Amunden, Farasan, remained and Berogon then discussed what was immediatly required of them. After agreeing under oath to serve in this matter, sworn to the Kings of Dale, Rohan, and the United Dúnedain Kingdom of Arnor and Gondor, they were then only given instructions to gather at Henneth Annûn by the night of the next full moon.... Hanasían looked at Hearpwine and said,

'I had become a sort of historian in my youth in Rivendell. It grew out of my persistant enquiries about my father Halasí, of whom only a shadow of memory do I hold. The great library of Imladris also conspired to inspire me, and in learning Tengwar script, I began to write of the tales spoken of deeds uncounted. When I came with my mother Forcwyn to Rohan, I learned much of riding and warfare, and I began a book chronicling the spoken deeds of the Rohirrim. I call it the Rohirric Annals. I had also learned the speech and script of my mother's kin so that which I would write could be read by the common folk.. or at least by those who could read. But this is not what you ask. but no, not all of the Dúnedain Rangers are in Minas Tirith, though most are, and are in the King's Governing Council. But I do not go out for the pomp and celebration. The King's work goes on even now. We will have to speak more of things, and maybe you could make song to some of the deeds I record.'

Officially, after the Council of Stealth, Hanasían had asked for and was granted leave of service by King Elessar. But he still served his Chieftain. He paused and looked at Sigurd as Bêthberry spoke to him,

"My lad, perhaps you could tell me what duties you would shirk should I assign you any."

A grin came across Hanasían's face as he sipped his tea, and he watched the younsters reaction to see if he realized he could name his duty. Hanasían nodded back to Hearpwine and said,

'What do you think the lad will say?'

[Nurumaiel]

Frodides smiled in a motherly fashion at the woman. She had grown quite fond of Aedre over the years and knew her very well, more than most guests at the Inn for she did not show herself much. In truth Aedre was only a little younger than herself, though Frodides had always thought her much younger than she really was. Aedre had a very good heart. Frodides had always known this, but her offer to do extra work so Mae could go out walking only proved it further. "I thank you for your offer, Aedre," she said, "and I have no doubt that Maercwen does the same, but... You see, Mae has already been out riding this morning and I consider it now not a matter of the work that needs to be done but a lesson of responsibility and duty, whatever the disappointment." She turned to speak to her daughter, but she saw that Mae was gone. Peering around the kitchen door, she saw that Maercwen had just departed the company of Hearpwine and had turned towards the Inn door. Frodides realized that she was no doubt looking for Gomen.

Frodides turned back to Aedre and smiled again. "Once again I thank you," she said. She continued with her work but continued to steadily gaze at Aedre. "It has been long since we have spoken," she said. "I do not know why, for we are almost always together. Perhaps it is because these days have been busy and it is often difficult to work and talk at the same time. But as women we should not be denied it." She laughed lightly. "Tell me, Aedre, how have things been in your own life? You have tended well to the lives of the others in your work here, but I hope you are not ignoring yourself."

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

Maercwen had seen the look of clear disappointment on Hearpwine's face and it increased her own disappointment all the more. She pulled herself away from him as hastily as possible, wishing that she had not been riding earlier in the morning. Perhaps then her mother would be more ready to consent. She treasured the time she had spent with Gomen but she regretted she could not spend time now with Gomen and Hearpwine. He spent all his days at the Hall and would often not return until evening; it would not be a short time before he could request she walk with him again.

She went out to the stables to look for Gomen and found her father standing outside the door, talking in a low voice that was not quite stern but very authoritive. He was addressing a young woman whose face was new to Maercwen. No doubt it had to do with the horses. Her father would never speak in such a tone to a guest on any other matter. She courtesly nodded her head to both but did not speak, for this was a matter which she could not interrupt. She slipped into the stable to search for Gomen.

At first the table appeared empty, or at least Gomen was not there. The horses dozed, or pranced, or ate their breakfast as they saw fit, but Gomen was nowhere in sight. And then she heard a faint sound from the loft. She drew closer, straining her ears, and her eyes widened in shock as she realized it was her brother Gomen, and he was crying. Catching up her skirts she scrambled awkwardly up the ladder and went to the lad's side, falling to her knees beside him and stroking his gold hair. "Gomen, what has happened to you?" she cried in compassion. He made her no answer but merely sat, tears streaming down his face, clenching and unclenching his hands. Maercwen put an arm about his shoulders and helped him to his feet. "Gomen, come to Mamma," she said, gently pulling him to the ladder. "You should not be up here all alone." He obeyed her blindly.

As she hustled him past her father she saw a glimpse of his face and was surprised. It tightened in restrained anger and he looked at the young woman he was speaking with. Not with any strong emotion but a look that knew and also revealed. Maercwen realized immediately the girl had something to do without, though she did not know how she was concerned. Pushing her wonderings aside, she thrust open the door to the Inn and led the sobbing Gomen across the floor of the Common Room towards the kitchen. Bethberry had been speaking with Sigurd but when she saw Gomen she stopped, saying, "Maercwen, what has happened?"

Maercwen paused for a moment and studied Bethberry thoughtfully, then briefly cast her gaze over all gathered there. All of them were as surprised as Bethberry. Clearly it was only her father who knew what was wrong. "I don't know," she said slowly, and brought Gomen into the kitchen. Frodides let out a gasp when she saw him and knelt in front of him, catching his tears in her apron. He would not tell her what was wrong as he had not told Mae, so Frodides merely pulled him to her and held him, stroking his hair comfortingly. Maercwen stood awkwardly by until her mother spoke, saying, "Mae, would you make a cup of tea for the lad?"

Gomen spoke brokenly, his voice caught up in sobs and the breath pulled from him. "I don't want a cup of tea, Mamma."

"Just sit, darling," she said, putting him on a chair and gazing down at him. She felt her heart breaking inside her, as it had always whenever one of her children was hurt. The tear-stained little faces, the little bodies convulsed with sobs, and the weeping hearts within them. She remembered as a young girl she had once seen a boy crying with sorrow and hurt and she had wanted nothing more than to gather him in her arms and mother him. Looking down at her own son she realized there was nothing to prevent her and so she put her arms about him once more and comforted him as only a mother can.

[Witch_Queen]

He stood there with his hand across the fresh cut on his cheek. He knew that in a matter of no time it would become another scar. The elf didn't know what to think of the Inn. He had been traveling for many days and decided that for a change he actually needed to sleep on a bed. The constant change in the hardness of the ground was about to kill him. Par Ohmsford didn't know anyone yet it seemed like the room was filled with familar faces. His blonde hair hung loose around his face. He tried to make the cut stop bleeding but it seemed like it would take a little bit more than just pressure. It was a small cut but he still couldn't stand the feel of blood going down his face.

His blue eyes scanned the room to find an empty seat. It seemed like everyone got along well. After a few moments of searching he found the perfect chair. He sat down off to the side of everyone else. He didn't know whether or not he should listen to their conversation or keep his mind in his own affairs.

Par sat there and remembered his past. It only seemed like weeks since he last saw his old friend Legolas. Plus since the ending of the "secret council" meeting, he hadn't returned back home. Eryn Lasgalen was so far away and only a part of his past that he now whished to forget. The last thing he could remember of his friends was watching them sail away on the next to last ship to Valinor.

[Kransha]

Though he had not been asked to do so, Osric took Bethberry’s vaguely concealed hint, grabbed it by the horns, and ran with it before anything could be done to stop him. He was far too eager to get the irksome situation squared away to allow Sigurd the opportunity to make a mistake, so a renewed and refreshed tirade. “Well, the lad has a strong arm, for any hard labor you might charge him with, a quick wit and a head for numbers, does not tire as easily as most, has an inexhaustible nature that I’m sure would profit from, I assure you. He could help in the stables, cater to guests, tend to the grounds, see to all of the delectable victuals you provide, tend to the ale supply, hold up legless tables-”

“Osric,” Bethberry raised her hand, in effect silencing him abruptly, with a delicate and well-hidden smile crossing her face, “Sigurd is entirely capable of speaking for himself.”

Osric was about to continue, and his mouth had already opened with a new word forming on his lips, but the vague and interruptible sound duly died in his throat, as if on cue, and he nodded in defeat, realizing his own error as he spoke, much more meekly than the old Rohirrim usually did. “Yes,” he murmured dejectedly, “yes. Of course he is.” He turned, still looking defeated, but with some mild idea of hope reflected on his face as he looked at his nephew, with a expression that seemed a mix between insistence and pleading. “Sigurd,” he said, trying to fill his raspy voice with an aspect of command, but probably failing, “tell Bethberry what jobs you can do for her and how aptly.”

Again, Sigurd concealed no grin, but let it shine for his uncle to see and narrow his tired eyes at. He turned, still smiling, and clasped his hands in front of him, looking amiably at the former innkeeper. “My uncle exaggerates.” he began, words which caused Osric to visibly wince, for he no doubt thought that Sigurd was about to squander whatever chances he’d ever had. “Betberry, I am just a simple young man, but I will try my hardest to do whatever task you appoint me, as it will benefit both of us mutually no matter what. If that is not specific enough for you, forgive me, but I know not what slots are available for the filling, so I can only say that.” And he ended promptly and with fine precision, allowing Betberry and the other esteemed folk gathered to consider his words, while Osric just looked nervously back and forth and coughed.

[Orofaniel]

The poor boy, Gomen, had come into the kitchen together with Mae while tears shed down his small innocent face. The chocking sound of his voice, that swallowed the unbearable sobbing, seemed like too much for his mother; she was embracing him, hoping that it somehow would comfort him, although it did seem to be quite difficult at the time. He wept and sobbed, and Aedre couldn't do much to help him. She felt bad about it, and her happiness that she earlier had brought to the room seemed to fade away bit for bit.

"Dear Gomen, is there anything I can do for you?" Aedre asked him, as he still was weeping in his mother arms. "Thank you for the offer, Aedre. I will certainly turn to you if there is anything needed," Frodides told her, smiling weakly. "He'll be alright," she added. Aedre tried to smile back, but it ended up like an odd grimace.

"What say you Mae, should we step outside for a bit and give Gomen some room?" Aedre suggested, patting Mae on the shoulder. She nodded weakly and followed her out from the kitchen.

"Do you know what happen to your dear brother?" Aedre asked her as soon as they had slipped out the kitchen doors. Aedre seemed a bit worried when she saw that Mae had grown pale. "No, I'm afraid not," She said, looking down in the floor. "I don't like seeing my brother's tears streaming down his face," she then said looking at Aedre. "I don't like seeing tears in the faces on the people I love."

"None of us do dear," Aedre said, comforting the girl. "It's not pleasant to see them in a state like this, especially when we are close to them. Yet tears can be reliving sometimes - Take me for example, when I'm sad, upset or hurt, I sometimes feel my sorrows float away in my tears. Of course, the pain is great when you cry, but hopefully afterwards, you'll feel much better. I know I do," Aedre told Mae. “Gomen is another case though, but he’ll handle it, don’t you think? He will be just alright," she continued trying to sound both compassionate and encouraging.

[Nurumaiel]

Maercwen sighed when Aedre left and sat down outside the kitchen, listening painfully to the sobs coming from within. She felt close to tears herself, suffering accutely every particle of her brother's pain. It had always hurt her and she knew it always would. She loved all her brothers and sisters dearly, but she could not deny that Gomen had always been her special brother. She remembered as a child she had nearly died of impatience, waiting for his birth, and how from his first days she had hovered about him, assuming the role of his little mother. Gomen had been passionately attached to his mother, and when Giefu had been born he found himself suddenly ignored by her, or so he felt. Certainly she didn't pay as much attention to him. But Maercwen had come and spent all her free time with him, though she had been only a little girl herself. And so they had grown up with each other.

In the kitchen Gomen slowly ceased in his crying and put his head wearily on his mother's shoulder, letting the last few tears slide down his cheeks. Frodides continued to stroke his hair but drew him back a little so she could look into his face. "Now, darling, would you tell me what is wrong?" she questioned him. Tears began to waver on the brink of his eyelids again, but he drew his sleeve across his eyes and held them back bravely.

"Mamma," he said, letting his head fall on her shoulder again and closing his eyes, "there was a beautiful young girl who came to the stable with her horse. She was so beautiful, Mamma..." He paused, and despite his sorrow added earnestly, "Though not nearly as beautiful as you!" He fought his tears back once again as he recalled what had happened and continued in a trembling voice. "And I was going slower than I usually do because she was so beautiful; I just wanted to look at her for a moment. She grew impatient and annoyed with me and she... she struck me!" The last three words were cried out amidst the sobs that once again racked his body.

Frodides reached out and touched the red mark on her son's cheek with gentle fingers. She had wondered about that mark, and now she knew. "Gomen," she said, her voice comforting, "you mustn't hold it against this girl that she struck you. I understand your grief, and also the shock it must have been to you. And I know nothing such as this has ever happened to you. But your father will tell you often that when he was a stableboy at his father's home he was often struck by impatient ones. It never ceased to hurt him, so he told me, but he learned to bear it bravely and return the cuff with a smile." She patted his sore cheek. "At least, dearest darling, you know that your dear sister has never struck you."

His face brightened a little and with shyness he pushed his head deeper into her shoulder. "No, Mamma, nor have you," he said. "But it still hurts."

"Yes, darling," she said softly. "It does." And no more. Gomen felt peace flooding him. His mother understood. His mother didn't tell him not to cry. She did not tell him it was foolish of him to cry over such a small thing, nor that he should just bear it as a man. She told him that it did hurt but she comforted him. She was the dearest mother in the world.

In accordance with his slight brightening, she allowed a cheerful smile and took his face in both her hands. "Now, Gomen, would you keep Hearpwine waiting any longer for the walk? Run along dear, and tell him. Perhaps on this walk he will teach you another song."

Gomen's sorrow vanished and he swelled with excitement. Kissing his mother's cheek, he skipped out of the kitchen, a smile on his tear-stained face. Yet there was still a queer little ache in his heart as he came to Hearpwine. "Oh, Hearpwine sir," he said, hoping the tears on his face did not show plainly; "I am quite ready to go now, if you are. Yet I would not interrupt you if you are in the midst of a conversation."

Maercwen had seen Gomen leave the kitchen and was glad. There was at least a smile on his face. Feeling as though the world were beautiful again, which she knew it surely was, she retied her apron and returned to the kitchen to continue with her work.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Gomen’s eager face bore still the marks of the tears that had flown across it, but Hearpwine had been a lad of Gomen’s age not so long ago and knew better than to let on that he saw the marks of the boy’s woe. The lad was at that difficult age on the very cusp of manhood, in which life was a constant movement between childhood and maturity. His first response to whatever had befallen him had been to fling himself upon his sister and mother for comfort, but now that the worst of the storm was past, here he was seeking out a man with whom to forget the passion and the tears. It was natural of the boy to do this, but still Hearpwine felt a slight twinge of loss on his behalf – a quiet lament for the loss of the easy unity of the young boy who did not know that he had to behave like a man, and who still could find comfort in the soft and loving arms of his mother and sister. Hearpwine often wondered why it was so that men had to learn to cut themselves off from that kind of comfort, and why to be a man one had to learn to hide one’s feelings. It was counter intuitive for himself, for as a bard he reveled in the passionate feelings of his craft, and would frequently be moved to tears by the power of song: why, he puzzled, are such tears acceptable – even in the hall of the King – when this boy’s tears of hurt and distress were not?

He smiled at Gomen and stood immediately. “Aye lad,” he said, “I am sorry to have made you wait but my good friend Hanasián and I were deep in talk of the Halflings. I;m sure you understand hoe engrossing they can be!” Gomen’s bright eye and fiercely bobbing head told Hearpwine that he did. “Well then, come along, and let us enjoy the rest of the morning upon the hills!” He put his arm about the boy’s shoulders and walked toward the door. In that gesture he could easily feel the frame of a grown man beginning to emerge from beneath the boy’s skin – and he noted with some approval that Gomen would be both tall and strong: a proud tribute to the strength and manhood of the Rohirrim, and a credit to his family.

As they left the Inn, Hearpwine caught the eye of Bêthberry who was still talking with the youth Sigurd. In conversation though she was, still her eye held his for a moment, and in that time it was almost as though she were speaking with him. Hearpwine was shocked, for while there was no voice in his mind he felt her sense of warning and caution as clearly as if she had spoken it aloud. Perhaps sensing that he had felt her concerns, Bêthberry returned her attention to Osric and Sigurd. Hearpwine’s face became a bit graver and he said, “I need to fetch somewhat from the stables, Gomen, before we go.” But even as he spoke he saw that Gomen was not paying attention to him. Following the boy’s gaze he saw him looking at what was no doubt the cause of his upset – a very pretty young girl, both tall and stern of aspect. Hearpwine quickly hid his knowing smile so that Gomen would not be shamed by it.

Leading the boy into the stables he moved to Hrothgar’s stall. His horse snickered happily at the presence of his master and nuzzled Hearpwine. The bard stroked his friend’s mane approvingly and admired the tremendous care that he had received from the stablemaster – never before had Hrothgar looked so well. Suddenly realizing that he had not been riding in weeks, Hearpwine spoke to his mount. “My friend,” he said, “here I was planning on an outing and not taking you! And you’ve barely had a chance to stretch your legs beyond a round of daily exercise in the paddock! Come Gomen!” he cried, “Let us allow Hrothgar to take us out beyond the walls of Edoras so that we may feel the sunlight upon us in the high places of the vale!” A few minutes later Hrothgar was saddled and neighing happily as he bore his master and Gomen toward the gate of the city. Hearpwine smiled as he felt the fatigue drain from his limbs to be replaced by the vitality of his horse.

As they rode, he felt the reassuring slap of his sword against Hrothgrar’s flank, and he thought to himself how this way, he could bring his sword along without having to let Gomen know that it was his blade that he had gone into the stables to fetch. Bêthberry’s look came into his memory once more and he wondered why it had led him to ensure that he went out armed…

[Nurumaiel]

Gomen had felt Hearpwine's silence and wondered if anything were the matter. He had been delighted with the way Hearpwine had treated him, though the bard had clearly perceived that he had been crying. Gomen felt ashamed now for having wept at all, but as he reflected back on his mother's embraces he thought that it was a fine thing to have a comforting mother and he would remember that she was so for all of his life. He hoped if he was ever married he would marry a girl who would be much like his mother. And he hoped with a vengeance that she would not ever strike him as that other girl had. If he married at all, that is. He did not feel like concerning himself with such matters at the present moment.

Seeking to break the silence, he said what had been dwelling on his mind. "It is a pity that Mae couldn't come with us, isn't it?" And he felt keenly that it was a very deep pity. He didn't feel nearly so easy with himself when Maercwen wasn't around. Gomen was not sure if he were entirely correct, but he had always felt that Mae's cheery, laughing face brought kindness into the hearts of everyone else and made them friendly. It could be, he considered, that others had been kind to start with, but he liked to feel that his elder sister was in at least somewhat responsible for their cheeriness.

"It is a pity," said Hearpwine, and perhaps would have said more if Gomen had not broken in quickly, abruptly changing the subject as the wanderings of his mind drifted to another place. "Master Hearpwine, I do..." He paused and hesitated, wondering if he were not being too bold in what he was about to request. "I do wish you would teach me to sing and to play the harp. I... I rather want to be a bard myself when I'm older, but I fear I know not what I am doing. So if you would kindly teach me..." He trailed off, feeling warmth spread over his face.

Hearpwine did not laugh at him, nor did he show any signs of annoyance, but he said gravely, "I do not think, Gomen, that I am nearly skilled enough as a bard to be a suitable teacher for you."

Gomen flushed. Of course, this was true, and he should have thought of it before. "Why, yes, sir, I suppose you're right," he said weakly, but he had never been a boy to give up easily, and he spoke again, more quietly this time and with less assurance. "But at least, sir, you are better than I and perhaps you might teach me something, however simple it may be."

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

A familiar face made its way up the dusty hill leading to the White Horse.

Dark hair framed a solemn and content face as Aylwen Dreamsong walked slowly towards the entrance of the Inn she had been working at for nearly fifteen years. Her deep hazel-green eyes beamed and danced like the light that quietly bounded from the sun and off down through the trees to the luscious green grass. Her set jaw and stubborn chin had softened since she had left her job for a short time, her face shone with newfound knowledge. The weather was far too nice out for a cloak or cover, and Aylwen felt comfort and resolute in the lovely sun.

Stepping lightly up to the door that she knew so well, Aylwen smiled and walked through the open doorway of the White Horse. She felt comforted at the sight of the Innkeeper’s desk. Continuing quietly past the kitchen, Aylwen entered the Mead Hall. Her smile did not fade even as she ignored all other patrons for a moment and went towards a contemplating Bethberry with Osric and his young nephew. Seeing that her companion was deep in conversation, Aylwen’s smile faltered just a bit, weakening slightly as she met Bethberry’s eyes for just a moment and nodded, wordlessly promising to speak with her later.

Aylwen went back to the front of the Inn, opening the door to the office that Bethberry still often used and Aylwen rarely entered. Aylwen sat her traveling things down in the room, and picked up a small book from the desk. Leaving the office and stepping out to her desk, Aylwen sat and opened the book to a page empty of writing.

‘As I return to where I belong, I reflect on what I have learned from my journey away from the Inn and to another destination. At this destination, I thought that I had seen things I would never see again, and if I did ever see it again I thought that it could never hold as much beauty and wonder as it had upon first arrival.

Returning home brought new meaning. While I found a different way of life waiting beyond the home I have known for nigh on fifteen years, I realized that I missed the Inn, or, my home, rather sorely. I began to wonder what I had found so wondrous about my journey’s destination. It was somewhere new that I had never been to, surely. Then I wondered why this enticing new world was interrupted by nostalgia and dreams of home. I learned that captivation and wonder at my own life only comes when I am willing to open my eyes. I can make a life at my fourteen-year home just as exciting as somewhere I have never been before, if I try.

My only regret is that I did not learn this simple lesson sooner.’

As she finished the entry, Aylwen smiled once more and went off in search of Bethberry again.

[Nurumaiel]

"Aylwen!" the little voice cried, though it sounded more like 'Al-wen.' Little Motan, who had ever adored Aylwen and had found it true that 'absence makes the heart grow fond,' hurtled herself in a very unladylike manner through the Inn door, little hands once again filled with flowers. She was too short to kiss Aylwen's cheek, so she contented herself with throwing her arms about the Innkeeper's knees and hugging her fiercely.

Aylwen laughed and nearly lost her balance, and then stooped a bit so she was at eye level with the golden-headed little thing. The little girl smiled and satisfied herself by kissing Aylwen's cheek, which she could now reach. She brushed some strands of hair out of her eyes and looked pointedly down at the flowers in her hand until Aylwen followed her gaze to look at them as well. Motan flourished the flowers in front of the Innkeeper's face, saying, "From the garden we made."

A more dignified young girl came in, and this was Mereflod. Her face was beaming with pleasure but at seven she was conscious that she was a lady and should behave as became that position. She strode gracefully across the room and kissed the stooped Aylwen's cheek. "I'm glad to see you again," she said, laughing slightly. "We missed you very much."

Motan indignantly pushed her older sister aside. She had been talking to Aylwen first. It was unfair of Mereflod to shove in so. Positive that her sister would not interfere, Motan's face broke into a smile again and she waved the flowers in Aylwen's face again, repeating, "From the garden we made." Her smile grew wider and little pearly teeth shone in her slightly freckled face. "We took care of the seeds all the time you were away, just as you showed us, and these are the summer flowers. Aren't they beautiful?" She gazed fondly at them and then buried her face into them, taking a long whiff and sighing rapturously. Then she stretched out her little hand and waved the flowers yet again and Aylwen's face, saying, "Here, Aylwen - " (once again it sounded as 'Al-wen') " - these flowers are for you."

[Bêthberry]

Bethberry had continued to ply Sigurd with questions, questions which sometimes flummoxed the lad and sometimes brought a hesitant eagerness of explanation. Out of the corner of her eye, she had watched Hearpwine be drawn away by Gomen's eagerness. Something about a ride in the foothills, she had earlier overheard and she had wanted to speak to Hearpwine about it, but the dictates of talk and work had kept them apart. It was all she could do to manage to catch his attention as he strode out with the boy. Nothing specific did she suggest by her manner and no one else caught it. But nonetheless, there was an indescribable something which her look conveyed, enough for the young musician to sense, and to take away with him a hightened awareness. She was glad that Aylwen had returned safely, and glad too that the young woman had realised they must speak soon.

For the time being, Bethberry resumed her conversation with Osric and Sigurd, over the din of the children's warm welcome of Aylwen. It was perhaps unfair of her to draw Osric out with his rather blousey, overdone eloquence, for she could see it made the young Sigurd embarassed, yet it was an opportunity to judge his character. She had a good mind where he would help at The Horse, but she wanted him to give a greater account of himself before she spoke with Aylwen.

"Sigurd, you say you will carry out whatever task I assign you."

The lad nodded soberly while Oscric nodded several times enthusiastically and prodded the boy's side.

"But what if we need help in the laundry? Will you undertake that?'

She could not be absolutely sure but Bethberry thought she heard Osric muffle a surprised intake of breathe. The lad's face faltered a little.

"I know nowt of laundry and cleaning, Mistress Bethberry, for that was my sisters' chores. But I can carry tubs of water and heat cauldrons over fires."

Bethberry weighed this answer and found it in the boy's favour.

"So would it be kitchen work you could handle?"

She thought she could detect the boy's eagerness dim and certainly the thought of his nephew doing maid's duty in the kitchen was not an especially welcome one to Oscric, who coughed a little.

"Then there's mucking about in the stable. Liofan could use help there, I'm sure, and Gomen could teach you how to handle the horses as well."

The old warrier covered his eyes at this, thinking shrewdly how to convey his thoughts to his nephew. This was begining to become uncomfortable; he had not practiced an extended interview and had not thought beyond the opening request
If the boy had chaffed with his parents, however, he would need work which gave him some freedom as well as challenge. Bethberry held out a third posibility.

"Yet I think you might prefer to make your own routines . We have need of a handyman, a carpenter to fix broken furniture and gates, repair woodwork and carry and load supplies for us. Would you prefer that, Sigurd, to be our journeyman labourer, to apply your muscle where heavy work is needed, to keep an eye on the Inn at night perhaps, when patrons might need some extra help making their way out to guard us as well as tote and carry for us?"

She sat back, waiting to see which Sigurd would choose. Once he did, she would discuss the possibility with Aylwen.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine felt bad for having misled the boy. He could easily enough begin Gomen’s training as a bard, but he lacked the energy. He barely had time to see to his own training, let alone teach another. But Hearpwine knew how Gomen would take it, were he to say that he could not spare the time – the boy would be sure that it was only an excuse to avoid teaching him. Better the lad think Hearpwine an unfit teacher than think himself an unworthy student.

“Teach you but one song, do you say? Well, that will be no easy thing – indeed, I have been tasked with many great trials that will seem light by comparison.”

“What do you mean, Master Bard?” Gomen asked.

Hearpwine laughed and said, “My name, lad, is Hearpwine. I thought you would have learned that by now. Save your ‘Master’ for Eorcyn, or for me when I do finally become Bard of the Golden Hall. But this task you put me to is hard because I must now decide what song to teach you. It is no small think being asked to select from all that I know the one that will give you the greatest pleasure. Perhaps you could tell me what kind of song you would like?”

Gomen thought for a while in studied silence as they rode. The houses of Edoras slipped past them as Hrothgar got his legs beneath him, and within minutes they were passing through the tall gates. “Hang on!” cried Hearpwine, “I think that I shall let him have a bit of a run to make up for the weeks he’s spent without real exercise.” As though he understood his master’s words, Hrothgar snorted and went instantly into a full gallop, racing right off the road and onto to soft grass that lay between the mounds of the kings. They raced into the south-east towards the skirts of the mountains, and were soon going up the long slow slope of the foothills. Gomen, who was more used to horses even than most lads of Rohan, easily rode along at Hearpwine’s back. As they crested the first line of hills he broke his silence. “I think I should like a song about a girl,” he said, as though there had been no interruption in their conversation. “A song about a pretty girl.”

Hearpwine smiled into the rushing air and sunshine. “Aye lad, and why do you want to learn a song about a pretty lass?”

He felt Gomen grow a bit uncomfortable behind him, and he regretted his teasing tone. The reply, however, was that of a young man, and not a boy. “I wish to sing it for my sister,” he said evenly, “for she I the fairest girl I know.”

“Aye, she is fair Gomen. But the day may come when you will look upon another and find your own sister but poor company. But do not reprimand me! For I know that you will say that such a day will never come!” He fell into thought for a moment. “A song about a pretty lass, you say. . .I have it!”

As I was walking one midsummer morning,
A-viewing the meadows and to take the air,
'Twas down by the banks of the sweet withywindle,
When I beheld a most lovely Fair.

With three long steps I stepp'd up to her,
Not knowing her as she pass'd me by;
I stepp'd up to her, thinking to view her,
She appear'd to me like some virgin bride.

I said: Pretty maid, how far are you going?
And what's the occasion of all your grief?
I'll make you as happy as any lady,
If you will grant me one small relief.

Stand off, stand off, you are deceitful;
You are deceitful, young man, 'tis plain -
'Tis you that have cause my poor heart to wander,
To give me comfort 'tis all in vain;

I'll take thee down to some lonesome valley,
Where no man nor mortal shall ever me tell;
Where the pretty little small birds do change their voices
And ev'ry moment their notes do swell.

Come all you young men that go a-courting,
Pray give attention to what I say,
There's many a dark and cloudy morning
Turns out to be a sunshiny day.

[Kransha]

Sigurd, who was not the most contemplative or thoughtful boy, seemed genuinely lost in thought. He raised a hand to his chin and scratched pensively, looking the part of a philosopher, which seemed to alarm Osric even more, who looked utterly confused. Sigurd, after a tranquil silence to which the area was unaccustomed descended and filled the brisk, indoor air around them, spoke, his voice firm and resolute, though wrought with hesitation. “Well, Bethberry,” he began politely, reserved in his tone of voice for care’s sake, “your suggestions are ample, and I thank you for that. There are surely enough choices mentioned for me to determine a suitable path…though some may not be as wanted as some.” The boy had a momentary, and rather disturbing thought cross his mind about the innate possibility of being cast the role of a serving maid. Yes indeed, that position was not wanted at all, a feelin mutual for both Osric and Sigurd.

Suddenly, before Sigurd could continue, Osric spurted into the conversation, lurching uncomfortably were he stood. He seemed to be making some truly grand speech, as his arms waved and made involuntary gestures of illustration, which were probably very distracting from his garbled words. “But, of course, if there is any space open indefinitely, he would gladly fill it.” His mouth was still open, ready to continue, but Sigurd began again before his uncle’s words had developed. “It is a delicate matter, but my choice is set before me.” He looked as confident as ever, a fact which should’ve made his uncle proud, or even delighted (which he probably had never been in his rowdy, often rebellious nephew), but it didn’t, for Osric was too busy interrupting again.

“And he will readily serve any other purpose if that choice is met with-”

This time, Sigurd interrupted, his voice cold but satisfied, “Uncle, do I speak in some foreign tongue that my words need translating? Pray, tell me if that is so. Otherwise, I think Bethberry can hear and understand to some extent what I say without your assistance.” He pleasant tone now died, and Osric shrunk out of Sigurd’s way, looking half dejected, while Bethberry blinked courteously. Sigurd stepped forward again, in front of his relative, and spoke again, with dramatic force, summoning a resolved strength of voice.

“Bethberry, your last offer is most desirable, in my eyes at least.” He shot a dark look at his uncle, who turned his bearded head, pretending to look away and not notice the perturbed look being directed at him. “As I have naught to do in Edoras but tote my weight around, I would be more than willing to serve as a laborer here, but in more respects. My days are empty, as are my nights, so I would carry and handle what you wished me to, but I would not be adverse to helping in the stable, or serving anywhere else when that duty was required. As my uncle has said…many times,” again he shot a venomous look, but tempered with a vague, mute grin which Osric truly did not see, as he was currently trying very hard to look as if he’d seen an troll just outside the shuttered window of the inn, and acting the part well, “…I will be happy to serve wherever I am needed, or laborers have gone missing.”

The secret was, as Osric had by now guessed, but dared not mention, was that Sigurd was simply trying to put every last one of his waking hours in the inn, and for one purpose, and that purpose was one of the establishments other employees, Maercwen. In the kitchen and doing the less manly chores, though he would be demeaned in his boyish arrogance, he would also gain more access to her and those around, to seek any quarry presented. Leofan in the stable surely had an insight or two, and Hearpwine too. Osric’s eyes dimmed grimly as he shook his head in contemplation. His nephew was a romantic, and a hopeless one, and would probably accept even the most menial, and uncharacteristic of chores to get what he desired, as he was very persistent. Osric could only hope that Sigurd would pour the same dedication into his line of work that he would into his newest contemporary quest. Now, as he stood silently, unblinking and unmoving, as Sigurd nodded meditatively to himself and continued.

“That is my answer, Bethberry.”

[Imladris]

The euphonious articulation that descended upon my ear drew me with beguiling notes. It beckoned me on, alluring me with its dulcet notes. How could I cry it nay? But I forsook my antediluvian master, whose mandibles, robed in ashen vibrissae, was resting upon his breast, and who was in somnolent repose.

How could I bar my ears from such a melodious song? I auscultated.

As I was walking one midsummer morning,
A-viewing the meadows and to take the air,
'Twas down by the banks of the sweet withywindle,
When I beheld a most lovely Fair.

Midsummer mornings, I affirm, are diurnal courses of enchantment. '

With three long steps I stepp'd up to her,
Not knowing her as she pass'd me by;
I stepp'd up to her, thinking to view her,
She appear'd to me like some virgin bride.

He must have had expansive limbs, I deduced with my cerebration prowess.

I said: Pretty maid, how far are you going?
And what's the occasion of all your grief?
I'll make you as happy as any lady,
If you will grant me one small relief.

I cogitated that it was presumptious to think that he could make her happy.

Unfortunately the canticle brought felines of the female persuasion to my mind. I had never been joined to a member of that persuasion...but, in truth, it did not trouble me. Lasses were creatures who preferred to stay at home, whilst I enjoyed life. And I never deluded myself into believing that I, because of my golden aura-tic presence that I could make them full of bliss.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Aylwen accepted the flowers, her face bright and smiling uncontrollably. She had enjoyed her little welcoming committee, her cheeks flushing violently red and her eyes lit with simple happiness. Motan scrunched her eyebrows together at Aylwen and the flowers for a moment, and the Innkeeper wondered what the girl wanted her to do. Motan sighed deeply, and Aylwen grinned her understanding. Lifting the flowers up to her face and inhaling, Aylwen smelled the scent of the colorful plants. Satisfied, Motan giggled with youthful enthusiasm. Aylwen opened her arms and hugged both the young girls.

"My, my! You both have grown so much!" Aylwen observed when she had released the little children from her embrace. "If I should ever leave again, I would come back to see you both off and married with little Motans and Mereflods of your own!"

"But Aylwen!" Mereflod protested in a dignified, but somehow angelic little voice. "You've not been gone that long! We could not get married so fast!"

"I am sure that soon enough boys around Edoras will beg to differ!" Aylwen smiled at both of the girls, thinking of Hearpwine and the local boys and their infatuation with Mae.

"Papa will scare them away," Mereflod replied with certainty in her voice.

"I do not doubt that, either, little Mereflod. Now, Have you two been keeping an eye out for the Inn while I was gone?" Aylwen asked, her voice suddenly stern as Mereflod nodded gravely and Motan stifled her fits of laughter. "Making sure the men stayed polite and held their drinks? Making certain that Goldwine and all the horses were fed? Ensuring all the patrons good food and good times?" Aylwen paused, noticing that the girls' faces had become blank during her checklist. The Innkeeper laughed and pat both girls gently on their golden heads. "It was a joke. I am proud of both of you for taking care of your flower patch! You are both learning the values of good responsibility. When you work hard, you get something lovely out of it, like these flowers. Now...how have things been in my absence?"

[Bêthberry]

Not only did Bethberry blink courteously, she blinked several times courteously. The domestic tragicomedy played on as nephew and uncle each sought his own purpose and Bethberry slowly lost interest in it. She wondered mildly if they ever resorted to silly knockabouts as some families did, but somehow she doubted it. She suspected Sigurd would storm out in a huff and protest before Osric ever got that worked up. How different they were from Frodides and Liofan's family.

She sighed. These thoughts would not get her any closer to getting a straight answer out of Sigurd. She hmmmed for a bit. And then hawed for a bit. Her fingers absent-mindedly picked at some loose threads on her apron. She looked up at the banners high above the Mead Hall, banners of heroic times, and wondered how peace managed to produce youngsters so self-interested as these were.

She looked at Osric, whose eyes were about to bulge out of their sockets over some issue or item of which she was not aware. She looked at Sigurd, whose eyes wavered when she tried to make contact with them. She could not quite catch where it was his eyes were more drawn. Hmm. He is not speaking all the truth, she decided. She looked over at Aylwen, who was lost in a happy, eager conversation with the children. She looked down at Goldwine, regally commaning passage wherever he chose.

"Well," she proclaimed, with the kind of deliberate address which really means this is all a bit of a muddle, "you have made a most interesting claim, Master Sigurd."

"I have?" he intoned, a bit surprised by this tact.

"You have," she affirmed, quite pleasantly.

He waited. His uncle waited. Bethberry waited. Somewhere out at the back came the sound of tree branches snapping back and forth in the wind, not violently, but dolorously.

Osric began to worry. He coughed. He rose and would have begun a florid statement had Bethberry not raised her hand and gently, kindly bid him stop.

"No, please, this is indeed a profound matter. You are right, worthy Osric, to take such a keen concern and deep worry in your nephew's future."

Oscric's mouth seemed to pop several times as his lips quivered in a slight imitation of the words, "Quite so." And he huffed a bit.

Sigurd, for his part, began to bounce up and down on his heels. He was no closer to getting where he really wanted to be and he was not used to having to work this hard to get there.

"Your nights are as empty as your days, you say?" The woman caught him off guard with her question.

Sigurd stammered a sort of reply and cleared his throat.

"Well, then, without further ado, shall we call Aylwen over here and see what she thinks of hiring you as the night watchman? You can sleep all day, when we have plenty of hands here at the Horse, and then take over when we are all abed for the night. Perhaps you can help Liofan to put the horses to bed for the night at the stable, check that all the doors are locked, the shutters closed, restock the firewood for the next day for the main fireplaces and for the kitchen, clean out the chamber pots, restock the barrels of ale. A good way to fill your night, no?'

Neither Osric nor Sigurd could swear afterwards that there was any trace of a smile on Bethberry's face, yet both were strangely aware that there was a sort of gleeful sheen to her eyes as she spoke.

"Aylwen! Aylwen, come! We have the possibility of some new hands here at the Horse and we need your thoughts on the matter."

Then Bethberry turned back to Sigurd with her blandly polite face, and said, "Well?"

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The old man burst into the Inn with more speed and energy than any who knew him could have expected. He stood stock still in the entrance for a moment, his eyes taking in the occupants of the Mead Hall, but his furrowed brow indicated that whomever he sought was not there. He turned to the Innkeeper. “Good Mistress Aylwen, where is my student Hearpwine?” he asked breathlessly.

Aylwen, who had only just that moment been addressed by Bêthberry, took a moment to collect herself. “Master Eorcyn,” she replied as courteously as she could in the face of his rather abrupt manner, “I do not know. I have myself only just now returned from a long journey. Perhaps Bêthberry, who was looking after the Inn during my absence…” but she did not get a chance to finish, for Eorcyn was already rushing to Bêthberry’s side. Paying no heed to Sigurd and Osric (whom he somewhat pointedly ignored), he asked the woman if she knew where Hearpwine had gone. Bêthberry returned his gaze coolly – she was clearly not a woman who enjoyed being interrupted but for the sake of his high place in the Hall she would overlook it. “I believe that he went out riding with young Gomen,” she said.

“Riding!” Eorcyn acted as though Hearpwine had sought to inconvenience him personally. “But I must speak with him! He said that he would come here to sleep today, and now he is out riding? Perhaps I have not been working him as hard as I thought.”

“You have been working him much harder than I think is required, Eorcyn,” came the reply. This brought the old man up short, for he was unused to people taking such a tone with him, particularly since his elevation at the Contest. He gazed at Bêthberry in amazement, but the angry retort died on his lips as he looked at her. Something in her eye seemed to forbid him his hasty words.

“I am sorry, Mistress Bêthberry,” he said, “but it is urgent that I speak with my pupil. Do you know when he will return?”

“I am afraid I do not. But perhaps Maercwen will know. I saw her speaking with Gomen about the ride.”

“Thank you, lady. Thank you very much.” Eorcyn surprised himself with the ingratiating courtesy of his response, but he did not have time to wonder on it long. With as much speed as his aged body could manage he sought out Maercwen in the kitchens, where he surprised her with her arms half immersed in the washing-up tub. As she wiped her soapy hands on her apron, she listened open mouthed to the Master Bard’s explosion of words.

“Miss Maercwen, I have been sent to find Hearpwine and bid him be ready, but I find that he is not here. He told me that he meant to seek his bed this day, so I assured them that I could deliver their message without delay, but now I have found that he is on a ride – a ride, no less! – and not here at all. Oh dear, oh dear, this is most unfortunate, most unfortunate. The party is set to depart and have demanded his presence, but if he is gone from the City how am I to bring him where he is bid to come, and I am ordered to bring him…”

“Master Eorcyn,” Maercwen cried, stopping the flood with a gesture. “Please, speak more slowly, for I cannot understand you. You say that you have been sent to bring Hearpwine somewhere, and you cannot find him. That much I can help you with, although I fear you will not like the answer. Hearpwine has taken my brother riding in the hills and they will not be back for several hours. Now, if you can take that news with some patience, please tell me what it is you need him for.”

Eorcyn sat in a small chair at the kitchen table and laid his head upon his hand. “Oh dear, it is as I feared. What shall I tell them?”

“Tell who?”

“Why, the Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn of course. They have sent me to tell Hearpwine that he must make his farewells, for they are bound for Ithilien this very day!”

[Orofaniel]

"Farewells?"

How so, Aedre wondered. But then she realised what the old bard had just said; Hearpwhine would leave for Ithilien, together with Lord Faramir and Lady Eowyn. She gazed at him, but said naught, because the words wouldn't come any further than her tongue. "Will, you excuse me," Aedre muttered while shoving her hands down in her apron. She hurried out from the kitchen and out in the common room.

"Aedre, will you not tell me why Eocryn needs to speak with Hearpwine so urgently?" Mistress Bethbery cried as she saw Aedre coming out from the kitchens. Aedre eyed her, and walked towards her. Yet her legs seemed not to follow her wish, and she stumbled. Luckily she managed to stay on her feet. Aedre was very much confused as she saw that Aylwen, the Innkeeper, had returned.

"Oh dear! It's Aylwen!" Aedre exclaimed as she saw her, as she almost had forgotten about Bethberry. "You have returned!" Aedre continued now embracing Aylwen. "Indeed," Aylwen said as they let go of each other. "I wouldn't have expected you to be back this early. But please, do not misunderstand; I am delighted to see you," she said and curtsied. "Thank you Aedre," Aylwen said and smiled at her. The vague, but kind expression in her face was ever so beautiful.

"Oh, who gave you those wonderful flowers?" Aedre said, as she spotted the colourful flowers in Aylwen's hands. "Oh, these..?" Aylwen said, while looking at them. Her small nose then fell slightly down in the blossoming bloom. "Mereflod and Motan gave them to me...from the garden," she said, lifting her head up, looking at Bethberry. Aedre smiled weakly as she eyes Bethberry's expression; she had quite forgotten about Bethberry's question. Oh, how ashamed she was.

"I'm terribly sorry Bethberry," she said and blushed. "I quite forgot when I eyed Aylwen. I got carried away in my own thoughts...how foolish of me," she said and bowed her head. "Master Eorcyn rushed into the kitchen to ask Mae where to find Master Hearpwine, who is also his pupil.......but I'm sure you all knew that," Aedre said nervously looking at Bethberry once again.

“Yes indeed, he came rushing into the Inn...seeking Master Hearpwine I told him to seek the kitchens and Mae,” Bethberry nodded and narrowed her eyebrows as she was waiting for Aedre to continue. Aedre sighed deeply; ”As I said, he was looking for Hearpwine. Mae told him that Hearpwine was out taking Gomen for a ride upon the hills and that she didn't expect him to be back before several hours..." Aedre said and looked anxious.

"I do not understand Aedre," Bethberry said shaking her head. "I do tend to confuse, don't I?" Aedre said full of despair. "I'm afraid that, although, Aylwen whom all of us have missed, has returned to us, Master Hearpwine, with his merry songs, will depart to serve the Lord and the Lady in Ithilien...." Aedre then finished.

Aywlen gazed, feeling utterly confused. "But - Aedre, are you sure that was exactly what Eorcyn said?" She asked her while her eyes turned to Bethberry.

”They, Lady Eowyn and Lord Faramir, have sent me to tell Hearpwine that he must make his farewells, for they are bound for Ithilien this very day!” – “Those where his exact words, if my memory does not fail me,” Aedre said while frowning. “Although, since Master Eocryn was speaking in such a fast manner, some may have passed me unnoticed,” Aedre said hoping for the first time, that it was indeed what had happened.

[Kransha]

The interruptions were more than enough to sever Sigurd’s train of thought, as this conversation was losing interest in him, or vice versa, he wasn’t entirely sure. At the moment, he was perfectly content to chuckle smugly at the wildly moving old fellow who darted up to Bethberry, yelled something so rushed and so garbled that Sigurd caught none of the escaping words that had pried his mouth open, and rushed away in a fiery motion, though it looked very awkward from afar. Osric, though, was unimpressed and focused, while the sudden arrival of Eorcyn only caused him to shudder involuntarily. That day, in a brisker, colder season, under these very hanging banners that rippled, swaying gently in the breeze that wafted in through open windows, he’d made his manner of amends with the man, but never got over their verbal fallout. The sight of him, though, was just enough to snap him into readiness and, as one of the serving maids, or holder of some position Sigurd didn’t want, named Aerdre, arrived, he spoke abruptly.

“Will you excuse us, Bethberry?” He questioned, managing a polite smile. Bethberry was looking now at Aerdre, listening to what she had to say, but still nodded back at the two. “Yes, of course.” She murmured, obviously more engrossed in whatever Miss Aerdre was telling her. Ignoring that fact, and the perturbed air that now permeated the inn, Osric took a firm hold of Sigurd’s shoulder and spun him foolishly about until both men were hunched over with their backs to the rest of the discoursing folk. “Many thanks.” The old man shot over his shoulder before pulling Sigurd close and beginning to speak, in a voice whose volume was barely an octave above a whisper.

“Sigurd, it is a good offer,” he muttered quietly, reservedly, “and you would be hard-pressed to find another like it.” His eyes were aflame and his usually whitened pallor incendiary by either the excitement of the situation or massive frustration at it. He looked into Sigurd’s eyes as an uncle should, with vague concern for him, but Sigurd shot back with the gaze of a battle-weary serpent, too tired to do any harm, but willing to lash out if anything got too close. “Uncle, I know it is a good offer.” He snapped suddenly.

Osric stared at him, mouth agape again. Where did the willingness spring from? What was Sigurd, the lad who’d been so uncontrollable, so untamable, doing just letting this happen? Did he want truly to work at the Horse? Osric’s face, which was now colorless with a jaw flailing up and down as noiseless words ushered from above it, found a voice. “You…you do?”

“Yes, yes I do,” Sigurd shot back, with equal venom in him, “and I’m going to take it as soon as you let go of my shoulder.” Osric involuntarily yanked his complacent hand from where it had sat on Sigurd’s shoulder, unfurling around the boy’s back and coming to rest limply at his side. “Are you sure? There are other options, other paths that cannot be taken.” His voice, this whole time, was riddled with disbelief, his throat groping for more air as he felt he might choke on his own words, or have to swallow them too soon.

“You were the one most keenly set upon me being here, so do not try and discourage me now.” The boy replied harshly, again causing Osric to shrink away. He was getting older, descending into old age, and Sigurd was getting older, but ascending into an age where, in maturity and prowess, he could challenge his uncle. It was hard enough to act like a father figure, but in this circumstance, it seemed harder still. Reluctantly, Osric nodded, as if he was defeated somehow. “No…you’re right.”

And so, he turned again, looking brighter and happier, ready to reach out and grab this new quarry where it stood and waited. Osric turned with him, and the two of them looked upon those who had apparently congregated just behind them as the spoke so softly, whispering in their own conspiratorial way. Not paying attention to the finale of the currently escalating conversation, he intoned loudly, “Alright, Bethberry, my decision is made.” There was no response, for all those in the vicinity looked more befuddled, and paled by some ill happenstance which Sigurd and Osric knew not of. They looked, each individually, from Betberry, to Aerdre, to any and all others who had materialized rather unceremoniously in a counseling circle around them, which they’d both been assimilated into, unbeknownst to them. Osric, trying not to be rude, spoke up on the subject. “What? What is it?”

Aerdre responded first. “Hearpwine must depart for Ithilien this day…I think.” She added the final words as something of an afterthought, as if she knew, but wanted no one else to know that she knew. In truth, she seemed half-uncertain, but that uncertainty might be no more than hopefulness that she was uncertain. No matter what the case, the words she said caused Osric and Sigurd to lapse into the same uncomfortable silence that had enveloped everyone else.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Things had gone all to quickly from warm greetings with the children, preparing to speak with Bethberry, hasty questioning, and chaos had all too quickly taken over the Inn. The children had become lost to Aylwen in the hustle and bustle, and soon several of the patrons and employees of the Inn had gathered together to listen to what Aedre had to say, all of them hoping that the confusion would be cleared. From the split second explanations of more than one person, Aedre finally concluded that Hearpwine had been summoned to leave for Ithilien. Mae came from the kitchens, as dazed and confused as everyone else, if not more so. Eorcyn followed her out of the kitchens and to the big group. Everyone chattered and argued, making noise and giving headaches.

"Wait! Wait just a minute!" Aylwen cried, waving her hands for silence. Gradually everyone quieted, waiting for Aylwen to continue. "Thank you. Now...we need to get things straight for a moment. Most importantly, I suppose we need to find Hearpwine. This is true, Master Eorcyn? I have heard so much talk I am not certain if I have heard correctly the situation."

"Yes, yes! I need to find Hearpwine. He has been summoned to go with his Lord and Lady to Ithilien this very day," Eorcyn replied frantically, moving his hand to his forehead in despair.

"But he is out! He shall not return for several hours," Mae intervened. Aylwen sighed, and Eorcyn's face became paler by the minute. "I fear there are little means to go out and find two young men off on an afternoon ride."

"Master Eorcyn, may I enquire as to why Hearpwine was not informed of this departure?" Aylwen asked politely. On the outside she kept her face patient and her body language calm. Inwardly, Aylwen panicked at the state of chaos the White Horse had undergone.

[Nurumaiel]

When Eorcyn had run into the kitchen to say that Hearpwine would be leaving that day for Ithilien, Maercwen was at first puzzled, and then her eyes widened in horror and her heart seemed to stop. Her first thought was that Eorcyn must be mad, but as she looked into his eyes she knew he was entirely sane and that Hearpwine would indeed be leaving that day. She murmured some words of how she hoped he would be back soon to comply to the wishes of the Lord and Lady, and then sunk into the shadows when Aylwen took the situation in hand.

It was impossible that Hearpwine could be going away. When she reflected upon the months since he had arrived at the Inn, and the merry times they had had together, she could not imagine before her the Inn without Hearpwine. Who would sing them cheery songs as the sun set and the day darkened? Who would inspire Gomen to be a bard with every word of song that escaped him? Who, then, would delight the children with stories? And who would delight her? Maercwen felt she could not understand this, but she knew Hearpwine, who she had come to consider as a brother, would be leaving in a few hours. And she could not help but hope that he would not be found until the Lord and Lady returned to Ithilien after futile searches. It was selfish, she realized, for Hearpwine would be joyous over the occasion of his leaving and sorrowful if this chance were missed, but she hoped it all the same.

Leofan had wandered into the Inn to notify Bethberry that he would be absent for awhile as he attempted to find one more learned in horses than even he to set the broken leg of the horse, but when he heard Aylwen's questions and the answers of Eorcyn he took in immediately what was happening and motioned to Giefu, ordering him to ride and seek out a skilled horsemaster. He noticed the confused state the White Horse was in and sensed that Aylwen was disturbed at it. She hid it admirably, but he had seen the faint look in her eyes many times in the past fourteen years. He cleared his throat and spoke.

"Miss Aylwen, I would beg you to allow me to ride out on the stallion Mihtig to see if I can find Hearpwine," he said.

Aylwen seemed grateful for his offer, but doubtful still. "I thank you, Leofan," she said, "but as it has been pointed out, it would be no easy task to find them."

"That is why I choose Mihtig," said Leofan. "I have always found that horses have more common sense than is often said of them, but Mihtig is especially wise and sensible. Hearpwine's steed Hrothgar and my own Mihtig have become good friends in the past few months, and I would trust Mihtig to find Hrothgar in some way."

Aylwen still looked doubtful, but she nodded her assent. Leofan bowed slightly and then turned to address Maercwen and Aedre, though he spoke loud enough for all in the room to hear. "Lassies," said he, "there is still work to be done in the kitchen, I think. I would bid you worry no longer about Hearpwine. I will find him soon, and he will be brought here. In fact," he added with a smile, for he knew Hearpwine's dreams, "I do not believe I could keep him away." With another bow, he departed, and only a few minutes had passed before Mihtig with Leofan atop could be seen out the front window, cantering speedily in the direction that Hearpwine and Gomen had gone.

[Bêthberry]

It was unbelievable.

Bethberry stood in the Mead Hall, watching patrons wander at will into the kitchen, watching the kitchen staff wander into the Mead Hall in order to gossip, watching Eorcyn and Osric take offense with each other's company, watching her Stablemaster take off with the best horse and abandon his labours in the stable, watching Aylwen stare at events with horror at the flustered staff. All this over a romantic young singer who had seemingly charmed everyone in the Horse.

It was like, well, like... She struggled to find some kind of analogy. She tried various words out. Farcical. Risible. Ridiculous. Comical. Absurd. Silly. Hearpwine seemed to have made his fate and life everyone's concern. It was as if the entire Horse revolved around this young man and this young man only. It was quite extraordinary. Give a person a bit of attention, make him or her feel as if the sun shines for them alone, and they're hooked. Bethberry shook her head.

Well, not that that was particularly fair to the young minstrel. He was good hearted indeed. It was just amazing how everyone fell to his attentions. He was a pied piper, ready to grant every person his or her dreams.

That's it! Bethberry decided. Pied piper. She giggled to herself. She knew there was an old tale to be found in his character. Where would it all end, she wondered.

She bore him no grudges, of course, and rather liked him herself, but she did wish that others were not forgotten in all the uproar. What had happened to the old blind man? The sad mother with child? She looked over at Osric and Sigurd. Sigurd's face was red but his eyes were keen. He was watching the girls come and go into the kitchn.

Bethberry wondered if he felt such concern at Hearpwine's departure and, grinning to herself, decided not, most likely. Hmm. She would have to try to gain Aylwen's attentions somehow and return the conversation to the topic of his employment.

"Perhaps," she announced to every one assembled, "We should call out the cavalry in order to find our young minstrel."

The people in the Mead Hall stared at her, blinking their eyes. They weren't quite sure if she was joking or not. Bethberry rather liked it that way.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

"Master Eorcyn, may I enquire as to why Hearpwine was not informed of this departure?"

Aylwen’s question annoyed Eorcyn, for he was greatly distracted by his student's disappearance. “The decision to leave was only just made,” he snapped at her. “Early this morning a post-rider arrived from Ithilien and went immediately into council with the King, the Lord Faramir and the Lady Éowyn. They conferred for but a scant hour before the Lord and Lady emerged and ordered that their retinue make ready to leave with all possible speed. When it was found that Hearpwine was no longer at the Hall I was sent to fetch him.” He decided not to reveal that he had assured the nobles that his student was on an errand for him. He had not wanted to admit to the Lady Éowyn that Hearpwine had left to get sleep, for Eorcyn was afraid that the Lady might not approve of how hard he had been driving his pupil.

“But whatever is the matter in Ithilien?” demanded Oscric.

“Is it an orc attack?” asked Aedre, her terror palpable. “Have the monsters come out of Mordor again?”

Osric scowled both at Aedre and at Sigurd, whose face had taken on an expression of alarm at the thought of a marauding horde of orcs. “Nay, ‘tis not orcs. The last of their foul kind was driven from Mordor by the armies of Gondor and Rohan, and there is an eternal watch kept upon the Black Lands.”

“Perhaps its trolls. Or invading Haradrim,” ventured Sigurd.

It was Bêthberry who replied this time. “It is neither servant nor ally of the Nameless Enemy who threatens the fair lands of Ithilien,” she said. Those gathered about waited, expecting the woman to say more, for she seemed to have some idea of what was afoot, but she remained quiet. It was Aylwen who broke the silence, “So Hearpwine is to leave then.”

Eorcyn sighed, “Yes mistress, he is.”

It was then that Leofan entered and formulated his plan to seek out Hearpwine in the hills about Edoras, and while Eorcyn had little hope that the young man could be found, he was glad that at least some effort was being taken to find him. As soon as the stablemaster had departed, Eorcyn asked Aedre if she could bring him a small flagon of ale, and he slumped at Bêthberry’s side, awaiting the return of Hearpwine, or the inevitable summons from the Golden Hall – whichever came first.

[Bêthberry]

OOC

Writers of the Mark, in the interests of whetting your writing pleasure, I am pleased to announce that Rohan has a second Inn, The Vineyard Tavern (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showthread.php?t=10880)

I would also like to welcome Imladris to the Rohan team as the Innkeeper for the new thread. Her enthusiasm and energy will make it a lively place I am sure.

This second Inn can give us a chance to write in a pace and style slightly different than what tends to happen at Inns based on LotR. Here's a chance for some Hobbit style humour! And dwarves and spiders and Men of Dale.

So, roll out the barrels and have some fun there. That's not an order--it's an invitation ;)

Bêthberry

[Nurumaiel]

Gomen was delighted with the song and thrilled with the way they galloped swiftly over the ground, the scenery flying by in a blur and the wind seeming to increase as Hrothgar increased in speed. He reflected upon the words of the song and the tune; on how the words fell into rhyme; on how they ran together in an easy pace, flowing simply as Hrothgar, yet not becoming simple but grand, again as Hrothgar.

They rode on in silence after that. Hearpwine seemed to expect Gomen to speak, but the latter knew of nothing to say... not yet. He still thought on the song, trying to fix a firm image of it in his mind so he would remember. He knew it was rather foolish, for Hearpwine was offering to teach it to him, and would then tell him the words over and over again, and teach him in a way so he would remember. Yet still he strived to remember without hearing it again. Time seemed to press him.

And then Gomen spoke, saying, "It was a very good song, Hearpwine." He said nothing more then. He felt rather ashamed for having said it, for though it was certainly what courtesy required it could not be the most appropriate to say. A real student would never say so to his master. Yet the problem lied here. Gomen did know what a real student would say.

Another long silence fell. Hrothgar began to slow his pace to fall into a brisk, prancing trot, and Gomen grew even more uncomfortable. Now that the loud pounding of hoofs and gusts of winds hindered neither's hearing in the least, it seemed that he should say something to Hearpwine. And still he felt only utter confusion.

He turned his head slightly to see what lay behind them... grass growing here and there, mingled with summer wildflowers, and a path trampled through the grass where Hrothgar had passed. A little moving speck of black far off in the distance, and a rather wonderful tree that cast its shade upon them even now. Still Hearpwine waited for him to speak.

He realized that he had to say something, and, blushing, he spoke in a small timid voice. "It was a very good song, Hearpwine," he said again. Hearpwine nodded his thanks and waited some more. Gomen could not see his face, and it could not be said whether he would have been comforted by the small, playful smile that lingered about the young bard's mouth. "Er... Hearpwine... what do I do now?"

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Aylwen wondered at the state of things. Disarray had covered the inn, and in Aylwen's opinion the whole situation had gotten out of hand. What had originally just been Eorcyn looking for Hearpwine had become a great issue known by everyone inside the Inn with ears. Leofan had gone off in search of the boys, which eased Aylwen's weary mind greatly. Aedre had seemed startled at the whole situation, but as she left the room to go to the kitchen Mae followed with a look of complete despair that she tried valiantly to dispel.

Silence had taken over the remaining group, and when Aedre set down Eorcyn's tankard Aylwen took to watching the older man sit and sip his ale near Bethberry. The Innkeeper met the Owner's gaze for a moment, but Aylwen had trouble reading the emotions on her friend's face.

"If I may, Eorcyn," Aylwen started, and the bard looked up from his drink, seemingly ready to snap if Aylwen should again ask a question he had a distaste for. "What do you think should happen if we are unable to find Hearpwine in time? There is no question that we will get him back here eventually, but what if it is not soon enough for the Lord Faramir and his Lady?"

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine’s laugh filled the air atop the hill, and Hrothgar joined in with a merry whinny. Gomen at first thought that the bard was laughing at him, but Hearpwine was quick to dispel that fear. “What are you to do? Why sing, lad, sing! Being a bard is not about memorising songs and getting your rhymes right, any more than being a stablemaster is about mucking out the stalls and walking the horses. What matters is the purpose of the task. You’ve heard the song once, that should be enough for you to know the melody, is it not?” Gomen nodded, not fully understanding what Hearpwine was talking about. “And do you remember what the tale was about?”

“Yes,” the lad replied, more confident in this one. “It was about a man and a lady whom he loved. She was afraid he would hurt her, but he convinced her to love him anyway.”

Hearpwine smiled at the innocent interpretation the boy had given the song. He did not tell Gomen that there was one ingredient to being a bard that no amount of teaching could impart – the maturity of wider experience. And not for the first time did he lament his own shortcomings in this regard. “Well, you know the tune, and you know what the song is about – so sing it!”

Gomen looked at him wide-eyed and afraid. “But I do not remember how it began.”

“It begins however you want it to begin. Hum the tune, and when you find the words, put them in there.”

Gomen began to hum and Hearpwine noted with satisfaction that the lad could hold and keep a tune well. Soon he found confidence as the music filled him and the tune became stronger, and even began to change somewhat as the boy found his own way through the intricate notes. As the boy hummed, Hearpwine watched as the fast moving figure in the fields below became a rider in great haste. He rode about as though looking or something, but moving more or less toward the hill upon which Hrothgar stood. From the distance there came the faint sound of a horse’s neigh, and Hrothgar’s ears twitched. Gomen began singing:

As I was walking one midsummer evening,
A-viewing the fields and to see the stars,
'Twas down by the banks of the sweet Withywindle,
When I beheld a maid most Fair.

Hrothgar’s sudden whinny interrupted the lad. Hearpwine clapped him on the back saying, “That was a fine verse Gomen, a fine verse. You sing well. I think with practice you may become a mighty performer!” Once more Hrothgar called to the horse that was now clearly approaching them, and soon both Hearpwine and Gomen recognised the rider. As Leofan pulled up beside them, Hearpwine’s questions died on his lips.

“Come,” the stablemaster cried. “You are needed at the Inn. Your Lord and Lady are to leave for Ithilien within the hour and Eorcyn is sent to find you.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The woman reined in her horse at the yard of the Inn and looked about for a stable-hand but saw no-one. Her brow contracted into a slight frown of curiosity. It had been years since she had been to the White Horse Inn, but she still well remembered the great care given to horses within the elaborate stables. Dismounting she led her horse to a post and hitched him to it, whispering comforting words in his ear and giving him a lump of sugar from her pocket. That being done, she entered the Inn.

The first words that greeted her ears were the Innkeeper’s, who was addressing the Bard Eorcyn: “What do you think should happen if we are unable to find Hearpwine in time? There is no question that we will get him back here eventually, but what if it is not soon enough for the Lord Faramir and his Lady?”

The woman stepped forward, pulling back her hood as she spoke. “I will answer for that,” she said. “If the young Bard be not found soon, then he shall have to follow his Lord and Lady as best he may on his own, for he is commanded to follow them.” The people of the Inn looked up in surprise at the lady. Beneath her forest green cloak she was clothed all in white and her golden hair was bound in braids about her head like a crown. There were gasps of recognition and surprise.

Eorcyn was the first to recover the use of his tongue. Rising to his feet he bowed deeply saying, “My Lady Eowyn.”

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Aylwen had already begun to lose her patience with the situation, and no one seemed quite satisfied with the progress. The upset Innkeeper reluctantly bit her tongue when her question was not answered by Eorcyn, but some stranger entering the Inn.

“I will answer for that,” the female intruder said. “If the young Bard be not found soon, then he shall have to follow his Lord and Lady as best he may on his own, for he is commanded to follow them.”

The Innkeeper, along with many other patrons and staff members, turned to see who had spoken and answered in Eorcyn's place. Aylwen's gaze hardened when she saw the face of the speaker. She listened to the gasping inhales of recognition as the Lady Eowyn had pulled back her hood and revealed her golden braids. Aylwen watched wordlessly as Eorcyn stood from his spot next to Bethberry and bowed low to say what everyone was thinking, “My Lady Eowyn.”

It is his fault, and Hearpwine's fault, that she is here now. Aylwen thought, though she would not openly speak the bitter thoughts. It has gone far out of our hands, and gone astray. It did not have to go this far. The Innkeeper looked back over her shoulder, meeting the eyes of Bethberry. Then, turning back to the prestigious lady before her, Aylwen smiled curtly before bowing as Eorcyn had, though not so low or reverently.

"Then, my lady, I fear that it appears as though your young bard shall have to follow you as best as he can. Alone, it seems," Aylwen replied in answer to the Lady's solution to the problem. "For I am loathe to inform you that he is not with us now, and although one of my workers has taken his leave to find him for you, it will take time. It will take time I am sure you will not wish to waste."

[Bêthberry]

Eorcyn's face turned whiter than the simbelmynë flowers which bloomed over the barrows of Rohan's kings. Here he was found at a common Inn by the very woman to whom he had promised his uttermost endeavours to find Hearpwine. Nay, not just any woman. The daughter of his dead Lord, the King Théoden. The wife of the Prince of Ithilien. She who had slain the Witch King. If he had bowed any lower, he would have disappeared under the table.

'My Lady," he stammered. "I have been seeking Hearpwine, as you commanded."

"You sent him here on an errand?' she queried him, her head turning towards him, slightly upraised. "And now you seek him?. Or have you returned here yourself under some pretext?" Here she looked down at the table, at his tankard of ale and then stared impassively at him.

"I bid him come... " began Eorcyn, but his words were hushed by the Horse's owner.

Bethberry rose and with a gracious movement that somehow combined both bow and curtsy, she lowered her head calmly and serenely and then spoke.

"White Lady of Rohan, Princess of Ithilien, Unflinching Shieldmaiden who stood in battle as noble as any manly warrior, your presence honours The White Horse and awes us. Great indeed must be your admiration of the minstrel Hearpwine if you come here in search of him." In Bethberry's clear eyes there was deep respect for the woman who stood proudly before her.

"Hearpwine came hither to seek friends, to keep a pledge, although he was greatly tired. He had promised a young lad here a ride out beyond the pallisades and a lesson in song. They are now, Hearpwine and Gomen, riding no doubt beside the Snowborne, but Gomen's father has in haste taken our finest horse to recall them. How may we attend you, if you can here await Hearpwine's return?"

At the conclusion of her words, Bethberry stood back and erect, her head slightly bent, and awaited the request of the Lady whom none had ever expected to follow after Hearpwine.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The Lady Éowyn smiled at Bêthberry and inclined her head as a token of respect to the former Innkeeper. “Greetings to you, my old friend,” she said. “I well remember how well you kept the Horse when Edoras was my home. My memories of those days might be dark, but they are not wholly without laughter. Many’s the time I would seek shelter here from the darkness and despair of my own home. And to answer your question, yes, I am a great admirer of the young Bard’s – who amongst us is not! – but I do not come simply to accompany him on the way. We are preparing to leave within this half hour and I feared that he might be left behind. I well know what it is to abandoned by the Lord one longs to follow – I would not have the young man forced to ride in our wake, scanning the horizon for sign of hope and friends. Besides, we long for amusement upon the Road, as we do not part from hence in joy but in great haste for there is a threat to Ithilien that must be countered.”

Osric rose to his feet, his sword hand seeking his weapon through force of habit. “What manner of threat my Lady? If it be aught that can be slain with steel, I will vouch you the aid of my sword. It is sturdy yet, though wielded by one who has perhaps see his best days.”

The Lady smiled gravely at the old warrior, not in mock of his offer but at the glorious memories of his many exploits in the defence of Rohan. “No, good Osric, your sword – though mighty yet – will not be needed. Ithilien is now well-guarded and more than able to defend itself from what besets it. We have received word that a band of freed slaves of Mordor from far to the east of that dark land have come, seeking refuge. They are armed and wild, and have caused much unrest among the people they have met, but they do not offer battle. My Lord and I have decided, that it would be best for us to return and determine how best to serve these folk. Land will be found for them, should they want it, either in Ithilien or in the empty wastes or Eriador. Many such have been housed in these years since the War, and there are many yet to provide for.”

A clatter of hooves in the yard preceded the sudden entrance of Leofan, Gomen and the erstwhile Hearpwine, all of them sweaty and dishevelled from their galloping return to the Inn. The stablemaster and his son came up short with shock to see who stood in the door of the Inn, and even Hearpwine, who had become used to the company of nobles from his time in the Hall, had to recover himself quickly. Beaming red with exertion and embarrassment, he bowed low to the Lady, saying, “I am sorry to have brought you in search of my My Lady. I had intended this day to keep my bed, but then I promised the lad Gomen…”

Éowyn held up her hand and gently interrupted the torrent of explanation. “The good Bêthberry has already explained, master Bard. I have come not to chide but only to hurry you along, for we are to gather at the gates within this half hour.”

“Indeed, my Lady,” Hearpwine said, “I saw the Lord Faramir and others at the gate as I came, and I tried to call out my explanation, but I was so hurried to return to collect my belongings and to take my farewells…”

Again the Lady stilled him with a gesture, pointing out gently that if he did not make his goodbyes now he never would. Once more Hearpwine flushed and ran off to collect his belongings. The Lady smiled at his retreating back, then, bidding farewell to Osric, Bêthberry and the others, left the Inn. Mounting her horse she cantered through the streets of Edoras.

Not long after Hearpwine returned down the stairs and stood in the middle of the mead-hall, wanting to make his goodbyes but not knowing how to do it. It was Bêthberry who spoke. “Nay, Hearpwine, we know that you would wish to speak with us all in turn, and I think I can safely say that we all know what you would tell us. But you have no time for proper farewells, so take your leave of us now and perhaps sing a final song as you ride off.” Hearpwine smiled at the woman, and at all his friends of the Inn, and for the first time since any there had known him, he was speechless. He quickly took each of them by hand, before turning to the door. He suddenly came up short, however, as though remembering one last task. Without meeting anyone’s gaze he rushed into the kitchens to say his goodbyes to the lass Maercwen.

[Nurumaiel]

Maercwen had been sitting by the kitchen window, staring listlessly up at the sky. She heard Hearpwine enter the Common Room of the Inn but she did not go out. It was odd that the sky was so blue; why was it not grey and stormy? So much would leave when Hearpwine left. The happy days they had spent with each other, the songs he would sing to cheer them when they were feeling sorrowful... and Gomen. That was the most bitter of all. Gomen had counted so much on learning the ways of a bard from Hearpwine, and now Hearpwine was leaving. And more than the loss of a teacher Gomen would lose a dear friend. She, too, would lose a friend.

She felt that she should go out to bid him farewell but she also felt she could not bear to do that. To say farewell in the Common Room with all those eyes watching her, and all those minds wondering if she were still in love with Hearpwine. She had known well the rumors that had been going about in the spring. She could not bear to say goodbye to him with such thoughts lingering in the others' minds.

The door to the kitchen opened softly and she twisted in her chair, and stood when she saw it was Hearpwine. He looked rather breathless, as if he had been confusedly running about, and she smiled faintly when she imagined him trying to prepare to leave in his excitement. He spoke slowly. "The Lady is waiting for me in the Common Room. I cannot linger long."

"No," Maercwen said, "and no again. I would not ask you to try the Lady's patience." She stepped forward to him with both hands outstretched. He took them. "We will all miss you deeply," she said, "and I not least of them, yet we will wait eagerly for your return, and we will not weep that you are fulfilling your dream." She smiled. "Do not consider yourself above a poor stablemaster and his family when you return a true bard." She hesitated slightly and glanced at the door. "I must not delay you any longer," she said, "but here where no one will see and gossip, I would ask a favor." She stood on tip-toe and kissed his cheek. "Farewell, dear brother," she said. "I will not leave this kitchen with the others, but if, when you ride out, you look to this window you will see me wave you farewell." Hearpwine smiled at her, kissed her hand, and then turned and left the kitchen.

Maercwen returned to her chair and gazed at the sky once again. No tears came to her, for she had resolved as she had said that she would not weep because of his dream.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Hearpwine mounted Hrothgar and turned his head down the hill, clicking his tongue gently to urge his already tired horse toward their future. As he began to move, he caught sight of Gomen standing with his father, his face once more drawn with sorrow and threatening tears. Pulling up his horse, Hearpwine called to Gomen. “Come here lad,” he said gently, “I have something I want you to keep for me.”

Gomen came to stand at Hrothgar’s shoulder as Hearpwine rummaged through his saddlebags. In a moment he had produced his harp, which he handed down to the boy’s disbelieving fingers. “Here lad,” the Bard said through a constricted throat. “Take this and practise with it every day. When I return I expect that you will be able to play that song I taught you and many more!” The boy merely stared at Hearpwine, not knowing what to say. Leofan moved forward as though to protest the gift, but Hearpwine cried out, “Nay master Leofan, it is mine to give. It has served me well for many a year, but the time has come, I think, to leave behind the things of my youth and to forge a new life for myself in the land that I go to. I will make myself a new harp from the wood of the trees that I find there, and it will sound the sweeter for having been crafted from the land it will enliven with song!”

Without waiting for a response he spurred Hrothgar into a canter and wheeled down the road, but as he passed the kitchen window he looked up and smiled and waved to Maercwen, silently wishing her a happy and a long life.

He soon disappeared around a bend in the road, but as he did so, his voice could be heard in song.

Farewell, but whenever you welcome the hour
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,
Then think of the friend who once welcom'd it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain,
Of the few that had brighten'd his pathway of pain,
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw,
It's enchantment around him, while ling'ring with you.

And still on that evening when pleasure fills up,
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where 'ere my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night.
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me beaming, all o'er with your smiles.
Too, blest if it tells me that 'mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice had murmer'd, "I wish he were here!"

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy,
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd,
Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd.
You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang 'round it still.

The song faded into the sunlight, and he was gone.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

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 has recently returned from a long journey. The previous Innkeeper and owner of the White Horse, Bethberry, a woman who was an Itinerant healer from The Old Forest, also lives in the White Horse and helps attend to duties.

Cast of characters:

(Aylwen Dreamsong) Aylwen Dreamson, Innkeeper of The White Horse

(Bêthberry) Bethberry, Owner and former Innkeeper

(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

(Snowdog) Hanasian, itinerant historian

--

Aylwen's Post

Aylwen watched with the rest of the staff and patrons as Hearpwine rode off into the distance. Her calmness remained just a disguise that no one could see through unless they had the eyes to see it and the heart to embrace it. No one really noticed it, so she kept on living in her dream world. No one spoke, and when Bethberry moved to interrupt the stillness, everyone began bustling about, moving but never speaking. Aedre went off to the kitchens to help Mae, Eorcyn sat and Osric sat near to him. Gomen and Leofan eyed the harp the boy had been given, and Bethberry led Sigurd to where Aylwen stood motionless.

The Innkeeper smiled at the two approached her, feeling suddenly refreshed in the change. For such were the ways of the world, for it to change and to change the people within. Similarly were the ways of Inns, for patrons to leave and for others to arrive, bringing new and joyous times to the people that would always stay. Things never stayed the same forever in the White Horse, and Aylwen only hoped that as change came, which it surely would, the good memories would remain and make everything continually better. If there had been more time before Hearpwine's departure, Aylwen was certain that there would have been talking all day with his new friends in Edoras, wishing that he could stay. Summer sunsets always looked the same, one would never be more beautiful than the next. Still, the summers were never exactly alike, and for that Aylwen was ever glad.

"Now, Sigurd," Aylwen began cheerily when he had come over with Bethberry. "The owner of this fine Inn told me before all the chaos that you have an idea for a job for you that you wish to share with me."

[Kransha]

The sight of the Lady Eowyn was, without explanation, a great shock, and an uplifting experience for some. Sigurd, though, had not realized the identity of this regal presence, and now scolded himself for it. But, he had no time for self-reprimand, for he had become awestruck by her as he was pulled into the present, into the moving reality around him, and lost sight of his other daily goals. For a time, albeit brief, he had stood in the company of Theoden’s daughter, Lady of Ithilien, and more titles that escaped him in his sudden, passive reverie. He stared rather blankly, but managed to whisk his gaze as line of vision aside to take in other ‘sights’ as he could, and was, in some small way, successful. The sight and appearance of Eowyn, though, stirred him deeply, and his eyes followed her rather than Hearpwine into the distance.

Osric, on the other hand, bore a look more blunt and expressionless, though his heart pounded mightily, waddling up his throat and beating ceaselessly in his ears, to further his discomfort. This was the second time he’d seen her, the last time being in the shimmering golden hall of Meduself, beneath a roof of sunlit thatch and flanked by pillars of ebony that glistened as they would if stars shone down upon them. The experience was different, certainly, for the White Horse was not Meduseld, but Eowyn carried with her a gentle, calming air and a fiery but serene aura that hovered over her regal visage and lingered, skulking about, behind when she departed. It was all the old Rohirrim could do not to stare longingly back as she took her leave, not noting that Sigurd, his jaw still slack and immoveable, had turned his head to others, and no longer let his gaze be affixed to one maiden. Now, though all this commotion had come to a too abrupt end and the inn’s society began, slowly, to move and resemble a chorus of living, breathing beings again. Heaving a deep sigh, Osric turned his glinting eyes to his nephew.

“Uncle,” he murmured foolishly, stuttering as he silently spoke, “…was that…the Lady Eowyn?” The shroud of her presence could still be seen reflected in the youth’s face, Osric, sour and distempered now, turned and vigorously nodded, clapping his hand upon Sigurd’s shoulder and turning him towards Aylwen and Bethberry promptly, saying, only fleetingly, “Yes, Sigurd, it was indeed.”

Sigurd looked back at him, twisting so that Osric could not turn him, an expression of mighty aw plastered to his boyish features as his mouth moved silently, at last forming the vain illusion of words. “You…spoke to her.” Osric’s left eye gave an irritated little blink of a fashion as he nodded again, more vigorously, trying most heartily to pull and push young, confused Sigurd backward and around towards the innkeeper and owner. He continually nodded as Sigurd stood, unconsciously resisting. Finally, he said aloud, and loud enough it was to jog Sigurd from his waking slumber. “It would not be the first time, lad. Now, tell Miss Aylwen of your idea.” At last he had Sigurd turned, but the boy continued to look upon his dreary uncle, stupefied by the various happenings. “What?”

“Aylwen asked you a question, and a simple one at that. Perhaps you would be wise and answer it.”

Finally, Sigurd understood what Osric wished of him. He must resume the conversation that had been severed minutes prior and, perhaps, salvage it from the depths. Old Osric, cranky and cantankerous for a reason that Sigurd could not fathom, did not seem to be in a helpful mood anymore, so Sigurd began, looking at Aywlen. “Well, it was not my idea as much as it was that of Bethberry, for her ample suggestions made my choice all the easier.” He cast a curt glance at the owner of the White Horse, who looked back pointedly and acted her part well, never showing even the slightest hint of amusement at the young man and his uncle’s befuddling plight. “My choice is a broad one, and I can only hope that you accept it, if it makes, hopefully, more sense to you than it did to me. If you will have me, Aylwen, I will serve wherever I am needed and whenever as well. But, the position that seemed most apt was that of Night Watchman for this noble establishment, which I would tend to the inn as its resident in the absence of the sun. As far as I have been told, the Horse has no such fellow, and I would be willing,” Osric jabbed him sharply in the rib cage with his armored elbow, which was actually a much more painful endeavor than the old man had thought it would be, “more than willing to oblige.”

[Bêthberry]

Aedre had watched the Lady Eowyn withdraw from the White Horse with a look of awe and surprise on her face and a shade of disappointment as Hearpwine had followed after her. She stood awhile trying to get a sense of things and then watched the conversation between Aylwen and the old warrior and his nephew.

For her part, Bethberry took a deep sigh of relief after all the unexpected bustle and commotion of the morning. She remembered well the visits of the very young Lady to the Horse in days gone bye but had not been sure the Princess of Ithithlien would have remembered them. She should have thought better of Eowyn, for here was honest, true breeding, grace and courtesy rather than hauteur and condecension. Bethberry smiled at the remembrance and then turned her thoughts to the conversation in front of her.

Oscric and Sigurd certainly could extend a conversation and make the simplest request a long endeavour indeed. She watched quietly for a bit, to ensure that Aylwen would not be completely surprised by the request for employment. The two of them had had not a moment to chat so Bethberry could bring her up to date on events, but as usual the young woman was taking everything in her stride. Sigurd finished his rather long speech, punctuated as it was by his uncle's elbow and Bethberry spoke up.

"Osric, Sigurd, and I had mentioned several possible jobs here at The Horse, Aylwen, but the final decision of what to offer, or, indeed, to offer any position at all, is yours as Inkeeper of course. Frodides could use a strong arm to help her load and unload the heavy items for the kitchen and we could also use someone of sharp eye, keen attitude, and faithful committment as a night watchman. With peace and slowly returning prosperity, there is much more travel and many more strangers appearing in Edoras. The gates to the city are no longer closed and so we must make our own arrangements. I will withdraw from these deliberations, however, to let you make your own minds."

With that, Bethberry turned her attention to the old Bard who had remained stiffly uneasy at the recent events. He had spoken rather peremptorily about Hearpwine's absence--a tone and attitude which intrigued her. He clearly was an astute, even wily man, well versed in the ways of court and power and influence. Yet why was he so flustered by Hearpwine's disappearance? Bethberry decided that the morning might yet hold more interest for her, she who found people endlessly fascinating.
"Eorcyn, can you enjoy that tankard now, or are you still bothered that Hearpwine was absent when you sent for him? Had our favourite young minstrel disappointed you? Or had he exceeded expectations?'

It cannot be denied that, had anyone looked closely, there could be found the slightest flicker of challenge in her eyes.

[Umwë]

As Umwë entered the Inn this early midsommer morning he felt very relieved, but yet quite tired. He had traveled the whole night on his white stallion, Roman. He had left Roman in the stable outside and had fed him with an apple that was the only food he had left in his backpack. His brown leatherboots were quite worn by now as it had been raining the most of the part on his way to Rohan from Rivendell and the road had got really muddy and wet. But now the weather was wonderful and the sun shone and warmed him up. His shoulderlong brown hair were muddy and his mantle had a big tear as he had got stuck in a tree branch with it, so his trip to Rohan wasn’t too good and his mood wasn’t either. He pulled his hand through it and tried to clear away the worst part. His sharp eyes scouted the Inn and he saw an empty table. He walked over to it and looked outside the window, many peoples were looking at something.

Umwë tried to see what it was then he heard a hoarse voice behind him saying; “It’s Lady Eowyn they say...” Umwë turned around swiftly and saw an old man with quite long beard and with a scar on his cheek sitting and look at him with a big grin. Umwë didn’t answer the old man, as he didn’t know what to say, so he looked outside again. He heard the man mumble something about “Elves today have no manners...”. Umwë just ignored the man and rose up from his chair and soflty walked over to the bar to order some wine. He fell into thoughts about people in Rohan maybe expected good manners from an elf.

“A glass of wine, please.” He said to the bartender. He glanced over to a stranger that sat a few bar stools away from him. Actually he didn’t feel for talking right now, he was so tired that all he wanted right now was to sleep in a warm bed, but first he wanted to calm down after his trip and relax.

He finished of his wine quite quickly, paid the bartender and rose up from his stool and took a walk into the common room. He decided that he maybe should try to talk to someone after all, as he didn’t want to intend to be asocial. The common room was already crowded and it took a while for him to find a seat. He fell into his thoughts and memories of Rivendell came back to him. Maybe I’ll never go back... he thought and hummed loudly, but blushed as he saw two dwarves staring at him. What a perfect day, he thought ironic and raised an eyebrow to the dwarves that now ignored him. His mood didn’t get better when a tall clumsy man spilled his ale over Umwë.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Aylwen watched as Bethberry took her leave of the conversation, then looked back at the young man before her and his uncle close by him. Aylwen never felt short of employment proposals, yet she always found it difficult to turn someone down. Even in the simplest of requests, Aylwen found herself giving in and agreeing. The sudden visit of Eowyn had left many issues in disarray, and Aylwen felt as though she was forgetting something important.

"Well, we have never required a night watchman before," The Innkeeper murmured, her consideration becoming a private conversation for her, Sigurd, and Oscric only. Sigurd's shoulders dropped when he heard her words, but her face brightened as she opened her mouth to continue. "However, there are new things to consider. As Bethberry has said, things change and the gates are ever open to new surprises and strange things. The new Age brings many changes, and we must change with it. If that is your final proposal, I do accept and you shall be the White Horse's night watchman. You can sleep during the day and keep us safe at night. It will be a noble task, if you decide to make it such. Maybe one day it shall pay off, and we will all be grateful that you took the job this day."

The Innkeeper chose her words carefully, her mind raging about how Sigurd felt about the task and how he was being influenced by his uncle Osric. Would he perform the job differently if Osric were not behind him to push his performance? Would he soon realize that the job he so hastily wanted was nothing more than a desire and wish made by his mother and uncle? Aylwen did not know the answer to either question, but she did not see much harm in finding out the answers. Surely if Sigurd had second thoughts there would be no rush to find a replacement...after all, they had never required a night watchman.

Aylwen remained uncertain in the matter of Sigurd's employment.

[Bêthberry]

"People in Rohan are not accustomed to seeing elves in Edoras," spoke Bethberry to the muddy, crumpy, tired looking rider who had objected rather vociferously to having ale spilt on him.

"They are obviously not accustomed to 'holding their ale' either," he retorted, his surliness giving way slightly to wit.

Bethberry nodded curtly and called for Aedre to bring a cloth and some ale and then returned to her new study. The morning wore on and, after all the hustle and bustle of the early activity, she was loathe to leave to her own work. Or perhaps it was that her work concerned the various people who visited The White Horse and their infinite variations. For whateve reason, she decided to stay and ply this new arrival with questions.

"Elves of Eryn Lasgalen are nearby, helping dwarves with the Glittering Caves."

"What business is that of mine?" replied the elv, whose eye showed some interest in persuing conversation for the mere sake of entertainment.

"I would not have any way of knowing whether it is your business or not," Bethberry replied. "It was a simple observation, slightly more detailed than a formal statement about the condition of the weather today."

"I see," replied the laconic elf.

"Do you now? And is there anything in my demeanour which draws you into such loquacious speech?"

'Nothing more than an interest in making you work for your interest."

"Work? You call word play work? An elf tired and mud-covered, down at the heels and apparently a bit worse for the ride, can still engage wit and mind rather than complain surily of bodily discomfort?"

Bethberry sat back, regarding the elf with a pleasant look of cordial amusement. What would he say next?

[Umwë]

Umwë muttered and leaned back and looked at Bethberry. He sighed and finally said
“I am sorry for my bad manners, it’s just that this appears to not be my day.” He swiftly wiped his hands on a small piece of not so muddy material and reached it for Bethberrys. She looked at his hand and grabbed it. “Umwë, from Rivendell actually. You are from here?”

Bethberry seemed looking a little bit confused over his rapid moodswing, but Umwë could understand, so he said “I hope you understand, I’m very hungry and tired. Forgive me.” He said with a smile.

Bethberry still looked uncertain, but she shook his hand and replied with a smile “Bethberry.”

“Pleased to meet you Bethberry, I just need something to eat and I promise I won’t be so whiny.”

“Aye, just order what you want! Are you from Rivendell, haven’t they all departed to the West?”

“Well, actually everyone of my family have, my parents and my two brothers. I want to have a look around in Middle-Earth before I leave. I want to stay here as long as possible, I’ve got too attached to Middle-Earth, so it feels hard to leave it.”

Umwë’s head sank and he looked down on his feets. “But where are you from then? Are you from Rohan?” he exclaimed and looked up at Bethberry. Umwë thought it felt like she tried to avoid that question, but he was too curious about it to not ask her.

Bethberry seemed a bit troubled whit that question but suddenly opened her mouth to reply “Well...” she started, and Umwë awaited her reply.

[Bêthberry]

"How long does it take someone to be from somewhere?" Bethberry asked this muddy elf from Rivendell.

He was taken aback by this question and hummed and mumbled for a bit. Once Aedre came to take his request for food, however, he found his conversational tone once more and looked back up at the woman.

"No hard and fast rule to that, to be sure," he replied. "Except that people who don't answer straight or directly or evade answers with more questions often have motives for hiding their true natures."

Bethberry laughed, a throaty laugh which shook her shoulders and shook her thoughts out of the complacent and comfortable ease she had fallen into here in Edoras. It was true she was short tempered with those who were forgetting the War of the Ring but it was also true that she had been here at The White Horse so long she had forgotten her years and years of wandering Middle earth. It had been a long while since she had been questioned about herself, for people had come to accept her status here as if she had belonged; she had forgotten what it was like to have to be wary and cautious about being a strange traveller in lands where strangers were uncommon, despite the elf's claim of suberfuge to her question.

"I ask merely out of the desire for conversation, Umwë of Rivendell, and not to hide anything of my past. Indeed, I have been here long years in Rohan and can barely remember when I first learnt the language of the People of the Mark." At this she glanced over at Aylwen, who seemed to have successfully concluded her conversation with Sigurd and Ossric. Bethberry was keen to know how that had gone and hoped old Ossric might join them here, to extend the conversation, but she was too polite to interrupt the elf at this point.

'I came in part to answer to need of a friend and her family, Ælfritha, whose home towards the Westfold was facing troubled times. The family was famous as one particularly skilled in the breeding and breaking and training of hourses, yet horses were becoming wild and skittish and unmanageable. It was a dire time and strange, before people knew what the White Wizard was doing in Isengard."

She sat back in her chair and waited for the elf to consider that, while trying to catch Ossric's eye.

[Kransha]

Kransha's post

At last, the strenuous conversation had been drawn to a feeble close. Aylwen, much to Osric's happy satisfaction, had agreed to employ young Sigurd as night watchman. She did not seem entirely content for some unknown reason, but that fact did not cling to Osric remotely, for he had succeeded. He felt no swell in optimism or hope, but was at least satisfied by the happenings. He turned, letting Sigurd do the same and looked across the room, scanning it contently from his standing perch. He took several reserved steps, moving around the room as clumps of people began to spring up, swarming over tables, materializing in chairs or on stools, eating, humming, talking, and the like, leaving Osric and Sigurd to their own agendas which they could at last pursue. The old man, muttering inconsequentially to himself, pushed himself tiredly across the room, now turning his eyes down until another's gaze caught him.

It was Bethberry's light glance from the corner of her eye that managed to hook onto Osric as he looked about. She sat comfortably, reclining in a chair across from another man, who looked shadier, more reserved in the way he sat than she. This was dismissible, since Osric already knew Bethberry to be a person with whom reservation was not customary, though she was adept at concealing her nature. For this, Osric thought both less and better of her, but more he thought better, for he had always had a clear spot in him for those who possessed both wit and tact, tempered each with good humor. Osric had known those who possessed such qualities and were sour instead, very dislikable folk. Despite that, the aged Rohirrim could tell from the glances being shot at him every moment or so that Bethberry either desired his company, or was desperately trying to get him to move to one side so she could see something behind him. He decided that, whatever purpose she had in mind, he would proceed with the former. A minute grin peeling over his equally minute frown, he headed over to the table in question.

?Ah, Lady Bethberry,? he said, his voice gentle but with a bite at its back, ?I see you?ve found another newcomer to beleaguer with your wit.? His brightened eyes turned to the other man, looking to him wistfully, but suddenly focused on him, flitting away from his face to look him over swiftly. He was no man, as he?d assumed, but an elf. It had been so long, perhaps too long, since old Osric had taken in the sight of an elf of any sort, as he?d only seen three in his long life. As his feeble memory served, the last had been years ago. The sight of this fellow struck him as a sliver of brilliant golden light in murky shadow. But, before he could drift in meditative reverie, Bethberry?s challenging voice jarred his thoughts.

?Beleaguer with my wit?? she said, still friendly like Osric, but the same air of subtle sarcasm about her, ?You do me wrong, Osric. This ?newcomer? and I both have enough wit about us to talk, rather than besiege each other without need. Perhaps, after your many hardships, you would not mind a conversation.? Osric winced when she emphasized the word ?hardships,? but shrugged it off, knowing her to be toying with his uncharacteristic attitude only in fun. ?Many hardship indeed.? He turned, looking to the elf-man sitting across from him. ?So, who is it that you talk with, hmm??

?He is Umwë, an elf of Rivendell.? Bethberry said politely as the elf nodded his head in acknowledgement.

Osric breathed deeply as he pulled up a chair and fell awkwardly into it. ?I gathered that he was an elf. Such things are not hard to tell.? The elf looked at him, with an expression that might have portrayed offense, but Osric could not tell from the elf?s features. ?For some, it might be, sir.? Umwë said delicately. The Rohirrim realized that, while he thought of tact, he was not being tactful making such statements. He hastily made up for his response and tried to change the conversation?s subject.

?Yes, for some. Hopefully you have not found the people of Rohan to be in that respect.?

?As you said, sir, some are, some are not. But tell me, who are you that has such a knowledge of what folk are Elves and what folk are not? What vast archive do you hail from??

Now it was Osric?s turn to feign offense, as he wasn?t sure whether the elf was being witty, hostile, or completely impartial. He leaned forward in his chair, laying his hand and arm upon another table. His wrinkled fingers rapped energetically on its surface as he introduced himself with less of a flourish than usual. ?I am Osric, son of Oswulf, from the town of Aldburg, a place where Elves are about as common as wingless dragons. What business has an elf in Edoras. Ought you to be at Helm?s Deep??

He was still tactless in his words, and the Elf responded accordingly. ?Not all Elves have their tasks in life appointed them by men, Osric of Aldburg.?

The Rohirrim glared with one eye, but again settled himself and leaned back, his fingers tapping faster, forming an indistinct rhythm. ?Something else I gathered, Master Umwë. What, then, is your reason for being in Edoras. Of all places on this Middle-Earth, Elves frequent the Mark least of all. I had heard your kind fled these shores, so why do you come further in. What do you seek in the Rohan??

~ ~ ~ ~

Bethberry's post

Bethberry could barely suppress a hearty guffaw at Osric's question about Helm's Deep, but somehow she managed to maintain an air of interested reserve rather than slapstick humour. She turned from the old Rohirrim towards the elf far from home.

For his part, Umwë sat staring at the old warrior, not sure whether to tighten up the tension a knot or two, or to respond civilly. As he sat, he could hear the bustle of the Great Hall ebb and flow around him and watched the sunbeams skirt around the dust motes in the air. He decided he liked the Inn enough to reply civilly.

"Must one always seek something, of an ulterior motive?" he questioned, looking at Ossric but wishing that Bethberry would enter the discussion.

"It is a long journey from Rivendell to here. Not the kind of ride to be taken lightly, nor without planning and provisions. Unless one were of the frivolous kind, much given to flitting around the land and avoiding honest work."

Umwë would have risen in anger at that, putting aside all thoughts of civility, had a hand not restrained his arm.

"You must make allowances for us, Master Elf. We have had an abundance of worry and excitement this morning, mush rushing and worrying over regal matters and romantic bards, and then anxiety over employment. Our noble warrior Osric is thus inclined at the moment to direct his excess of tension towards the sparing of noble words. Once a warrior, always a warrior."

Osric half snorted at this comment and his lips began to quiver as he exuded little puffs of air, as if this would calm matters somewhat . Bethberry serenely changed the topic of conversation.

"Has Mistress Aylwen decided to hire Sigurd? Has he chosen the role of Night Watchman?"

Osric sat more firmly in his chair, his sense of responsibility now relieved while his sense of honour rose. With a slight bow, he gave an affirmation to the woman?s question.

"And has he made plans for how he should proceed? Will he establish a a regular routine and marching pattern around the Inn? Shall he march with lantern swinging or be guided by moonlight merely?"

Osric looked closely at her eyes as she spoke and thought he could discern an improper hint which lacked decorum, but he decided to dismiss the thought. No sense angering his nephews new employer.

"He shall move swiftly to enforce a healthy surveillance of the Inn and a necessary security of its perimetres," he replied somewhat stiffly.

And so the two, for the elf had lapsed into sullen quietness, passed away the morn in banter.

[littlemanpoet]

Eodwine rode up to the White Horse Inn and dismounted from Flíthaf, his chestnut stallion. He walked Flíthaf to the ostler, who gave him good morning. Eodwine returned the good word and removed his prized satchel from its place by the saddle at Flíthaf's side. He made for the front doors of the Inn. He was tall and blonde, a veteran of the War, and now King's Messenger, dressed in the colors and markings of the King of Rohan.

He was looking forward to a few days' well earned rest. In just the last few months there had been an urgent message from King Eomer to King Elessar, followed by an equally urgent errand to Steward Faramir in Ithilien. This much was no surprise. The usual course of events would have sent him back to King Eomer once again, but Faramir had had a surprise for him. And so he had made off for Dol Amroth and Prince Imrahil. He had been looking forward to it, for he had not been down that way while a soldier in the war, nor on his errands since then as King's Messenger. Having delivered his message to Prince Imrahil, Eodwine had expected to travel back to Minas Tirith, and thence to Edoras to report to his king. But it had not been so, which at the time had dumbfounded him. But Prince Imrahil had used the courtesy that passed between these noble leaders, and sent Eomer's Messenger on yet another errand! So Eodwine had ridden west, bringing word from Prince Imrahil to a land holder in Anfalas, along the western most reaches of the hills called Pinnath Gelin. This landholder, one Irmandil, had immediately set out for Dol Amroth, as Eodwine knew he would. And Irmandil had had no duty, nor the right, to send Eodwine anywhere. Of course, if Irmandil had had an errand for him that would have been on his way back to Edoras, Eodwine would of course have seen to it. As it was, Eodwine crossed the lonely Lethnui river, passed through the forest between the mountains and skirted the western flank of Ered Nimrais, entering Rohan only days ago, and having reported to the King just yesterday.

At least all the riding had kept him happy with new places to see, if not old bad memories away.

He passed through the door. It was quiet inside, which made sense, it being morning. Well, he had gold to spend and had every intention of doing just that. It was darker than he remembered in the Common Room, and it took him a moment standing in the doorway before he made out Bethberry, the owner of the inn, and a woman whom he did not know, speaking with an old man, a young one who must be his son, and an elf. An elf! Eodwine had never gotten used to Elves, especially since before the war, they had been beings of mystery and stayed hidden. By now he had met a few, and befriended one or two, but still remained in awe of them. He walked forward and greeted Bethberry.

"I give you good morning!"

"Good morning to you!" she replied.

"How do you fare, Bethberry?"

"Well as always. And you? Where have you been these last few months?"

He gave her the rundown of his recent errands, then asked, "Who is Innkeeper now? I recognize no one besides you."

"Aylwen is my inkeeper. She will be happy to make your acquaintance. Go greet her."

"I will, at that!" Eodwine smiled and went over to the four. "I give you good morning! I am Eodwine of the Gap, just back from errands far and wide with days to myself and gold to spend, first on a hearty breakfast if that may be had, and then we shall see. Whom do I have the pleasure of meeting this fine morning?"

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Aylwen's post:

Aylwen sighed, tired and tried through the day with many things though the hours had scarcely met noon. Early morning and midmorning had quickly faded silently into noon?s harsh sunlight. The sun would soon begin to sink slowly and gracefully down from its perch directly above, causing the ground and air to become slightly cooler with each passing moment?a relief from the heat of the summer sunshine. Aylwen waited ever patiently for the cooling air and the darkening of the sky, for she felt desperate need for rest from her previous journey and the day?s trials. Not only that, the Innkeeper felt particularly anxious for the first night of Sigurd?s duties as night watch.

After employing Sigurd, Aylwen had taken to a quiet and short conversation with Asad and his grandmother. They had much to say about the sudden disappearance and departure of Hearpwine. Asad mostly felt optimism and hope for the young man whom he had earlier competed with for the very spot that called Hearpwine. However, the aging Jesia had only riddles and prophesies about the leaving Hearpwine, most of which Aylwen dismissed in her own mind. Aylwen soon dismissed herself to go and join the group containing Osric, Sigurd, Bethberry, and an Elven patron unknown to Aylwen.

Before Aylwen could introduce herself into conversation and to the newly arrived Elf, a man entered through the doorway of the inn. The man walked towards the group, proving to Aylwen?s eyes to be a new patron, and one that the current Innkeeper did not recognize, or at least remember from her years as Innkeeper. His hair glowed blond in color, the locks shining from the rays of the setting sun. He stood taller than many, especially taller than the already slightly stunted Aylwen. At first, he spoke graciously to Bethberry, whom he seemed to know well, or at least was in some way familiar with. When Bethberry bade him speak with her, he turned and addressed Aylwen and the others she stood with.

"I give you good morning! I am Eodwine of the Gap, just back from errands far and wide with days to myself and gold to spend, first on a hearty breakfast if that may be had, and then we shall see. Whom do I have the pleasure of meeting this fine morning?"

?I am Aylwen, the Innkeeper here at the White Horse,? Aylwen greeted kindly, her smile warm and betraying her weary dark eyes. ?And I will go get your meal while these three introduce themselves. I would call it more of a luncheon, good Eodwine, for the day wears on ever quickly in its own way, and noon is fast upon our heals! I shall return in a moment.?

With that, Aylwen left Osric, Sigurd, and the Elven man to speak their greetings to the cheerful Eodwine.

---
Bethberry's post

Bethberry had spent some time in whispered greetings with Eodwine, ascertaining his state of health and what industries he had pursued since last he visited the White Horse, but then she had been called away by a child with an urgent message for her. She read the missive the child thrust into her hands and then asked hurried questions, but the child could add little to the message, which had been delivered at the gate of Edoras.

A summon it was, to come quickly to the home of her old friend Ælfritha, where an ailing family member urgently required her help. It was unlike Ælfritha to call for her over a matter slight. This must be of no small need.

Bethberry packed a small satchel of clothes, carefully checked her bags of herbs and oils and emuluments, and prepared to be off. She returned to the Great Hall, and spoke quietly with Aylwen.

"Ælfritha bids me come to attend to and elder of her family. She does not make such requests lightly and I must respect it."

Aylwen nodded. "Know you how long you will be gone?"

"Perhaps a fortnight, it is difficult to tell. I will send a message should I be gone longer. You have all you need here for the Inn? Do you lack anything?"

The younger woman shook her head. "We are well stocked, even given the influx of patrons occasioned by our bards and our singing competitions. Rest easily. Naught shall happen in your absence."

"I did not think any harm would, Aylwen. I chose an able Innkeeper who knows a thing or two about managing an Inn. My only regret is that I should miss the good fellowship here. Give my greetings to Frodides and Leofan and Aedre. Tell them whence I go." With that, Bethberry gave Aylwen an affectionate, parting hug and spoke a few words of good-bye to Osric and Eodwine before leaving. She had a long journey ahead of her, across a sea of waving grassland, to the farthest reaches of old Rohan.

---
Aylwen's post:

It could smell the flesh.

The flesh appealed to Its hungry stomach.

It had not eaten in long days. Too long. The flesh and the opportunity of a meal were too great to pass, especially for Its growling stomach. It made Its way over a small stream, sniffing the ever-present smell of nutrition and sustenance. It could sense from afar the indifference and unknowing nature of those It intended to prey upon.

Crawling in the quietest manner possible for such a large stature, It howled as loud as it could, calling for companionship and partnership to aid and share in the feast It would have later. When others had joined It, they trod the area silently and swiftly. Soon It could see the object of Its thought and senses.

The people of the little inn would not have time to react. They would wait until the sun sank beneath the hills that they had so often wandered.

Then they would eat.

And Its stomach would be filled.