[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.