|
The Song of Relief
But a short time after Endamir had taken up his brother's mortal relict and determined to step into the harsh wilderness of reality once more, a new sound made all five Elves-even, perhaps, the new, baleful sixth of their band, the Master-Smith-stop. For it demanded all attention; promised all bounties; pacified all thoughts.
It was the sound of a playful but supremely skilful hand dancing down the length of a harp. The chords were like ripples in the very hearts and emotions of their listeners, yet each of the company felt slightly differently towards them, a vague, intangible attitude mixed with their admiration. Malris, for example, felt as if some primal devotion and loyalty within him, to serve unswervingly and gladly, was evoked.
And then the Song itself began.
O friends and fellowmen of the Old Country,
Strange Country, Old Country, full well hath you strived.
But toil leads to iron and tears and regret
And the troubles that gnaw at the night.
A harbour we're seeking, wherever we wander
And all but the harpers, they'll find it one day.
You all have your haven which speeds you to home
For there's little relief found in the depths of the fray.
Relief you are seeking, for harbour you're yearning
For happiness, or at least stilling of grief
Relief shall I grant you, while this fell night lasts
And you'll come to me in the morn...
Long before any of the five Elves had time to wonder what the words signified now, they slept where they stood, their eyes open and staring deep into vague images, dim provinces of memory, and deeper truths, incomprehensible but comforting for that very reason.
No one can tell whether the Smith slept similarly. But the Minstrel's voice and somnolent gift had contained a power few beings could have resisted, and so possibly, probably, that ancient, stubborn spirit succumbed and was granted a short respite.
|