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Manawyth nodded simply as Thornden sat down opposite him. He did not smile-apparently not yet fully used to going through the expressions of joy-but his eye showed respect, mixed, admittedly, with not a little surprise. He listened carefully to the Horse-lord's questions, and paused before answering, clearly considering his reply.
"The harp...is the instrument of the shepherd, the herdsman, now? For in winter and the cruelness of climes before...blodwyn...flowers...spring...aye, then the wind is cold and fierce, and only music can warm the gut, the heart."
He seemed to be drawing on a memory or a concept that rose him to a state of passion he had not yet reached in the evening. Perhaps he was unused to the mead; but he had drunk but sparingly so far.
"The harp is what our fathers and grandfathers played, but now is...used...by too few. For war is constantly upon us. Unhappy times, unlike here, did not end with the Dark King...no, few think much of harp strains now. For the shepherds are dead and the flocks are wild and dispersed...or herded east and south, here...horns ad drums are played by the warbands of the chieftains, and an old art has died."
Manawyth stopped, as if realising how his voice had risen. "Forgive...my mood is...too sober. It is a grim tale to me, though. I am but the least of harpers...my brother taught me all I can play now. But he was no good with an axe, and so..."
Manawyth shrugged, his meaning all too clear. He shook his head, driving unwelcome thoughts from it.
"Perhaps here I shall find memories that will make me glad. For now...I would like yours. Do you..." he paused again, thinking, "are you wedded? For indeed I have noticed that this marriage seems to...disturb the women here..." he finished wryly, in clear reference to Saeryn and the Gondorian newcomer, whom he had overheard earlier.
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