Friends of Nimrodel: Tapestry of Dreams

[littlemanpoet]

The day passed quickly, and Ædegard enjoyed Liornung's songs, for the most part. They made him laugh inside with their lightness.

By day's end the mountain ring surrounding the Wizard's Vale could be seen at the western horizon. It was still named the Wizard's Vale by many, though Saruman was gone and the Ents were the new tenants holding Orthanc under the rule of Éomer, Lord of the Mark. It was a strange world, with Ents and Elves and 'Obbits, as the saying now went in Edoras, for the Eorlingas loved their songs to greet sound to sound. Which, Ædegard considered, Liornung's did in a different way than he knew.

As they made camp that night, on the plains of the West Emnet, still a stiff ride from the eaves of Fangorn, Ædegard spoke his thought as they sat around their campfire under the starry dome, the southwesterly breeze soughing through the tall grasses of the plain.

"Liornung, your songs are fair and light, yet they sound unlike that which I grew up listening to in Edoras. Your songs have the same sounds within the words at the end of a line instead of the way of the Eorlingas, whose songs make most of tongue against tooth or mouth roof or lip. And yours are fair and speak of family and love and sparkle and wit, as on a summer breeze, while those I grew up with are of stone and sword and come on a cold wind out of the north, as did Eorl long years ago. Our minstrels have made the War of the Ring into such songs. One runs like this, in part:

"Hear of the heroes at Helm's Deep
who refused to fall against the greed
of that twist tongued serpent, Saruman.
Hear the names of the heroes that night,
Théoden, mighty thewed Mark lord,
his loyal heir, Éomer son of Éomund,
Aragorn son of Arathorn, wielder of Anduril,
Legolas of the Elves, fleetfooted orcslayer,
Gimli son of Glóin and Gamling the Old,
and Gandalf Greyhame, wielder of Glamdring,
courage bringer, counsellor, friend of the free peoples.

"Helm haunted the Hornburg that night,
and the stout Helmingas withstood the siege.

"And so it goes. I have that much by heart, and more, but I would not bore you with it. Under your hand I'd expect somewhat like so:

"Hear of the heroes of Helm's Deep
when Saruman's orcs did creep
to the Hornburg from the Wizard's Vale
to overrun but - um - they did fail....

"or something like it. I speak overlong, wending my way to my point, but where did you learn your verse skill? Tell us the tale of it, if you will."

Liornung

"The tale of it?" Liornung blushed slightly but it was clear he was more than eager to tell. "What you have said is true... the Bards of Rohan have rarely put rhyme in their verse and their great songs have been sung without. Yet I learned the art of song not from one of Rohan but from a wandering minstrel of Gondor who always sang in rhyme. Indeed, this fiddle is his that he left me, and 'twas he who first named me Liornung. The name my mother and father gave to me is Sarig, but I do forbid anyone to call me thus." And, a twinkle in his eye, he looked at each member of the company in turn.

"Yes, indeed, it is a name to avoid! But as I was saying before, it was that wandering minstrel who brought me to sing in rhyme. He sang for me a lovely song. He was not as I am. You see, he had a lover in Gondor waiting for him, and I have never fallen in love and don't fully intend to. He was fair eight and thirty years when he first passed through my land and stayed at my father's home, when I was but a lad. He spoke to me a little of her, calling her fairest and dearest, her heart the sweetest and kindest, and though I daresay now all say so much of their lover's, as Amroth would surely say of his, I have rarely seen a man love as that minstrel loved his Gondor maid. He would often describe her to me in a verse, saying:

"Dear are her charms to me,
dearer her laughter free,
dearest her constancy.

"She was of Rohan though he had brought her to Gondor to wait for him at his mother's home. He would have married her long before that time but he could not bring himself to lay aside his roaming just yet. He did tell me once, however, that two years forward he would abandon all roads, build a little home, and take her for his wife. I have not heard of him since, but I pray the two of them are happily wed." He paused a moment before continuing, and his voice was quieter when he spoke again. "Once I heard him singing a song he had written to her, though he did not know I was closeby. It was a charming little song, very simple, but full of such love and devotion. I heard it only once yet it has ever been in my mind. It ran thus:

"Do you see yon bonnie minstrels as they go along
a-trippin' and a-skippin' to the lilt of their song?
And, lassie, they sing a song for thee
so jump up, bonnie girl, and come away with me.

A minstrel's fare is poor if his songs do not please
but if hunger faced us I should love you 'fore life ceased
and with my dying breath I would take you on my knee
and I would tell you truly how much I loved thee.

But if my songs should pleased and bring us some food
still I'd love you as ever a man could
and I'd play you a tune 'neath some shady tree.
So jump up, bonnie girl, and come away with me.

And if there came children a home they should not lack.
I'd set aside my songs and take my fiddle from my back
and I should love them however many there may be.
So jump up, bonnie girl, and come away with me.

And when, my darling girl, we are both frail and old
and your hair turned to white and lost its lovely gold,
though youth had with time decayed still I would love thee.
So jump up, bonnie girl, and come along with me.

[littlemanpoet]

They were up with the sun next morning, and Mellon, or Amroth, pushed on, the three others following in his wake. Ædegard was happy, even though the cold seeped through his clothes, the price of a clear night in late Autumn. Liornung's story had been good, and even though Ædegard had not been able to see his eyes, the sound of his voice said that the fiddler spoke truth. Ædegard trusted him the more.

Liornung caught up with him at the middle of the morning, as the still far off eves of Fangorn came in sight.

"I've heard you murmuring or mumbling something. What is on your mind, Ædegard?" His words came on a vapor with the chill.

Ædegard turned to him with a sheepish smile. "I have been practicing your craft. Surely I'll only ever be a poor hand at it, but I like how it turns on the tongue."

"Tell me what you mean, friend!"

Friend! Ædegard made sure not to let his surprise show on his face, but such a term was dearly bought in his reckoning, but it came easily to the lips of the fiddler.

He grinned, bashful in answer to his request. "You would think me a fool."

"So be it then, I've often enough been a fool myself, so I'll enjoy the company of another!"

Ædegard laughed. "So be it then! A moment." He furrowed his brow and mouthed some voiceless words, then took in a deep breath as if to blow out a small fire.

"We make our way through West Emnet
to see how far we can get,
following Amroth or Mellon, whichever his name,
wondering for his ailment who is to blame!"

"There you have it. Silly, no?"

[mark12_30]

Amroth heard the verse, sighed with annoyance, turned, and glanced at Ædegard. He considered rebuking him for his disrespect, but decided not to; the lad seemed to have cheered up, and Amroth valued cheer.

In fact, he could use some. He was weary; wearier than any elf had a right to be, and his heart was heavy. He spoke to Echo, who slowed til he was even with the other three riders. They waited, wondering whether a rebuke was coming. They were surprised to hear a merry tune.

"Pacing steeds and daring deeds
and swords and lances shining,
Blades to wield on bloody field
With maidens back home pining.

Homeward bound, with joyful sound
The elves to wood returning
Treetops blow, the rivers flow
For seashore ever yearning

Golden bread and wine so red
and eyes and faces shining
harps to wield in grassy field
with friends in pleasure dining.

Ages turn, elf-hearts yearn
For lands beyond the water
Yet here we wait, and til then take
Our joy in simple laughter."


He turned weary eyes on Ædegard, and then chuckled. "Ailment indeed. May your betrothed never lead you on a search such as this. Indeed, I suppose she is to blame. Yet I will neither speak ill of her nor hear her ill spoken of."

Things were getting serious again. Liornung and Bellyn exchanged nervous glances. Amroth chose to smile.

"Come, Ædegard, it is your turn again. Another rhyme. Mine was simple, and quite rough; you may easily better it. So fear not. Sing!"

[littlemanpoet]

"But I must work it out first!"

"Then do so! Fangorn is still far off, and Lorien many leagues away."

"Give me the morning. Let Liornung cheer you with one of his. I wager he has one at the ready always! Or Bellyn can."

Liornung said, "It is my turn, since the both of you have had a go. I'll sing you to and by Fangorn!"

And he did. Soon it was noon. They stopped for a short meal, under the outer reaches of Fangorn. Then they were on their way again, keeping the great wood to their left. Echo led the other horses on a brisk pace, seemingly at the beck of Mellon. Or Amroth. Ædegard was finding it hard to turn his mind to think of the blacksmith as Amroth, but it was beginning to seem necessary so as not to cause undue ire amongst them. And who knew? Maybe it was somehow the truth of the matter.

Toward the middle of the afternoon, Ædegard announced that he had worked up another.

"We gallop on beneath the bows of Fangorn wood,
remembering that many trees once stood
where grasses grow beneath the sun,
where breezes blow and horses run."

"That is all I can manage at a time. You will have to be satisfied with that."

[mark12_30]

Snatches of song drifted past him, but Amroth spoke with the trees as they rode past.

Have you seen Nimrodel? Have you seen my lady? Her mantle is golden-hemmed, her shoes are silver grey. Has she not been here? Her hair is long, her limbs white; she is fair as the moonlight. Has she not danced here? Her voice is falling silver; has she not spoken with you? Have you not heard her sing?

Tree after tree told him nay, and his heart grew heavy again.

She took refuge here, fleeing from the darkness of Moria. Has she not returned? Has she not taken refuge again beneath your branches?

The sun neared the mountaintops, and then sank behind them, and the air grew chill. Echo tossed his head, sometimes looking back at Amroth; Amroth stroked his neck. "Yes, my friend. We can go yet further ere we halt. You are right."

Echo swung into a mile-eating trot, and surrounded by song, Amroth bent his thoughts toward the forest again as the twilight deepened.

[littlemanpoet]

They came to the reiver Entwash and forded it under the stars. Beyond it was a grass covered mound, surrounded by fifteen spears. Ædegard slowed his mount. His eyes were wide and he dismounted. The others noticed him and slowing, turned and came back to him.

Liornung said, "What is it, Ædegard?"

"This place is sacred to the Rohirrim. Here there was a small battle between outriders of Rohan and a few companies of orcs, but on it turned the course of the War of the Ring. As it is sung,

"Éomer and his eotheod caught the uruks
outside the eaves of Fangorn forest.
As Master Meriadoc and proud Peregrin
escaped by outwitting the greed of an orc,
Éomer slew the slaves of Saruman.
Fifteen fearless warriors were felled,
resting in the Mound raised by the Entwash.
The humble Holbitla roused the Ents,
the Tree men tore down Saruman's tyrrany.
So Edoras was spared to save her ally.
Brave deaths, that bought our boon.

"So sing the minstrels of Edoras." Ædegard looked up to Amroth. "My thanks for leading me to this place that I might never have seen otherwise."

Amroth smiled and nodded. "Since we have halted, let us make camp here for a few short hours, under the guard of these brave men."

Liornung

Liornung's eyes travelled over the campsite and he nodded in satisfaction. "'Tis a lovely place to camp, and I am amazed at the feel of the very air, which speaks of Éomer and his company even better than the song you have sung, good Ædegard. I do not mean, of course," he added, his voice hasty and confused, "that the song was not worthy of the place."

"I do think you are correct," Ædegard reassured him. "Not all things can be put into song. The song spoke of this place, yet this place is this place."

"That is," Liornung said, "quite right." He picked up his fiddle with a little smile upon his face. "I'm going to sing a happy little song for you. I have sung too much, I fear, of lost loves and faraway loves and longing loves, things that bring woe and sorrow. What about loves that are there and happily content?" And so he picked up a merry tune and began to sing.

Come all you lads and lassies and listen for awhile.
I'll sing to you a verse or two and try to make you smile.
But if instead you weep with grief, do not be ashamed
for others who have heard this song wept, more than can be named.

Fal-la-do-la-do, fal-al-the-day.

There was lad who rode out one fair and pleasant day.
From Rohan and to Gondor he carelessly did stray.
He had no mind for love or any lassies fair
till he met a maid, soft was her smile, dark was her hair.

Fal-la-do-la-do, fal-al-the-day.

"Oh lassie fair of Gondor, do come away with me,
mount your horse and take my hand and come to my country.
I'll give you all you wish for and sweet home
and rover though I am for you I'll cease to roam.

Fal-la-do-la-do, fal-al-the-day.

"Oh lad with the golden hair, truly I love you
but if I went away what would my poor sick father do?"
"Oh take him lassie, take him if you'll come with me.
I'll give you all you ask for, no want will come to ye.

Fal-la-do-la-do, fal-al-the-day.

The lad left and the lassie followed with her father ill.
They built a house and she truly loved him with a will.
I've told you a happy tale of a young rover
and how he won the heart of the fair maid of Gondor.

Fal-la-do-la-do, fal-al-the-day.
Fal-la-do-la-dee-la-fal-do-lay.

As he ended his song he threw back his head and laughed. "Before any of you speak of it, I do know that my songs are often of wandering rovers and their fair maids, but in all truth so seldom am I in one place for a long time that the only romances I know of are those of the road. Yet I do know of a poor peasant lad who married a poor peasant lass he had loved all his life. I will put the tale into verse a sing it for you on the morrow."

[Orual]

A small fire had been built, and all the members of the odd little traveling band were making themselves comfortable. Aeron and his sister were off in one corner, speaking to each other in low voices, Raefindan was feeding the fire, and Mellonin was lying on her back, gazing up at the stars. Her short, choppy hair, with its thin braid, lay spread out in a sort of aura around her face.

Ravion snorted as he whittled away at a piece of wood. What a group to drag all the way to...where? Rohan? Mellondu, or whatever it was he wanted to be called, was far gone from Rohan. There was no sense in looking for the boy in Edoras. Perhaps they shouldn't even stop. What could the Rohan pubs tell him that he did not already know?

But where could he be headed? There were a number of places north of Rohan for a blacksmith who thought he was an elf to set his sights. Lorien. Mirkwood. Rivendell. Ravion shuddered. He did not want to see the quiet, sad, abandoned thrones of what had once been the greatest race in Middle-earth. He did not want to see the evidence of the decline of the race who had given his people so much.

His head snapped up at the sound of rustling leaves, but it was only Mellonin turning over onto her side. Her large, expressive eyes were full of worry, and it pained Ravion. He swung his leg over the log that he was sitting on and crouched down, sighing and rubbing his hands through his hair. He put a hand to the ground to steady himself as he lowered himself to rest, and he realized that it felt good to have the cool, living earth under his body. He realized further that he didn't mind having company while he slept, even if it was odd company. A snuffle and a low growl brought a qualifier to that: he didn't mind having the company, except for that idiot dog. What was he supposed to do with a dog? He rolled his eyes irritably and prepared his bedroll.

"Who wants first watch?" he called.