The White Horse Inn, Act III

[littlemanpoet]

"Nay, I have no wife. I had one, whose memory I cherish. I wish for no other. As to my dreams for the road that lies ahead, I have none like yours. I love the lore of the War. Wherever I go I seek out the stories of all who are willing to share them, and I turn them into song if I can, or at least tell them to the loremasters in Edoras and Minas Tirith. But enough! Shall we make more music? And drink more ale?"

"Aye, let us do that."

Eodwine smiled and played along with Korik's tunes, nodding his head every time the ale came around again. Korik's questions had been fair, but they had stirred memories of a hearth and home that were gone forever. Ygirda lay beneath the ground, Eadbold and Ylena to her side. He knew the ground where they lay as if it were part of his skin. On his way back from Pinnath Gelin he had stopped at their mounds and planted new Evermind there. This day the sorrow grew beyond what it had been in recent months, and Eodwine did not know why. He sought the balm of drink to take away the sting.

They played all afternoon and into supper time, and after food, Eodwine felt his head swoon. He was sick. His head clearer, the ache of loss returned, all the worse for having been blotted out for a while. He returned to the Great room and picked up his lyre again. It was then that he remembered why the pain was stronger. It was on this day that he had crested the final rolling hill and saw not his beloved homestead, but a ruin. Eodwine ordered another ale.