The Reunification of the Entish Bow - RPG

[The Saucepan Man]

A muted pop. A plaintiff cry of "Not again!" And then darkness.

Slowly, Môgul became aware of a comforting glow. In the dim, flickering light he could make out the back of a worn leather armchair. Beyond it, a hearty fire roared in a fireplace. The scene seemed strangely familiar to him. He felt warm and safe and secure. The cares and worries of the Pages past fell away from him and he was as a youth once more. It was a most unpleasant sensation.

"Hello Melvin," said a voice from the armchair, a gentle though slightly reproachful voice which he recognised instantly.

"Hello Father," Melvin replied.

"Come here, my lad so I can see how you have grown."

And Melvin found himself before the armchair. The old man regarded him, his kindly eyes tinged with mild disapproval.

"So, the prodigal son returns. Tsk tsk, what have you been up to, my boy?"

"Er, I have been ..." Melvin paused, not sure at first how to reply. "I have been caring for your creation, Father," he continued.

"Ah, Melvin," the old man sighed. "But you have not been caring for it, have you? You have sought to control it, to master it for your own ends."

"No I haven't. Well. Maybe just a little bit. But it needed someone to take it in hand. To bring some order to the chaos. At least I didn't just ignore it, like Manuel and the others did. They couldn't care less about it"

"Perhaps, Melvin," came the patient reply. "But they have not tried to take dominion of it, as you have. They may have been neglectful, but you're just plain bad."

"I only did what I thought was best, Father."

"Of course you did, Melvin. That is because I gave you free will. You and your breth/sist-ren. And each one of you has chosen his - or her - own path. Yet you shall see, Melvin, that there is nothing that any of you can do that does not have its uttermost source in me. Nor can you hope to alter my design against my will. For he - or she - that attempts this shall prove but my instrument in the creation of things more mirthful, which he - or she - him - or her - self has not imagined."

Melvin thought about this for a moment.

"So it's your fault that I am bad then, Father. You made me this way."

"Eh?" The old man suddenly seemed troubled. "No. It's not like that at all. I did not intend that you should behave in this way."

"But, if you gave us all free will, you must have contemplated the possibility, indeed the likelihood, that some of us would turn out bad."

"But it was your choice..."

"... in which case, the existence of evil is an inherent aspect of your design."

"Er ..."

"You said it yourself. Everything that I have done has its uttermost source in you."

"But ..."

"Which means that there must be a part of you that is bad too."

"No, that's not ..."

"And, what's more, it seems that we don't have free will at all. Because, as you said, whatever we do, we will only be furthering your plan."

"But ..."

"Which must necessarily have required us to be bad in order to further it as you planned."

"No, I ... I .. er ..."

And with this, Emu Ilovetar, for it was He, disappeared in a puff of logic.

The scene dissolved and Môgul once more found himself surrounded by darkness; a thick, black smog which obscured his sight in every direction. Yet he could sense that another was there with him in the inky blackness.

"Colin, is that you?" he called out.

"Yes," said a thin, shrill voice. "I am sorry, Lord Môgul. It was too much for me. The logical improbability of the narrative placed an excessive strain on the time-space continuum. I could'nae hold it."

"So what happened?"

"We were both atomised in the implosion."

"Ah, that explains a lot."

It was now clear to Môgul that he could not penetrate the thick black smoke because he was in fact the thick black smoke.

"Well, don't just float there in a particulate state," he said sternly to Colin. "Pull yourself together, man."

"I can't," wailed Colin. "I flunked materialisation at college."

"Oh. Too bad. Goodbye then, Colin."

"Nooooo! Don't ...!" The thin, incoporeal cry faded out as the little control that Colin, otherwise known as the Wizard Sauerkraut, retained over the remains of his earthly phwoar slipped from his feeble grasp and his phïzz departed Muddled-Mirth for the second and final time.

Môgul, however, was a dab hand at materialisation and though it took some effort, for the implosion of the time-space continuum had dealt him a grievous blow, he soon stood once more on the field of battle. Brushing a thin layer of Sauerkraut from his cloak, he surveyed the scene. And swiftly he came to the conclusion that, while things could have been worse, there was little in it. For it appeared that his entire army had disappeared without trace.

“Greedhog …?” he called, only to spot his former Advocate-General’s great boots set upright where the Senior Loyer himself had stood only moments before, empty but for a pair of fine sunflowers sprouting from each. Nearby lay the remnants of Greedhog's Troll-Guard, now reduced to scattered boulders, cracked and split by tendrils of ivy and shrouded in a patchwork quilt of moss and lichen. And a bed of bluebells lay around the Wagon of the Entish Parts where formerly his cadre of elite Loyers had skulked.

Finally, Môgul’s eyes settled on the green (and rather fetching) figure of Yawanna, standing proudly amidst the swiftly flourishing field. Selecting his most swoon-inducing form, he sauntered nonchanlantly over to her, producing as he went an bouquet of twelve red roses. Then, upon further consideration, he substituted the bouquet with a luxury box of chocolate-covered lembas. Which he then exchanged for a fine emerald necklace and matching earrings. Then, just for good measure, he produced all of them at once.

“Darling,” he said contritely, proffering the roses, chocolates and jewellery. “I can explain.”

[Estelyn Telcontar]

“Don’t you ‘Darling’ me,” said Yawanna in a voice that could have frozen a whole army, had there been one left, “and keep your cheap gifts for those who are easier to dupe. You’ve explained quite enough already. I’ll do the explaining now.”

The Victorious-At-Last-Ship stood in breathless silence, hardly daring to believe that they had finally reached the goal of their long and arduous quest. Merisuwyniel’s eyes shone with green reflections in their violet depths as she watched her heroine’s triumphant appearance. Gravlox held her right hand in his firm and now shapely grasp, while her left hand lay on Pimpiowyn’s shoulder (yes, she too was revived now) companiably. Vogonwë, next to her, had stopped reciting his epic poem, thankful for once that he had lost the greater part of his audience. Kuruharan was leaning ever so slightly on Chrysophylax, for even the Dwarf had tired of fighting. The Dragon was content to lie on the ground, digesting the remnants of barbequed battle. The Gateskeeper had forgotten all of his technical paraphernalia, his hands hanging in unwonted restful pose at his side. Since the other females of the group were otherwise claimed, Hal and Orogarn (still Two, of course) had taken Leninia between them protectively – or was it possessively? Soregum was missing, though none of them actually noticed his absence.

Grasses and wild flowers gently caressed their ankles, and if some of the more daring plants found their way under the females’ skirts, who was to blame them? The Bow, freed from its antisEntient state, hummed with excitement once again, and the conglomeration of wooden artefacts on the cart that made up its entirety emitted a low harmonious buzzing. Obviously, Something was about to happen.

“Melvin,” Yawanna began, “from the very beginning you attempted to spoil everything that the rest of us sub-created. When we built lands, you destroyed them. When we delved valleys, you raised them up. When we carved mountains, you threw them down. And when we hollowed seas, you spilled them. But the very worst of all is, when we tried to give this History of Muddled-Mirth some kind of coherency, cohesion and continuity, you ruined it all with chaos and confusion! Well, that’s over – you’re not going to mess with us anymore!”

“But Honeypie, I’ll reform,” Mogûl answered. “You can save me, you’ll be the redeeming influence that makes a good Velour of me yet -”

“ENOUGH!” her voice resounded over the plains. “You had your chance. Maybe you haven’t learned from your experience, but I have. Your heart is as black as your gothic raiment, and as hard, cold, and unyielding as your metal crown. Muddled-Mirth will have no peace nor beauty while you remain unfettered. Maybe my breth/sistren and I do not have the power to end your miserable existence, but at least we can prevent you from doing any further harm to our beloved world and its inhabitants. You will be bound and banished to the Pink Floyd, behind The Wall. You won’t heed no education; we don’t need your thought control; no dark chasm in creation: Mogûl, leave our world alone! All in all you’ll just be – talking to a brick wall!”

Suddenly Mogûl found his legs wrapped tightly with vines, growing at an alarming rate. Yet his arm was still long, longer than Yawanna or any of the Relaxed-Ship had realized. Quickly it reached out to Merisuwyniel and tore her from her beloved’s grasp, bringing both the Elven maiden and the Entish Bow into his power.

“Now we’ll see who laughs last!” he shouted triumphantly. “I have the most important piece of that pesky tree-cowboy in my hands, and as long as the Ent is rent, you have no might over me! Now hand over the rest of that firewood, or the She-Elf has seen her last Quest!”


(to be continued...)

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Far away, over the river and through the woods, on their way back home from wherever it was that the Velour had pursued the enemies, the Valleyum dudes and dudettes conversed excitedly, high on the unwonted triumph of having actually accomplished something useful.

“That was fun!” Prada laughed. “Let’s do it again!”

“Naw, let’s, like, have a party to celebrate!” Chanessa countered.

“But what about the rest of the foes?” Manuël objected, feeling responsible for a change.

“It’s, like, their problem – let them handle it,” Mantoes suggested. “Like, it’s not our fault – we’re not Rent-an-Ent, after all!”

“But we could at least go see what’s happening,” TMUlmo said.

“You know what? I bet they’d totally appreciate some support,” Estë-Lynn exclaimed. “Let’s, like, give them some cheerleading!”

The female Velour whipped Pôm-Pôms and tiny skirts out of their miniature designer backpacks and started cartwheeling toward the battlefield. The males followed, trying to look dignified and masculine and lagging a bit to make it look like they weren’t really associated with the females. Suddenly Haulie’s steps lengthened noticably. Irritated, Manuël asked, “Hey, what’s with the hurry, dude?”

“I can feel something – Yawanna is in trouble,” he answered curtly.

“So what do you care?” Mantoes wondered. “Isn’t she Mel’s gal now?”

“The Ent is endangered too,” Haulie added. “They will have need of the wood,” he stated cryptically. He started running, and such was his strength and the speed of his legs that he soon reached the newly green battlefield.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

Yawanna and the fellows and gals of the Fellow/Galship had spent their strength in attempting to reach Merisuwyniel and wrest her from Mogûl’s grasp, but the might of his concentration had held them at bay, or at least at arm’s length, effortlessly.

“Haulie!” Yawanna exclaimed with a choke that could be interpreted as a sob of relief, or perhaps a cry for help, or perhaps something completely different or nothing at all.

Mogûl turned to see who approached and greeted him casually. “Howdy, Haulie! Wassup, dude?”

“You’re up, and to no good, as usual,” Haulie retorted. “You have something that belongs to my spouse, and you’d better give it back to her, or...”

“Or what? Will you send some Dwarfies to get it for you?” Mogûl mocked.

“I will create some good Loyers to fight you on your own terms!” Haulie answered.

“But good Loyers are Mith-ical!” Mogûl laughed. “They don’t exist, and if they did, they would be a contradiction in terms and therefore completely ineffective!”

Merisuwyniel gasped as his grip on her tightened. She was finding it difficult to maintain her usual poise under the circumstances. Orogarn Two, who felt the loss of his heroic power most keenly, made one last, desperate attempt, and lo! Mogûl’s concentration had loosened and he charged forward, waving his sword in a manner that was more foolhardy than brave. He managed to slash the Velour’s arm, startling him more than actually hurting him, but causing him to release his hold on the Elven maiden.

Mogûl turned to his aggressor with a snarl, lowered his head, and with a headbutt pierced him with the sharp points of his deadly crown. Orogarn slumped to the ground, mortally wounded, and with his last breath cried out to Merisu, “Take this, and check out my lucky nickel! It will help you in your hour of need!” He reached into a pocket of his well-worn (or Vínt-âge, as they were called) blue pants and took out his wallet, tossing it to the Elf, who caught it nimbly and gracefully (of course). Then he expired, and those who beheld him in his death saw the splendour of the expiration date which was printed on the sole of his shoes.

At that moment Haulie lifted his mighty hammer, raising it high, and smote the ground before Mogûl’s feet. “You – shall – not – sass!” he cried loudly, and the earth cracked. A quick-thinking vine lashed out, entwining itself about Mogûl’s ankles and pulling him into the crack, and another quickly caught Merisu before she could fall with him. With a terrible cry, Mogûl plunged down into the depths of Muddled-Mirth’s bowels. All that the Leftovership heard was his parting shout, “Spy, you mules!”, then they saw him no more. (No one understood what his last words meant, for which reason they were remembered for all times and thought to be particularly astute.)

Stunned by the monumental events they had just witnessed, the assembled company stood in shocked silence for a moment. Leninia burst into tears, remembering Orogarn Two’s strong embrace and mourning his loss, as they all did. But soon Yawanna threw her arms around Haulie in what looked to be the beginning of a reconciliation and reunion. Merisuwyniel was comforted tenderly by Gravlox, and Pimpiowyn kissed Vogonwë just because she felt like it. The others cleared their throats and bowed their heads before gently picking up the hero’s body and carrying it to the cart with the pieces of Ent upon it. It seemed fit to all that he should be borne in honour with the wooden artefacts. But where should they bring him, and what should they do next?

“We must carry on with our Quest and bring it to completion,” Merisuwyniel announced. “Orogarn (“Two”, someone whispered, just out of habit) would have wanted us to do that.” She turned to the Green Goddess questioningly.

Yawanna pointed to a white peak on the horizon. “We must go to the holy mountain of Tan-Quickly-Hill. There are the sun studios that are most holy to the Velour, and there shall the Ent be reunified. Follow me!”

[Kuruharan]

As everyone made their way to Tan-Quickly-Hill, all were satisfied that the Quest looked to be nearing completion…except one. Reaperneep plodded along all depressed and sad, his tail dragging the ground, his battered and bloody rapier still clutched in his paw. A few short posts ago he had been caught up in a Valhallian-like paradise that looked certain to last for the rest of eternity. What mouse could ask for more? And here he was, his hopes crushed. Peace and serenity were returning to Muddled mirth. What would become of him? He end up just like Orogarn Two…brought into the story for a plot diversion that nobody ever paid much attention to, only to be finally killed off when it became utterly useless to be kept around any longer.

As he dragged along in mournful reverie he tripped over something lying on the ground. It looked to be a bit hairy. Morose curiosity drove Reaperneep to roll the body over and see a glorious hero of blessed memory who had found a courageous death in the battle to end the world. Instead, it turned out to be a still living Soregum.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Reaperneep. “Pitooie…hayuch…” said Soregum as he spit dirt out of his mouth. “A lucky escape,” said Soregum when he’d found his breath. “If you say so,” said Reaperneep. Soregum stared at the mouse a little oddly. “But we just triumphed over impossible odds,” said Soregum.

“But what battles does that leave us to fight?!” demanded Reaperneep. “This is a most unfortunate illustration of the turn of Fortune’s Wheel.”

“What?”

“Fortune’s Wheel…” said Reaperneep in puzzlement. “Surely you’ve seen the show. Patt Sayjack and Vanawww Blanca…”

“Sorry,” interrupted Soregum. “We don’t have time for another pointless excursion into nonsense and anachronism.”

“Then will this whole post fall into anticlimax without even a proper punchline?” asked Reaperneep sadly.

“Looks that way,” said Soregum.

[Bêthberry]

Bilbo S. Thompson, gonzo translator of no small conceit, was coming out of a lembas daze. He realized he hadn’t contributed anything to the latest round of entish irreverence and he was appalled by his lack of bad taste. “I’m a whole different person when I’ve been upstaged,” he mused to himself as he wired some Longbottom Leaf to one of his outrageously oversized cigarette holders.

He began: How many more of these lame delays are we going to have to write off as 'regrettably necessary' holding actions? And how many more of these double-downer sideshows will we have to go through before we can get ourselves straight enough to put together an actual real climax to this action that will give at least the fellow contributors who tend to agree with each other a chance to consummate that old familiar choice between the lesser of two evils?

The gonzo translator put down his crayon. It wasn’t working. He couldn’t be irreverent enough, couldn’t be unpredictable enough, couldn’t be gonzo enough to out-hyperbole the other contributors. He would have to beat them, have to go from bad to worse to rotten, on other terms. So be it.

Bilbo S. Thompson picked up his glitter marker. He would shine. He would do what none of them had done yet. He would be … predictable. And so he produced entirely a history greater than The Great Sharkey Hunt on someone else’s terms. The guy was dead now anyway, he wouldn’t care, that Jöhn Lêndïn.

The Ballad of Yawanna and Mogûl

Standing in the stock of south Mirthdom
Covered in the vines of life’s dance
The man with the hack said, “You’ve got me back”
And you thought you didn’t have a chance.”

Tolkien, you know it ain’t easy,
You know how hard it can be,
The way things are going
They’re gonna parody thee.

Finally made the post of conclusion
Thinking nothing would be the same
Vogonwe called to say
You can make it okay
You can get resolved in a trilogy plain.

Tolkien you know it ain’t easy
You know how hard it can be,
The way things are going
They’re gonna parody thee.

Roved from Vallyum to the Barrow Downs quilt-in,
Talking to the wood for a week,
The orcs said, “Say what you’re doing with trees?”
MeriSue said, “We’re only trying to get us some piece.”

Tolkien you know it ain’t easy
You know how hard it can be,
The way things are going
They’re gonna parody thee.

Saving up your battles for the big play
Giving all your time to war mongery
Last night the Troll-Chief said
“Oh boy when you’re done,
You won’t know what to do not being dead.
Made a lightning trip to Minus Teeth
Eating lembas in a coney stew
The Deadbook said, “She’s a terrible thread,
She’ll drag your legend into dispute.”

Tolkien you know it ain’t easy,
You know how hard it can be,
The way things are going,
They’re gonna parody thee.

Caught the final thrill back up to the Hill,
All the ents together in a choir,
The men from Tan-Quick said we hope you’re now slick
It’s good to have all of it for hire.

Tolkien you know it ain’t easy,
You know how hard it can be.
The way things are going
They’re gonna parody thee.

The way things are going
They’re gonna parody thee.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

“Go, Questers, go! Go, Entish Bow!” The spirited cries of the Velour cheerleaders were slightly belated, as the AreWeThereYetShip was already rapidly proceeding toward the holy mountain of Tan-Quickly-Hill. And such was the virtue of the hallowed lands of Valleyum that the usual trail of destruction and food wrappers that otherwise followed in their wake was conspicuously absent.

The Velour were lagging behind them, sorely missing the dune buggies with which they normally preferred to travel, but still feeling buoyantly virtuous. Since it looked like there was no further danger to them, nor any activity required of them, they could bask in the glow of seeming to participate without actually doing anything.

The Green Goddess was busy thinking of all that needed to be organized while she walked hand-in-hand with her spouse. She mentally composed an o-mail of condolence to Orogarn’s father:

To the Honourable Lord Denimthor, Proctor of Grundor and Guardian of the Porcelain Throne of Minus Teeth, from Yawanna, greetings!

I have the sad task of informing you as his father that your noble and valiant son Orogarn Two has lost his life in the fulfillment of his duty as a hero of the Questship of the Entish Bow. We now bear his body in great honour; would you like to have it transported back to the city of his ancestors for burial? Please inform us of your wishes and we will provide for carriage worthy of his person and rank.

Unfortunately, the static caused a poor connection between the far Western lands of Valleyum and the kingdom of Grundor in Muddled-Mirth, so that only a truncated message reached the Proctor:

Yawanna have your son’s body back?

Since Denimthor had seen a vision of Orogarn (Two, of course) lying pale beneath the skies of Valleyum, he was not surprised. However, the official news of the death of the Not-Prince, successor to the Not-Throne, caused much weeping and mourning in the city of his origin. Poems were made and sung that were equal at least to Vogonwë’s best efforts, the flags of Minus Teeth flew at half mast, and the elderly wore only the bottom half of their dentures in honour of his memory. The children strewed their toothbrushes with ashes, crying bitterly when they had to use them.

Denimthor wrote a return answer:

No father should have to bury his child! Since he is no longer of use to our country, it matters not where he lies buried. Do as you think.

Alas, even this brief answer suffered from the static, so that Yawanna received the following reply:

No!

Reaperneep considered himself the deceased hero’s guard of honour and walked beside the humble cart which bore his remains, holding his sword high and looking grim, though no one approached them.

Vogonwë had spent the first miles speechless, sucking on throat lozenges to soothe his weary vocal chords. Yet after awhile he could not resist the opportunity offered him by the somber, somewhat festive procession (which moreover provided him with a captive audience) and began chanting a dirge:

His head was higher than the helm of kings
with heathen crowns, his heart keener
and his soul clearer than swords of heroes
polished and proven; than plated gold
his worth was greater. From the world has passed
a prince peerless in peace and war,
just in judgement, generous-handed
as the golden lords of long ago.
He has gone to Emu glory seeking,
Orogarn Two beloved.


“Hush!” Pimpiowyn exclaimed suddenly. The others turned toward her in astonishment, wondering why she would object to Vogonwë’s poem. For he had spoken with authority and great skill, as if with the voice of one who was a master of words, and they would feign have listened longer.

“I’m sorry, darling, I don’t mean you!” she said contritely when she realized that he had taken her outcry personally. “I mean my sword Hush – it’s gone!”

“When do you last remember having it in your hands?” Merisuwyniel asked helpfully.

“Hmm, I don’t know – on the battlefield, I think,” the Half-Halfling answered.

All eyes were on Pimpi, or someone might have noticed that Soregum’s face turned pale, then flushed, and his hand went to his breast pocket. He hesitated, but soon realizing the extent of her distress, edged over alongside the cart. His hands moved with the skill of the Little People, faster than the eye, and then raised the sword triumphantly. “Here it is,” he called out. “It must have been in the cart all the while.”

“Oh, thank you!” she exclaimed, giving him a kiss on the cheek in reward. And though this history does not tell the tale, it is said that he never after did wash that cheek and became known as Soregum, the Black-Faced.

Watching the cart, Vogonwë continued:

Hey! rattle and bump over rut and boulder!
The roads are rough and rest is short...


but the mood had passed, the mountain was nigh, and his audience was distracted. Eager to reach their goal, they pressed forward. Gateskeeper even pressed fast forward, but nothing happened and he had to content himself with normal speed.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The Very Secret Diary of Falafel (Noble Steed, associated with yet not owned by Merisuwyniel)


Day Umpteenthousand-something-or-other – who really cares?! I don’t suppose anyone will ever read this anyway, because all of the history will come from the Red and Green and Yellow Books that are written from some Elven, Human, or Hobbit point-of-view.

We equine companions (and similar creatures) didn’t have much to do during that ridiculous and confusing battle. There were so many fighters popping up out of nowhere and disappearing again, turning miniature, and whatever (especially whatever!), that our DismountedShip never had time to ride. And where would they have gone if they had? Looks like we’re trapped in this far-away country; the flying vehicle that brought us here is shattered, and what ship would bear us ever back across so wide a Sea?

Anyway, we lounged around on the sidelines, counting the arrows that Vogonwë plucked out of thin air, betting who’d be the next coward to hide behind us, and mesmerized by the rise and fall of Merisuwyniel’s, um – breath. Unfortunately, the farther the battle progressed, the less food and drink were available to us. The grass withered, the flowers faded, because the tainted breath of Mogûl blew upon it, and water was no more.

When we realized that we too would be affected by the outcome of the battle, we finally roused ourselves to action. I wish someone would have taken note of the valiant deeds done by those of us they call animals; those two-legged “fighters” could have learned a thing or two! I put my hooves to very effective use, and the others followed my example. Without our help on the flanks, the Elves, Humans, Hobbits and all mixtures thereof couldn’t have held out long enough for Yawanna to win the day.

I’m not complaining, mind you – I’m just glad it’s over. Of course it’s sad that one of the Questers died at Mogûl’s hands – or head it was – but they were lucky not more lost their lives. I was afraid if the enemy didn’t get them, Chrysophylax’ fire would; he sure had himself a BBQ! But I guess his aim is better than I thought.

Here we are then, on our way upwards, judging from the terrain. Most of our companions are way behind; when I look back to see if they are still following, even my equine eyes cannot discern their faces nor recognize who is still moving. At the beginning my fellow beasts of burden made a show of pulling the cart in honour of Orogarn’s heroic death, but I’m the only one left now. ‘He ain’t heavy’ – hah! Either he is or the wooden artefacts are. Anyway, my mistress and the Green Goddess are walking hand in hand beside me; it’s just the three of us, with that mountain looming large ahead of us.

But though all others forsake Merisu, I will never leave her nor forsake her; whither she goeth I will go. And it may be that I will be her equine companion for many long years, for unto me has been given the lifespan of my foresire Felaróf, which exceeds that of normal horses by far. And it looks like Yawanna will stay with us too, at least as long as we are here in her country; I heard her say, “You’ll always have Paris!” That I didn’t understand, so I pricked my ears (different and less painful than piercing them!) and heard the echo say, “You’ll always have the pair of us!” She means me too! A very insightful goddess.

It looks like we’ve gotten wherever we’re going, at least for now; Yawanna has begun singing a song of worship, apparently. Let me see if I can hear the words; I’m sure the other horses will be jealous when I sing it to them!

She’ll be coming around the mountain when she comes,
she’ll be coming around the mountain when she comes,
she’ll be coming around the mountain, she’ll be coming around the mountain,
she’ll be coming around the mountain when she comes.

later...

We stopped at the foot of the mountain, where there were a number of mounds covered with white flowers. Instinctively I knew that those were not for nibbling and kept to the grass a short distance away.

“Should we not wait for the others to join us for the burial?” Merisu asked.

“Nay,” Yawanna answered. (I would have given the same answer had she asked me!) “For who knoweth how long it will take them nor whether they shall even come to this place, here at the end of all subplots. Besides, my husband would think that he could do it better, and instead of a mound we’d have another chasm. And when it’s broke, who fixes it?!”

With a charming wave of her emerald hands, she beckoned to the vines, bushes, and herbs that surrounded us, and they pushed clear a level space. Then they reached up to the cart and gently lifted Orogarn Two (yes, respect requires the suffix) ’s body and laid it there. His noble sword they placed at his side. Afterwards they piled the earth high above his remains, and within the shortest time flowers were growing on it. Amidst them the green leaves were shaped like unto a funny penguin, though some took the form of a ghastly green something-or-other.

Suddenly I heard Merisuwyniel’s voice begin to sing; I would have recognized its lovely tones anywhere, beautiful enough to melt the hearts of good and evil races, even to touch Mantoes’ compassion on behalf of her beloved, as had been the case long ago. But the words she sang were wonderfully fashioned, more than any of hers had ever been, and I surmised that the creative spirit that pervaded this holy place had suffused her.

Build high the barrow his bones to keep!
For here shall be hid both mouse and keyboard;
and to the ground be given blû dením Djeens,
and green Tê-Shirt with sword gleaming,
wealth unbegrudged for the well-beloved;
of forum admins the first and noblest,
to his moderators help unfailing,
to his members the fairest founder of websites.
Glory loved he; now glory earning
his grave shall be green, while forum or mainsite,
while post or thread in the internet lasteth.

Strange and otherworldly did those words sound to me, as echoes of another age perhaps, and I pondered them without finding meaning. Whether my mistress understood what she sang or not, it was a beautiful and touching moment. Yet our trip up the high mountain of Tan-Quickly-Hill had only begun.