Eorling Mead Hall

[Firefoot]

"Yes, I will take you to the Eorl," Gárwine was telling the Dunlending. “Come, follow me.” Despite the polite, almost friendly words, Léof thought he could detect a new tone in Gárwine’s voice that he had not heard before – and stronger than wariness. Was a man truly to be hated simply because of his race? This was something almost new to Léof – he had rarely left his farm except to occasionally go into the nearby village for supplies, and while his father had fought in the war, he never spoke of it, not that Léof had ever heard. In truth, Léof’s life had been all but untouched by the events of the war, and the fervent hatred of his people for the Dunlendings had never been deeply instilled in him. Wariness and mistrust, yes, but never hatred.

And it was not as if the man had been openly hostile. His eyes drifted down to the copper coins that he still held in his left hand. He had never seen anything like them, but they should still be worth something since they did seem to be real copper. Pleased at his earnings, he pocketed them and recalled suddenly the horse whose reins were still grasped in his other hand. He tugged gently and gave a click of the tongue, and the horse followed him willingly into the stable.

After unsaddling and unbridling the horse, he gave him a quick brushing and looked him over. The horse had no obvious health problems and did not seem inordinately tired. Whatever else he may be, the man had taken reasonable care of his steed and that meant something to Léof. He settled the horse into a clean stall and filled a bucket of fresh water. Unsure whether the horse had eaten anything that morning, Léof gave him a part ration of hay. The horse seemed content, so he continued on his earlier intention to get a feel for the stable.

He found a few horses that, judging by their fresh and alert appearance, had obviously been stabled here for a while. Perhaps they belonged to the mead hall’s employees or local people. All were fairly ordinary, and Léof moved down the aisle steadily. But that last horse he found made him stop and look closely: a large chestnut, no longer young but still of noble bearing. Léof felt as if the horse was sizing him up, making sure Léof was worthy of his job. Here, he knew, was a horse worthy of one of the proud Riders, and the logical assumption was that he belonged to Eodwine. Right then, Léof resolved to pay extra care to this horse; he seemed to deserve – nay, expect, no less.

Realizing that he was gawking, Léof backed away from the stall and headed for the tack room. After all, his saddle and bridle – and now the Dunlending’s as well – required care much more than this horse needed his admiration. This brought back the troubling thoughts of the Dunlending, and as he set himself up to clean up the leather, he found himself hoping that the strange man was not being treated too harshly inside. The mead hall's people had seemed like kind enough folk; surely they would not turn away the man simply because of his culture. Léof hoped they would not; every man deserved a chance, and after he had worked so hard to find a job for himself, he could not bring himself to wish the same on another. But recalling Gárwine's reaction made him wonder what was really going on inside, and whether his faith that the man would not be turned away was wholly unfounded. He only wished he knew for certain.

[Anguirel]

Manawyth had soon found out that Leof's politeness was but an exception. The young Rohirric soldier beside him had almost certainly been left bereaved by the war, for his attitude fluctuated between carefully stolen, searching stares and apparent indifference. He was clearly irritated to be told to escort a Dunlending. Manawyth could put up with this easily enough, and did not look at the boy at all.

Then the Eorl. The goggling his blue eyes followed by an almost alarmed "What do you what?" Manawyth smiled in grim satisfaction. Every one of his expectations was crystallising here.

Then they were all shattered by the entrance of the rubicund little child. No, it was older than a child, and too beardless for a Dwarf...and by the sky, how it talked. As he listened, Manawyth remembered the Dunlending tales of the small folk who had come to stir the forests to rage. While this fellow could probably talk a forest into performing a sword-dance, he did not exactly fit the fell halflings of martial folklore. Manawyth returned his greeting with a cautious smile, revealing quite a few lost teeth.

Then a...serving-wench?-of some sort burst in, and offered Manawyth a drink he had never heard of. He knew that the Rohirrim downed beer prodigiously, and he supposed it was something the sort; but as bad luck would have it he was caught between answering her and Eodwine. He was released when she scurried off.

His confidence dwindling as he faced the Eorl again, Manawyth knelt uneasily. "Lord...I am seeking to a position here. They tell me you have soldiers, ostlers, joiners and such. I can fight...or work hard?"

[Esgallhugwen]

Gudryn did not realize how long her face had been scrunched up with surprise and uncertainty. She looked away from Æðelhild and began to laugh, "of course, I do suppose that makes the most sense".

Me? A Lady? My fate has certainly changed indeed.

Gudryn smiled again at Æðelhild and nodded her thanks. The young lass, Gudryn realized, would make a fine friend when the time came that they would know one another better.

"Well", she spoke rising from the table, "I am on my way to my Father to see what else needs to be seen to this day, I would have you follow as a friend, but that is your choice to make". Gudryn smiled and with a wave of her hand she set off towards the end of the Hall.

Carpenters began to arrive taking measurements of their own whilst setting up ladders and other scaffolding. They discussed rather loudly amongst themselves the means of the design and the ways in which to go about it.

Gudryn stopped right beside her Father only to find that things were out of sorts. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut it with a knife, she could swear she heard the pounding of many hearts in the silence.

It was then she laid eyes upon the dark haired youth. A Dunlending. She knew little of them kept under the short leash of Rand for many years until now and with her inexperience she found it hard to fathom the discontent that was focused on this wounded lad.

Among the few others that encircled him, she felt she was the only one whose heart beat of pity for how could she understand what the others had lost? What her Father what Gárwine had lost in the war. She could find no words to speak lost in this tumult of emotion.

[Folwren]

Thornden stood beside Eodwine, his calm eyes studying the stranger from Dunlend. As they had entered the room and first seen the black haired man, Thornden had felt immediately Eodwine tense and become rigid. His very words were cut short and seemed barely able to come out. Thornden glanced at him as he practically demanded what the young man wanted.

The two sudden and unexpected interruptions, one from a hobbit and then the second almost immediately from Saeryn, failed to put off the ill will entirely, and still there remained the strained, tense waiting.

But as the young man knelt, Thornden softened inwardly somewhat at once. He had no personal dislike towards the Dunlendings. Every man had his rights and should get some sort of chance, and this youth didn’t appear to want trouble.

“Lord . . . I am seeking to a position here. They tell me you have soldiers, ostlers, joiners, and such. I can fight . . . or work hard?”

Thornden remained silent. It was not his place to speak. To give false hope, or say anything. The young man was awkward in the speech of the Rohirrim, and yet he still tried. Thornden slowly looked over him, studying his face and his apparel. He was not a handsome figure, nor did he posses a completely kind look, but his expression was not sour, or bitter, nor was it particularly disagreeable, and certainly not disrespectful towards Eodwine. This at least could be marked to his favor.

And still another part of his mind measured up what could not be seen. He was, after all, a Dunlending. Cunning and dishonest folk as often as not, he had heard. The look and expression that Thornden saw could easily be merely a disguise, hiding who knows what. It was impossible to tell what lay behind that single eye.

‘I will not judge him either honest or dishonest, true or false,’ Thornden said to himself, still keeping his steady gaze on him. ‘Time will tell, if Eodwine gives him time.’

[littlemanpoet]

The Dunlending youth knelt. “Lord . . . I am seeking to a position here. They tell me you have soldiers, ostlers, joiners, and such. I can fight . . . or work hard?”

Eodwine was a little surprised at the youth's sudden humility. He was a foreigner though, and a Dunlending at that, and not to be taken simply at his word. The moment lengthened as he considered the youth's words, and what he would do about it. At last he spoke.

"Have you a name?"

"Manawyth, Lord."

"Manawyth," Eodwine repeated, feeling the foreign phrase on his tongue. "Rise, Manawyth." The youth rose. "I will speak frankly, Manawyth of Dunland. Your folk razed my farm in the Gap of Rohan during the War, murdering my wife and children. I was with the Rohirrim who took vengeance against your people. That the Dunlendings have lost part of their homeland is blame you could lay at my feet. Further, you have the look of an outlaw, or at least a fugitive. Is there some crime you have committed against your own people that you flee to us here? If so, why would I take you in? For if I take you, it will not be as mere jobman, but as liegeman and I your lord. Speak for yourself and do not hold back, Manawyth of Dunland."

[Anguirel]

As he waited for the Eorl's reply, Manawyth felt more eyes drawn to his strange figure; a maid, little more than a child, who looked fondly on Eodwine as if some near kinswoman, but also seemed sympathetic, glancing solicitously at him; and another typical Rohir, with hair between yellow-tawny and grey, tall and strongly built, who clearly held some authority here.

But then Eodwine began to speak, his tone, if anything, gruffer and more uncompromising than before. After extracting Manawyth's name, he made his grievances and objections clear.

"I will speak frankly, Manawyth of Dunland. Your folk razed my farm in the Gap of Rohan during the War, murdering my wife and children. I was with the Rohirrim who took vengeance against your people. That the Dunlendings have lost part of their homeland is blame you could lay at my feet."

Then we are the same, Manawyth thought irritably. Have the Strawheads no grasp of logic? But he reproached himself as best he could, though he could not hide a spark of defiance in his dark eye as the Eorl continued.

And part of their homeland? Even the Rohirrim did not deny that they had stolen the entire Westfold in years gone by! Of course they called it "prowess and conquest..."

"Further, you have the look of an outlaw, or at least a fugitive. Is there some crime you have committed against your own people that you flee to us here? If so, why would I take you in? For if I take you, it will not be as mere jobman, but as liegeman and I your lord. Speak for yourself and do not hold back, Manawyth of Dunland."

Here Eodwine struck close to the truth; but as he had no sound reasons for doing so, Manawyth was prepared to evade his question.

"You say I look like...outlaw...Eorl. That is well. You...you look like lout, plunderer, strongarm-wielder and thug to my folk. Why? My kind left your childer dead, your kind my brothers. It has been so for longer than your tales tell. Yet we are men now."

Manawyth looked around the hall in appeal to all who stood about.

"Does the King of Rohan will that men should be his foes, because they were his grandsire's foes? Does he ask that his servants," and he glanced back at Eodwine, "think so?"

[littlemanpoet]

Eodwine's eyes narrowed on the Dunlending. The upstart had answered Eodwine's question with one of his own! Thus, he was trying to take right-of-speech away from the Eorl of the mead hall! ...rash and overweening! The Gondorians had a word for it: insolent.

Long ago, when Eodwine had been a youth just called up to Théodred's war host, he had been taught that when fighting, he had the choice of meeting a blow with the sword or buckler, thus losing gain of the first blow, or taking the blow manfully upon breast armor or shield and swinging his sword into the foe's body, defenseless by dint of his outthrust sword arm. In so like, in a war of words, he had learned that one does not answer the question posed in a retort, but asks his own again until answer is given.

But was this a battle of words, or a truth seeking? Eodwine had spoken the truth plainly, hoping to be rewarded with trade in the same coin. But this overweening upstart wanted a battle of words! Eodwine opened his mouth to angrily speak his question again, ignoring the churl's baiting; but years of experience in service to the king had trained him to hold his tongue until the rash word dissolved on his tongue while a new and better thought grew in its place.

So he waited a moment, not taking his searching eyes from the Dunlending, who grew more ill at ease the longer the silence held.

And a new thought came.

"Thornden, how would you speak to this man were you in my place?"