Eorling Mead Hall

[Laiudanama]

The sun rose slowly towards her pinnacle, stretching her rays brightly as she awoke from a night’s slumber, beaming benevolently down upon every corner and creature of Middle Earth as midday approached. The day was indeed turning out to be a nice one: beautiful weather, a clear sky stretching away infinitely, and the heat rising pleasantly to a temperature that would surely have every Man in the Mark looking longingly out of his window – and sure, if there was no other urgent business to attend to, midday would surely see a fair number of men reaching for their walking staffs, the fine Ladies of Gondor and Rohan changing into their summer hats, scores of children racing out of their schoolrooms into the bright yards beyond…

Trystan glared at the sun furiously, wiping a hand over his perspiring face and, disgusted, spat to one side, trying to clear his dry mouth of any filth which may have got in. The very idea revolted him, and the boy spat again, just for good measure. Though he was without both food and drink, Trystan decided that, after several hours – how long? He was losing track of time, beginning to measure it in terms of monotonous shovelfuls of filth – now would be about as good a time as any for a lunch break. And why not: here, less than a hundred yards from the Ravine, a pit of household waste, sewage and other the gods only know what other forms of filth and waste, who would be watching him? Not Lord Eodwine, that was for sure, and probably none of his lackies, either. Trystan grinned to himself suddenly, remembering Garwine’s face as he had tactfully paused just outside the privies, safely out of stinking distance. He didn’t even come in, where I’ve spent my morning practically up to my elbows in…well. He snorted derisively at Garwine’s words: “Carry the filth out a back door. And be discreet…”

Still, he was almost done now: say one more trip, maybe two at a push, and the whole arduous task would be finished. Trystan stabbed his shovel into the ground, although his venom was now fading, as he leant back against the shade of a nearby tree, although as a gentle breeze ruffled it’s branches, even the tree seemed to recoil from the stench which pervaded the boy’s very being. He smiled at the thought, reaching into his back pocket for his pipeweed…and cursed viciously when he found the pocket empty. He must have dropped it! Somewhere between here and the privies back up at the Eorling Mead Hall – either that, or… Trystan glanced distastefully towards the peacefully steaming Ravine into which he had been slogging waste all morning. Attached as he was to his pipeweed, he sure as knives wasn’t going after anything in there.

Although if he hadn’t dropped it around the Mead Hall, it could be anywhere between here and, well, Dol Amroth for all he knew. And going back in that direction any time soon was about as appealing a prospect as diving headfirst into the Ravine.

The youth settled back into the tree, his skinny shoulderblades digging into the trunk, loosening his shirt a button or two further, having already removed his jerkin. Yes, perspiring in the heat, doing the filthy oddjobs of some pompous Lord in what constituted to his first day of honest hard work in memory, and stinking, frankly, of everything that had passed through the bowels of the honourable denizens of the Mead Hall in gods only know how long…well, it could be worse. He could be hot, tired, stinking and being chased the authorities of Dol Amroth, not to mention a hardened thug who wanted to kill him, preferably via as much pain as possible.

Oh wait – that was the current situation.

Trystan closed his eyes wearily for just a second, but all he could see imprinted on his eyelids was that house, dark, gloomy, the dust motes still spinning in the air where the old woman’s scream had disturbed it. Her scream and her fall…

He started up, his eyes wide. No. No, he wouldn’t – couldn’t – dwell on those thoughts for any longer. Groaning softly, he fell forward to his knees, then struggled up to his feet, grabbing the shovel and buckets and started the long trudge back up to the Mead Hall. Trystan would never be the lacky or minion of anyone who judged themselves superior, but currently, he could do with a little protection – and with not making any more enemies…

[Formendacil]

The council, or meeting, or whatever it was, that Eodwine had been holding with regards to the expansion had broken up, and the various members gone seperate ways. Having come to terms, if not quite forgiveness, with Degas, Náin decided there was no time quite like the present, and that he ought to go seek out Saeryn, and apologize to her. He was aware that he was leaving Eodwine, who had been most rude to and who he was consequently dreading the most, to last. He found, however, that he was well able to explain it away to himself. And he'd apologize to Eodwine come the end of the day, one way or another.

As he sought up and down the Mead Hall for Saeryn, unaware of wither she had gone, Náin thought to himself about his "apology" to Degas. Forgiveness had rather been unforthcoming, but Náin wasn't so much concerned about forgiveness as about his own apology. To have done the right thing to try and rectify the situation on his part, that was the important thing. If Degas harboured a grudge, that was his affair. His affair- and it meant that Náin didn't feel particularly bad about the fact that he didn't care too much for the young noble.

Before his rambling mind could finish it's trail of though, Náin crossed the partially-reconstructed Great Hall for the third time, just in time to catch sight of Saeryn exiting by the opposite door. He sprinted the length of the hall, soon catching her up. Saeryn appeared to be on a errand, or mission, or something with a purpose anyway, to judge by the covered basket in her hands. She seemed to notice Náin behind her, and sped up her walk a trifle, so as to avoid the Dwarf.

"Lady Saeryn!" Náin called out. "I would have a word with you, if you would find it in your heart to listen."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Saeryn stopped, sighing, and turned around. She had been unable to find Degas and cared for little more just then than to do so. He wasn't at the Hall. Still. She knew she ought to have brought a companion, more specifically a male companion, as the afternoon was getting later and this was no quick trip to market, but she had not dared to ask. She knew that none of the menfolk of the Hall would, or even really could, decline her request for accompaniment, but she also knew that few in the Hall truly liked Degas, and that they all had their own business to which to attend. She had hoped to slip away unnoticed.

"My good fellow," she murmered with nothing but politeness. "'tis not my heart that listens, but my ears. If you speak loudly enough, I have no choice in the matter, as we both know. I am sorry... that was unkind and helped nobody. But as you would have it, Nain, I will listen freely, if you will make haste, as I must find my brother. Or, if you would, you may speak and we will seek him together, giving you more time to relate your errand even as I complete mine."

[Formendacil]

"You are unaccompanied?" Náin did not need an answer, for it was plain. Saeryn was quite alone. This was rather improper, he considered. At least for a human woman. Among Dwarves, such an issue would not be worried about, but among humans, propriety was a good deal more serious- if only because human females were more likely to fall prey to their male counterparts than Dwarven females would.

"It would be shameful of me to refuse," he said slowly, a bit uncomfortable about acting as an escort, and even more uncomfortable with the idea of searching for Degas.

"Good," said Saeryn, and she started moving again. Náin hastened to keep up, muttering under his breath about humans and their long legs.

"What I was meaning to speak to you about," Náin said as he caught up, "was about my behaviour last night. There was no excuse for my actions, and I would have your forgiveness for my insult and intrusion."

[JennyHallu]

"An Eorlinga's word is of more worth than what his purse holds."

Marenil snorted, unable to help himself, raising himself up in preparation for searching for some luncheon. "Forgive me, lord," he said, using his Eorl's shoulder as a prop for a moment, "but you strike me as a very idealistic man for one of your years. Remember, young man: an Eorl's word carries no more value than any other man's. Think of Sorn!" Marenil was a bit snappish, and he saw the insult on the younger man's face before he really thought about his words. He fell silent for a moment, and when he spoke again his words were calmer and more careful, if no less harsh.

"Lord, a man of your fief will, if he has sense, lay less trust in your word than in any other. If any other man betrays him, his case can be brought before you for justice. Not so if you betray him. I said before, look at Sorn. Not to compare yourself with him, but you must recognize that there are terrible men in positions of power. Horrible men. And they get away with it, sometimes for years, sometimes for life if they're canny enough not to try anything big enough it cannot be ignored, as Sorn did in his insanity. Your word, begging your pardon, my lord, means nothing. Only your actions bear any weight.

"And thus to gain respect and trust, you must build a household that is self-sufficient, that produces enough and to spare. You need to be wealthy, but not ostentatiously so. Because if it is clear to your people that you are not avaricious, but are successful enough by your own work to have little need of theirs, then they can begin to trust your interests lie truly with your own.

"I refuse to operate your household at a loss, and as soon as I get things in order, I shall refuse to make use of the taxes you receive for the upkeep of your house.

"But for now, there's more than enough to keep me busy, and I won't lecture you again for a while."

With a chuckle, Marenil walked toward the kitchen, intent on finding Frodides, with what kindred spirit he had struck up an immediate friendship. She'd find him something to munch on, and they could sit and commiserate about the quirks of their employer.

[littlemanpoet]

Eodwine looked to Falco with raised eyebrows as Marenil walked away, and Falco returned the expression.

"You had better teach this overweening steward a lesson but quick, my friend," said the hobbit.

"It would seem you are right."

Eodwine got up and followed Marenil into the kitchen. The man was already speaking to Frodides.

"Marenil," Eodwine called. The man turned. "Once you've grabbed a bite, come back to the alder tree. I want to finish our conversation. I was not finished."

Marenil nodded once. Eodwine turned and slowly walked back to the bench, and waited.

After a few moments, Marenil came back outside. Eodwine met him halfway.

"Marenil, I have made you steward, not my school master. Your task is to see after the affairs of my Hall, not the education of its Eorl. And if you truly believe that my word means nothing, then you must believe the same of your own. Thus there is no point in exacting an oath from you that you will steward this Hall as I see fit rather than as you do."

The old man opened his mouth to protest, but Eodwine continued.

"I am sure that you are a most able steward, but our two minds are as unlike as can be. I did not know this before today. You would try to make me unlearn what I hold most dear to my heart. It shall never be."

Marenil again opened his mouth to protest, but Eodwine continued again.

"So as of this moment you are no longer my steward. You may, of course, remain my guest, if it pleases you; or if you prefer the hospitality of the Queen, your ward's cousin, that can be arranged. What would you?"

[littlemanpoet]

Nogrod's post

Stigend had been busy the days that followed. The first days passed at the planning board; one of the tables of the Hall had to serve as one. Stigend and Garstan drew and redrew, discussed and sat in silence. They talked with Frodides and Kara several times a day and every now and then they consulted Eodwine, and Saeryn.

Stigend had made an inventory on the building materials on the second day, making himself familiar with the Mead Hall’s supplies and tools at the same time. There was enough timber to start building, but a lot more was needed. The saws seemed well enough, but the chip axes and framework-drills were rusty and dull. Stigend had his own with him and could start by himself, and the tools of the Hall could be made usable with some care. On the third day they ordered timber and other things needed.

Within a week they had started the actual work, beginning with the kitchen oven and the fireplace. Garstan had designed the oven and the fireplace with the help of Frodides and Kara, and Stigend had designed a firewall to surround them; and came up with a solution of how it should be attached to the wooden wall. Somewhat familiar with masonry and bricklayer’s work, Stigend needed a little guidance from Garstan every now and then.

It was during these days that he became familiar with Náin. He hadn’t met a dwarf in his life before. It was a place of personal reflection and discovery that greatly humiliated Stigend. From the beginning he had been prejudiced towards the dwarf, going over in his mind with all the generalisations people had about dwarves and trying to see them in Náin. It took one visit of a travelling stranger that had given Modtryth a bad look, complaining about the Dunlending rabble around him in a decent Hall, to make Stigend realise his own prejudices.

He had been so happy with this new place whose dwellers had taken Modtryth and Cnebba as themselves, that he had had no need to keep an eye on how others thought of his family. But that way he had also forgotten to keep an eye on his own mind. Now he realised he had begun to think like the people he had despised all his life. Stigend was ashamed. Luckily he hadn’t made any nasty remarks or behaved badly towards Náin. But they had been only fellows at work. There had been nothing else.

After the incident he started looking at the dwarf with open eyes and was astonished with what he saw when he was not bringing all his prejudices along. Náin seemed flexible and friendly enough, but his skills with stone were just incredible. Even though this seemed not to be his real trade – he had heard he was more of an artist – he helped them every now and then and proved to be a real help indeed, able to do many of the things Garstan did. And the grace of the things he had touched! Náin seemed to be able to shape stone into any form he willed, like it was clay.

After the first week they started to have conversations during the work and at the pauses when Náin was around. Stigend appreciated the dwarf and he seemed not to think bad about him either. Even Stigend’s mediocre skills in masonry started to get better day by day.

On the third week the timber arrived and Stigend had to change his focus. Garstan would still have work to do with the fireplace now that the oven and firewall were finished, but the hewing of the logs, and especially preparing the framework, required an experienced hand; so he stuck to the logs by himself. As he had helped Garstan with the easier tasks, Garstan could help him when the time came. And anyhow, as they would start to hoist the logs to their places they would need lots of strong arms to help them.

That was a happy time. There was work that gave him satisfaction and he had been getting on very well with Garstan whom he considered now his friend. And his family was accepted! Stigend and Modtryth were enjoying their new appointments to the fullest. And what warmed Stigend the most was to see Cnebba’s shining eyes every evening when he made minute descriptions of the games and plays he had had with Lèoðern and Garmund.

And Cnebba kept speaking about Lèoðern all the time. Stigend had thought of it a couple of times. Indeed he had noticed a little uncomfortableness in Garmund’s expressions one or two times when he had seen all the three together, but he was too busy with his work to mind much.

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Thinlómien's post

Modtryth was helping the cooks with unloading the newly bought random household goods - such as butter, salt, syrup, honey and herbs, carrying them to the kitchen and putting them to their right places. From the corner of her eye she could see her son running around the yard with his friends.

He looked very happy. He’s probably happier here than any place we’ve been in after Field Marshal Laudwine’s house, Modtryth thought, and that was many years ago. She knew the happiness wouldn’t last for ever – nothing ever did – but she hoped that it wouldn’t end too soon. Cnebba turned and saw his mother. This time, she saw, he was even smiling at her. And so was life.

Modtryth was having a job she liked. She had some kind of a place of trust – achieved only after a short discussion. Furthermore she was doing well in it, at least in her own opinion. And because the Lady Saeryn had never criticised her (except the one shameful time when she bought wrong sort of flour) and sometimes she had praised her for a work well done, she thought that she couldn’t be doing very badly in her eyes either.

Frodides and Kara discussed the evening meal as they worked. Nowadays they were so used to Modtryth that they didn’t mind her being present while they planned, and knew she wouldn’t mind them talking about their own business. Modtryth actually thought it was quite nice to listen their homely everyday talk about the ingredients of the stew.

Sometimes Frodides irritated Modtryth. She had basically interrogated Modtryth about the tiniest details of her life until she had let her be and accepted her as a part of the household. Older women were like that everywhere, and Frodides had a good heart, so Modtryth didn’t have problems with getting along with her. Kara, she thought, was a nice girl, friendly and good company. It would have been difficult not to like her.

“I’ll go and find the children. I know my Cnebba well enough to know that if he doesn’t have food before the meal, he’ll get impossible. I wouldn’t be surpised if that was so with Lèoðern and Garmund as well”, Modtryth said after they were done with all the organising.

"Strange that they haven't yet come looking for food, they must be so caught up in their games they've clear forgotten about eating."

Modtryth smiled. “I’ll go and get them then.” Even before she had stepped out of the kitchen, she heard the two cooks start discussing about the stew again.