Scarburg Meadhall

[Groin Redbeard]

Fresh buckets of water were brought from the camp to the racing grounds. He chuckled to himself as he saw a row of red faced men line up for their turn with the gourd. The day had turned out beautifully, not only was the weather exceptionally good but also the morale of the camp was soaring. Even the older ladies who didn't participate seemed to be having a grand time with commenting on the players performances, and telling tales about when they were young.

Eodwine was taking his turn with the gourd when Lithor approached him. "All is well my lord?" Eodwine didn't say anything, but he nodded and breathed a comforting sigh as he poured water on his face.

"Very good, my lord," Lithor replied with his ever constant grinning, "just say the word and we'll begin with the distance running."

[littlemanpoet]

While the runners walked around, stretching their legs and talking and joking among themselves, Wilcred and Lithor brought out three more red flags, which were actually pieces of cloth generously donated for the cause by Frodides and Modtryth, with pointed warnings that they were to be returned whole. These red flags were placed in four spots, two near the Scar, two a good ways away from it, so that a rectangle was formed.

"These flags are your four corners, runners," said Lithor. Go five times around the flags for a sum of two furlongs of a race. This is more than twenty times as far as the short race, so run wisely. On your marks!"

The runners lined up, no betting this time, this felt more serious.

"Set!"

The runners looked down the length of the course rather than at each other.

"Go!"

They were off - at an easy pace. They rounded the first corner, by which time they had formed a line: Matrim, Osmund, Erbrand, Degas, and Eodwine, followed a little way back by Javan, Garmund, and Cnebba all in a ragged flanking line. They turned the close corner and ran the little way along the Scar to the cheers of the small crowd who had picked their favorites.

On the second lap Osmund decided that the pace was too slow and moved to the front. Erbrand moved past Matrim too. Degas and Eodwine fell back about ten feet from the leaders. Meanwhile, Garmund pulled ahead of the other two boys in an easy lope appropriate to his size; Javan and Cnebba ran neck and neck. When they came around the near corner and raced along the Scar to the cheers of the crowd, Erbrand and Matrim made a good show of it by pulling even with Osmund: all three turned the corner in line. Degas was ten feet behind them, Eodwine four feet back of him. Garmund was only eight feet behind Eodwine, and Javan and Cnebba raced together just four feet back of him.

By the time they reached the far corner of the third lap, Erbrand had pulled ahead followed by Osmund, and Matrim, the three of them trotting like three peas in a pod. Degas and Eodwine were lagging farther behind. Garmund was pulling away from the other two boys, a mere ten feet behind Eodwine; Cnebba was allowing Javan to be in front of him, by a mere stride. They rounded the corner near the Scar without change.

Lap four. Degas looked winded, and Eodwine even more so, their mouths hanging open their strides looking like they were working very hard just to keep moving. Erbrand kept a strong pace, followed one stride behind by Osmund, with Matrim one more stride back. Erbrand looked over his shoulder as they turned the first far corner. Garmund kept his lord in sight, a mere fifteen feet back, but looked not near as tired. He had put a couple more strides between himself and Javan, who was now moving away from Cnebba. They turned the near corner with no change between the top three, Degas now pulling away from Eodwine.

Final lap. Erbrand stepped up the pace some more. Osmund was unable to match him. Matrim stayed close behind Osmund. Degas struggled on heroically; Eodwine just kept his legs moving. Garmund picked up the pace too. Was he catching up to Eodwine, the watchers wondered? Cnebba seemed to be giving up, his legs moving half heartedly. Javan seemed to be giving it all he had, but he looked about as winded as Degas.

They turned the the second far corner. Erbrand increased the pace. Osmund redoubled his efforts. Matrim did the same. Degas' head had started lolling this way in that in rhythm with his flailing arms and struggling legs. Eodwine tried to run faster and began to catch up to Degas. Garmund had seen what Erbrand had done, and at the very same point as his model, he increased his pace too. Javan struggled on. When Cnebba came last to the second far corner, he could see that Erbrand had almost reached the first near corner. Javan was five strides ahead, Garmund five strides ahead of Javan. The fire seemed to flare in the boy's eyes. He started to sprint.

Matrim passed Osmund down the long stretch, and came to within three strides of Erbrand. The moment Erbrand rounded the final turn he looked back and saw that Matrim was gaining, and bolted into a sprint. The crowd gawked in amazement: how did he find the strength to full out sprint? Matrim pushed himself even harder but his legs began to burn. Osmund passed him just as Erbrand crossed the finish line. Osmund crossed three strides later, Matrim two strides after that. The three fell to the ground, heaving. Meanwhile, Degas almost tripped as he came around the final corner, but was far enough ahead that he was a sure fourth place.

Eodwine heard someone running just behind him. He looked back and saw Garmund, whose face was puckered into a determined frown aiming to beat his lord. Eodwine could not let this happen; it was his weakness that he was too competitive when he should not be; he found new drive and willed his legs to move faster despite the burning pain in them. He crossed the finish line just three strides ahead of Garmund. Cnebba overtook Javan as they rounded the final corner. Javan's pride kicked in and he put on a burst of effort. The two crossed the finish line right next to each other.

"I'm - I'm not sure who came in second of the boys. We'll call it a tie," Lithor concluded. Stigend was sure and said so to Garstan that Cnebba had won between the two by a nose. Thornden meanwhile was sure that Javan had eaked out the victory between the two, or had let Cnebba keep up. It became the source of friendly dispute for many weeks over ale cups late at night.

"Erbrand!" puffed Eodwine, "you are a noble runner! Your skill amazes me!"

[Groin Redbeard]

"Erbrand!" puffed Eodwine, "you are a noble runner! Your skill amazes me!"

Erbrand couldn’t respond. His heart pumped frantically against his ribs and for a while he stood in a daze unable to focus on what was being said, he felt world was spinning all around him as he fell to his knees. Breathing came hard and he could sense people swarming around him asking if he was alright. Suddenly everything came back into focus, his regularized, and with a slight groan Erbrand rose back to his feet.

“I’m just glad the race wasn’t farther.” Erbrand finally responded with a friendly wink.

For a while Ebrand stood in the midst of the crowd, accepting all the handshakes, compliments and friendly pats on the back. It was rather strange for him to be in the limelight, it made him feel uncomfortable and he was almost relieved when he began to fade from everyone’s attention. It was his turn to do the congratulating now.

“Well done Garmund,” he said walking over to Javan, Cnebba and Garmund, seating himself on the grass next to them, “You certainly prove a better runner than I had thought you to be. I swear Cnebba, you passed that finish line a within a hairs width of Javan.”

This of course brought up the subject of the second place tie between the two boys. Garmund couldn’t believe that Cnebba had pulled ahead so fast in the last lap, and Erbrand wound up recanting what had happened. They all laughed as Thornden and Stigend swarmed around him and took up the debate. However during the conversation the subject of the next race came up at which Erbrand suddenly remembered.

“If you’ll excuse me, sirs, I have something to attend to.”

He strode away from the group trying to discern Kara’s face amongst the crowd. As he looked for her, Lithor was starting to arrange the flags for the race, which would soon begin. Erbrand spotted Kara speaking to Ginna, both seemed to be quite happy and excited.

“Hello Kara, Ginna,” Erbrand said, this time not so nervous and shy. A smile lit up his face and confidence seemed to blend with his words, which was altogether very unusual.

“Are you ready for a race, Kara?”

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Degas stood a little ways apart from the residents of Eodwine's hall, drinking water slowly and taking slow breaths to calm his racing heart. He'd known he would not win, yet he didn't mind. His competitive spirit was not for swiftness or for strength, but for words, knowledge, and experience. He reflected upon the day briefly, before hearing a sniffle coming from the shadows behind him.

He turned and saw the tear-filled eyes of Léoðern. He pulled from his pocket a soft handkerchief and wiped her eyes with it. "There now, darling, what is wrong?"

She sniffed a runny nose and wiped her eyes with balled up fists. "I want to race with the boys, but they will win. And everybody says that races are not for girls anyway."

Degas tucked a loose strand of her hair back behind her ear. "Girls can run in the rope-tie race," he reminded her.

"Yes, but I have no one to run with, and I am too small." Renewed tears streaked her cheeks and Degas knew immediately what he must do, though he was hungry and his calf muscles ached. He could ride for days with nothing but a little stiffness to show for it, but he rarely ran.

"Léoðern, will you run with me in the rope-tie race? We shall be partners, you and I, and I bet we can win."

Her eyes lit up as he whispered his plan to her.

"...and you hold on very tight, do you understand?"

"Yes, Degas!" she said happily, tears a thing of the past. Yes, the boys may get to run alone, but Léoðern had been specially invited to be on Degas's team. Her smile was bright.

"Now go get ready for the race, okay, sweetheart?"

"Yessir," she said, skipping off to tell her father what had transpired.

[littlemanpoet]

"Lithor," Eodwine said, having caught his breath, almost sure that his wobbly legs would hold him up now, "give me a moment. I want to see if I can round up a partner for the three legged race."

"Well, lord, we don't want to keep the others waiting too long now, do we?" Lithor winked.

Eodwine smiled wide, enjoying Lithor's tease, and teased back. "Consider it a command then," he winked. "On your honor as a lord's man!"

Lithor looked like he didn't quite know how to take the jest, his mouth grinning but his head tilting with confusion; it was unusual for anyone to get the better of him, but Eodwine felt a little guilty, wielding his authority for a tease. "I'll just be a moment, my friend!"

He trotted back across the Scar, past the paddock and stacks of stones and lumber, and found what he was looking for. Saeryn and Rowenna were sitting on a bench, chatting. He approached.

"Ahem!" They looked up. He bowed deeply, holding their eyes with his own (which was a bit of a trick, actually, since he could only look at one of them at a time). "My lady," he said to Saeryn, "I request that you allow me a three legged dalliance with the lass Rowenna here. Would you be so kind?" He was trying to use his most ridiculously flowery court Gondorian on her. She grinned, aware that he was honoring her as the one who had all rights to him.

"I could not possibly refuse," she said, and turned to Rowenna. "You really must! I want to watch!"

Rowenna smiled. "If you allow it, then it would be a pleasure."

"Excellent!" Eodwine cried. "Let us hurry, for the race is soon to start!"

[Groin Redbeard]

Lithor watched for a moment as Eodwine nimbly crossed the Scar and back to camp before he dropped the case of stakes that he had used for the foot races. One by one he drove them into the ground until a perfect circle was formed for the rope-tie race. As he knelt and tied a red piece of cloth to one of the poles, marking the starting point, he was aware of a shadow that had passed over him. Lithor turned around, wincing at the light of the sun, to see Wilcred standing over him with his arms crossed.

"Ah, you startled me, Wilcred," Lithor said while rising to his feet, "the day seems to be going well, eh?"

"Yes, it has," said Wilcred, very dismissively, "Lithor, I've come to ask you a favor. The boys and I (referring to Osmund and Aethelstan) need to start setting up the archery range and taking out the swords and javelins from the armory, do you think it would be too much trouble if we could postpone the next race for a while?"

Lithor shielded his eyes with his hand and looked up into the sky, the sun was just above their heads.

"Sure thing," said Lithor looking back at Wilcred, "It's around lunchtime anyway, I'm sure that nobody will object for a chance to eat." Wilcred gave him a thankful nod and departed with Osmund and Aethelstan.

Glancing back at the Scar Lithor saw Eodwine coming back helping Rowenna across. It seemed that everyone had found their partner, even Degas had taken little Léoðern as a teammate. Eodwine came running back up to Lithor.

"My lord," Lithor said in an over dramatic tone, "I have done as you commanded and stalled the race, but I'm afraid that all this waiting has made me very hungry, why don't you say we brake for some grub?"

There was a twinkle in Lithors eye that Eodwine caught. The eorl guessed that there was some other activity of importance going on to prompt Lithor to stop the festivities.

"Very well then," Eodwine responded, "Lunch it is!" The call was automatically taken up and before too long everyone was swarming across the Scar and back into the camp.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Much of the day's meals had been prepared the night before, and Frodides and Kara had put together a venison stew near dawn which had simmered all morning and would continue to cook slowly until the feast near nightfall, after which the riddle game was to begin.

For lunch the women had prepared a light meal of cold spiced chicken served with clover honey, and carrots, beans, cheese, bread and, Frodides's secret contribution: apple pastries for all. Many were forced to wonder how and when she had made them with none the wiser and it was decided, amidst shouted compliments, that she was a goddess among women, all-powerful, beautiful, wise, and, above all, generous.

Frodides harrumphed and grumbled, her hands firmly on her hips, and suggested with an all together satisfied smile to herself that perhaps the cider had fermented a bit more than previously suspected.

Before long, not a crumb bespecked any plate and when the women moved to collect the dirtied tableware, the men shushed them and made them sit while, laughing and joking all the while, they cleared up the mess from lunch, leaving each plate, cup, fork or knife washed, dried, and neatly stacked where it could be easily put away.

It was then that little Léoðern stepped forward and asked excitedly, "Can we race now?"

And all made their way back across the scar to the fields where the races were held. Each team prepared in hushed voices, planning strategies.

---

Degas smiled at Léoðern as she clung to his left leg, her little feet planted firmly on his boot. He wrapped a rope around her whole body and his leg, taking care not to tie too tightly, but tightly enough that she could not fall.

She giggled and smiled and Degas wished Linduial could be here to see. Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow I will see my lady love and all will be decided.

"Are you ready?" he asked Léoðern.

"Yessir." she giggled. "Will we really win?"

"I hope so," he grinned, contorted as he knotted the rope securely. She was heavy on his left leg, weighing him down awkwardly, but he could walk without much difficulty.

He looked around to see if any were watching them, and caught his sister's eye. Saeryn laughed aloud when she saw Léoðern's entire tiny body tied to Degas's long leg. Léoðern smiled happily and hugged Degas's knee.

Degas dreamed of the children he would one day, perhaps soon, have.